Disclaimer: I do not own Chronicle.

Warning/s: Could trigger, maybe.

Pale and Vivid: a very small collection


The sun moves each and every time Detmer snaps his head to the left, where the sun is his mother playing peek-a-boo behind the pretty, ugly houses and ravaged lemonade stands. His lips are dry and there could be some blood from where he plucked some skin and his shoelaces might as well be untied; he could trip at any moment and land badly. But Detmer floats through the streets, temporarily eluding the sharp words of his father and the accusing crucifix in his mother's room. He almost goes helter-skelter, rabid breaths against his own ears, beating with life when his eyes are dead. It is strange escaping when there is no one to look at you but the amber sun.

Later on, he skids to a stop and maybe laments to the lovely source of warmth he just cannot acquire.


Breathe in, breathe out.

It's a stupid moment right there when he throws the magazine over his shoulder. It lands on his pillow, next to where he flops down and yawns. His nose drips and his teeth chatter and where is his father? One in the afternoon and it is cold, freezing. He does not like it.

It's more stupid when he feels awkward leafing through his merchandise. It's a world of oddity when sexy, coy (and smug?) female faces stare back at him; they look debauched, wanton.

Licking his lips, he unzips his jeans. He frowns at himself because he's embarrassed and he thinks he shouldn't be.


Andrew Detmer wants to learn. He wants to learn how to ride a motorcycle.

His closest cousin knows, and when he gets that little Andrew doesn't know anything about it, he teases. "Shut up," Andrew says, and he isn't that indignant because hey, he only has Matt Garretty.

"Matt, teach me." He sounds helpless in his head.

Garretty smirks. "Teach you, eh?"

Detmer smites him, rather lightly, and maybe he fakes a cough too loudly.

His cousin chuckles and laughs, saying, "Okay, I'll teach you."

Andrew smiles. It doesn't last long though, because later he'll fall off the motorcycle. But it's alright; his smart cousin is there to help him up.


Aunt Margaret dies on a Tuesday. She died in a dank room in a tight house, blinking out the low window to see the crystalline river.

Andrew thinks that his relatives are idiots.

They're idiots because they didn't go through the wringer. It was too peachy keen for them while his comely aunt suffered in a way she shouldn't have. Margaret Detmer would deserve a heavenly afterlife, although he didn't believe in such a foolish thing.

The requiem soars and wrings through the air like aunt Margaret's voice would if she were here. But it's sad and his dearest aunt didn't use to sing with such great sorrow.


Some days, when his mother would ask for him or when he would want to, he'd spend hours beside her bed. He'd answer her questions and she'd answer his. They'd talk if she was comfortable, and when she would plead with her eyes he would leap to another subject. It was like a game, but it wasn't supposed to be fun.

She'd nap, he'd make sure nothing was wrong, and he'd dig in his backpack for his iPod and earphones.

Richard might have to sell them someday, so he creates playlists and taps his fingers on his jean-clad knees anytime he can. He likes the beat, the rhythm, the lyrics, and especially the solace.

A solace of melody in the solace of Mrs. Detmer, who dreams of her son in his happiest state and a life where she can breathe better along with everyone she had ever loved.

The world is brighter with playlists. Colors swirl everywhere.


With clandestine movements and jerky ones, he bumps into the wall and the stool and the backpack. It's hard to breathe, with his lungs closing on him and his heart hammering. His eyes almost roll back, and later he spews his supper on his history essay.

Tired, so tired. So, so bloody.

It's the stars that kick him in the dark. They're glowing, sparkling, shining, kind, and yet they twinkle so far away. They taunt like bullies and they pull on his hair, sirens luring him in with their songs, singing, "Come, come, come."

Devilish screams roll into a playlist of their own.