Andrew didn't go home right away.
He didn't want to.
Home wasn't home.
Home was a locked door with yelling behind it.
Home was a sick mother breathing softly like she might disappear if he looked too long.
So he walked.
The streets blurred beneath the orange glow of streetlights.
His hands were shoved deep into his hoodie pockets, but they still trembled.
Not from cold.
From everything.
Cypriana's eyes.
Matt's voice.
Steve's stupid grin fading into fear.
You're scaring her.
Andrew swallowed hard.
His throat burned.
He didn't mean to.
He didn't mean to do any of it.
But the anger had felt so easy.
So natural.
Like breathing.
He stopped in an empty park.
The swings creaked gently in the wind.
No kids.
No laughter.
Just silence.
Andrew stared at the metal swing set.
Then—
He lifted his hand.
One swing trembled.
Then moved.
Slowly at first.
Then higher.
Like an invisible child pumping their legs.
Andrew's breathing deepened.
He raised his other hand.
The second swing moved too.
Back and forth.
Back and forth.
The chains rattled softly.
Andrew watched.
Something about it was hypnotic.
Control.
For once.
He stepped closer.
Focused harder.
The swings rose higher, almost violently now.
Metal shrieking.
Andrew's jaw clenched.
His chest tightened.
His voice came out like a whisper.
"Stop…"
But he didn't stop them.
The swings slammed forward hard.
Harder.
Like they were trying to break free.
Andrew's breathing turned ragged.
Images flashed in his mind.
His father's fist.
The football player's sneer.
Matt stepping between him and Cypriana like Andrew was something dangerous.
Cypriana looking at him through that window.
Pity.
Andrew's eyes burned.
"I'm not a freak," he whispered.
The swings slammed again.
One chain snapped.
The seat flew off, crashing into the dirt.
Andrew froze.
His breath caught.
Silence swallowed the park.
Andrew stared at the broken swing.
His heart pounded.
Then…
He laughed.
Not because it was funny.
Because it was the only sound left in him.
Later, in his room…
The camera was back.
The red dot blinked like a heartbeat.
Andrew sat on the edge of his bed, face half-lit by the streetlight through the blinds.
He lifted the camera slowly.
Filmed himself.
His eyes looked darker tonight.
Hollow.
"This is Andrew Detmer," he said quietly.
His voice was flat.
Like he was already narrating someone else's ending.
"I don't think they understand."
He swallowed.
"They think there are rules."
His gaze flickered downward.
"But nobody had rules for my life."
The camera shook slightly.
He steadied it.
"Nobody stopped him."
A pause.
A sound from downstairs.
A bottle clinking.
Andrew's jaw tightened.
He continued anyway.
"They didn't care until I could do something back."
His eyes lifted into the lens.
"And now they're scared."
His lips twitched.
"Matt acts like he's better than me."
A pause.
Then, softer—
"Cypriana…"
He said her name carefully.
Like touching a bruise.
"She looked at me like…"
He stopped.
His throat tightened.
He didn't finish.
Instead, he whispered—
"I felt it."
His breathing deepened.
The camera lowered slightly.
"I'm not stupid."
Another pause.
Then—
"I know she chose him."
The words were quiet.
But sharp.
A lie and a truth tangled together.
Because she hadn't chosen.
Not really.
But Andrew's brain needed it to be simple.
Needed it to hurt cleanly.
The camera trembled.
Andrew's voice dropped.
"I don't want her pity."
A muffled cough came from the other room.
His mother.
Andrew's eyes flickered toward the wall.
Something twisted in his chest.
"She's getting worse."
His voice cracked slightly.
He cleared his throat fast, angry at the weakness.
"And he's still drinking."
Downstairs, a voice slurred.
"Andrew!"
Andrew flinched.
The camera caught it.
His father again.
"Get down here!"
Andrew's breathing turned shallow.
His eyes stared into the lens.
For a moment, he looked like a child.
Then—
His expression hardened.
Something cold slid over him like armor.
The camera kept recording as Andrew stood.
His hand lowered slowly.
The doorknob turned by itself.
The door opened without him touching it.
Andrew paused.
Staring at the impossible.
Then he walked out.
The camera still in his hand.
Recording.
Always recording.
Like proof.
Like a weapon.
Like a confession.
At the top of the stairs, he stopped.
The house smelled like alcohol and sickness.
His father's voice echoed from below.
"You think you can ignore me?!"
Andrew's fingers curled.
The air around him felt…
different.
Charged.
He could feel the house.
Every nail.
Every pipe.
Every object waiting.
His father staggered into view at the bottom of the stairs, face red, eyes mean.
"There you are."
Andrew didn't speak.
His father pointed a shaking finger.
"You been acting real high and mighty lately."
Andrew stared down at him.
His breathing was steady.
Too steady.
His father sneered.
"What, you too good to talk now?"
Andrew's hand twitched.
A picture frame on the wall trembled.
His father didn't notice.
"Answer me!"
Andrew's voice came out low.
"Don't."
His father blinked.
"Don't what?"
Andrew's eyes were black with something unrecognizable.
"Don't touch me again."
For a second, his father looked almost confused.
Then he laughed.
"Oh, look at you."
He started up the stairs.
"You gonna stop me?"
Andrew's heart pounded.
The picture frame rattled harder.
His father took another step.
Andrew's voice was barely a whisper.
"Yes."
The air snapped.
His father froze mid-step.
His feet lifted off the stair.
Just an inch.
Then more.
His father's eyes widened in sudden terror.
"What the hell—"
Andrew's breathing was ragged now.
His hand lifted slowly.
His father rose higher.
Pinned in the air like gravity had abandoned him.
Andrew stared at him.
His voice shook.
"You don't get to hurt me anymore."
His father's face twisted in fear.
"Andrew—put me down!"
Andrew's jaw clenched.
The house creaked around them.
His mother coughed weakly in the other room.
Andrew's eyes flickered.
Pain.
Rage.
Love.
All tangled into one unbearable knot.
His father's voice cracked.
"Please—"
Andrew's hand trembled.
For a moment…
It looked like he might stop.
Then—
The front door downstairs slammed shut violently on its own.
Andrew flinched.
His father screamed.
And Andrew…
Andrew smiled.
Just a little.
Not happy.
Not cruel.
Just…
Weightless.