George feigned illness to get out of gym class so that he could start working on Farah's piece.  He spent all period on the top row of the bleachers, flanking the basketball court, scribbling on his tablet in a flurry of creativity.  In truth, this wasn't the first time Farah was the subject of his art, but those were hidden away on sketch pads deep in his closet.  Even though Farah's sketches were far more tame than the ones he'd made of Ms. McCoole, he didn't dare upload them, fearing they would get into the wrong hands somehow.

And for the following few periods, the bullying seemed to calm down.  However, as George hurried through the halls to his locker, he noticed that the other students gave him a wide berth.  He was initially relieved, but the hushed whispers and obvious staring unsettled him just as much.  It was as if they were watching a criminal being led to the noose.  Doing his best to ignore them, he arrived at his locker, expecting to see a new sticky note waiting for him, but there was none.  

Then he noticed that the hall had gone quiet despite being full of students.  The pain in his abdomen spiked suddenly and shot up his spine to his brain, making him feel lightheaded and foggy.  But even as the sudden stupor took hold, the hairs on his neck raised in alarm as he felt the presence of something big and violent approaching from behind.  A hand grabbed his shoulder and spun him around, and there was Farah with white-hot fury in her beautiful gray eyes.

"What the hell is this?" she growled through angry tears.  She held her phone up to show him the rough sketch he and Lacy had made of her during lunch.

George's eyes darted between the image on screen and the heart-wrenching sight of Farah's ire.  He understood what had happened immediately.  Lacy must have shared it, if not with Farah, then with someone else who spread it around the school.  He sputtered, "I-I didn't…it was just…"

"Just what?  Another one of your fucked up fantasies?  Huh?" she shouted as she pushed him against the locker. 

George panicked and let slip his only defense.  "W-wait!  Please!  It was supposed to be a birthday present!"

"Well, happy fucking birthday to you, pervert," She spat.  "I'm not some thot!  Okay?  I'm not a model, I'm not your muse, and I'm not your friend!  So get over your stupid crush and leave me alone!"

His devastated heart hung by a thread.  But it was about to get worse.  Behind Farah, from the crowd of students that had gathered to watch the scene, approached several large men dressed in their purple and black varsity letter jackets.  They were led by her boyfriend, Connor, who looked delighted with the scene unfolding before him.

He placed his hand gently on Farah's shoulder, making her jump.  "Whoa, Farah, babe, chill out."

"Connor, I can handle this," she stated firmly.

"Oh, I can see that.  Ol' Georgie boy is spooked.  I mean, just look at him." Connor placed his hand on George's cheek, then pushed his face away.  "But I'm sure this is all some big misunderstanding.  Isn't it George?"

"Y-Yes.  I can explain."

"See, babe?" Connor took Farah's hands and carefully guided her away from George. "Here, why don't you go back to my locker and wait for me?  Take a few deep breaths and clear your head.  I'm gonna have a chat with the G-man, and we'll work it out.  Don't worry about it."

Meanwhile, the rest of his comrades formed a blockade around them in a semi-circle, preventing anyone else from getting close.  Farah noticed it, too, and realized what was about to happen.  "Connor, don't," she pleaded.

Connor said nothing but simply raised his arm and pointed down the hall.  Defeated, Farah exchanged a sorrowful glance at George before squeezing past the footballers and disappearing into the crowd.  Connor glared menacingly at George while Tommy spoke to the crowd, "Time to get to class.  Nothing to see here."

A low murmur passed through the gaggle of onlookers, and then they slowly began to disperse, leaving George alone with Connor and several other seniors.  There was Tommy Ritcher and Joey Bengal, the left and right defensive tackles, as well as a few other members of the Dragons' defensive unit.  They all wore their jackets and a brown leather bracer on their left wrist with the team's logo burned into it.  It was a mark of honor senior members of the storied team wore with pride.

Once they were gone, Connor rolled his eyes and shrugged, "Fuckin' bitches.  Am I right?" Then, without another word, Connor reared back and threw a right hook at George's eye.  But George got his hands up just in time to deflect the blow.  Even still, Connor was one of the top athletes at a school full of top athletes and hit like a freight train.  The impact knocked George off balance, and his back banged against the locker-lined wall with a loud metal rattle.  Connor didn't let up.  He launched a barrage of attacks, each battering George's weakened defenses like a hurricane.  With his pain flaring up and his head foggy, all his father's training was useless against such an assault.  One of Connor's blows finally connected square across George's cheek, and he slumped to the floor, his ears ringing and his vision blurry.  Connor seized the opportunity and kicked George hard in the stomach, knocking the wind out of him.  George was left defenseless as he struggled to breathe and not vomit at the same time.

"You know, Snowflake," Connor said casually, "I don't usually care about fat losers ogling my girl.  Hell, I figure it's probably the most action they'll ever get." He bent down and grabbed George by the white in his hair, yanking his head back.  "What I don't like is when some basement dwelling incel draws lewds of her to share with the rest of the fucking weebs."

"Attic dweller," winced George.

"What's that?" Connor asked.

"I dwell…in the attic…not the basement," George managed between wheezy breaths.

"Hah!" Connor laughed.  "My mistake."  

Meanwhile, Joey had dug through George's bag and found the tablet.  "Look what I got," he said with gleeful menace and handed it to Connor.

"Ooh, what do we have here?  Birthday present?  Nice…”

George knew what was coming and struggled to speak.  "Connor, please.  It was Lacy's idea.  She asked me to do it."

Connor grinned.  "I know.  Who do you think suggested it to her in the first place?" Then, he threw the device on the ground and stomped, shattering the screen and cracking the case open.  "Oops," he said flippantly.  George squeezed his eyes shut as if forced to watch an execution.

"'Kay guys, it's time to give George his birthday gifts.  That's eighteen years, eighteen licks, three for each of us.  Joey, you're up first."

What followed was the worst beating George had ever taken.  The five of them took turns kicking him, pulling him to his feet, hitting him a few more times, throwing him on the ground, and kicking him some more.  He'd lost track, but it was far more than eighteen licks.  His pain intensified with every strike, their laughter punctuating every sickening thud against his skull.  He didn't bother fighting back and hoped that the next attack would be the one to put him out of his misery.

Suddenly, the lights flickered, and the doors on the lockers rattled around them.  George could hear a young woman's voice screaming at them but couldn't make out what she was saying through his delirium.  She knelt beside him, and George could barely distinguish the blurry features of his dream girl's lovely eyes and face.  Only this time, she looked to be his age and was neither passive nor calm.  She was frantically manipulating her tablet device: an old model with a Sailor Moon sticker.

"George, it's okay.  You're gonna be okay, don't worry," she assured him, though it was clearly for her benefit as much as it was his.

George was losing consciousness.  But before his vision went completely dark, he murmured, "It should have been me."

He awoke to the sound of thunder rumbling in the distance, and for a brief, terrifying moment, he thought he was that scared twelve-year-old boy again, waiting for help to arrive while his father bled out.  He clutched his stomach and groaned as his pain asserted itself.  He could hear the rain pelting against the windows and feel the caustic chemicals in his nose.

With his breathing ragged and frantic, he raised his head off the desk and took in his surroundings.  He was sitting on a stool by himself at a large table, and all around him were other students quietly working alone or in pairs.  Finally, he realized where he was.  It was the final period of the day, art.  The storm had come back for round two and hammered the third-floor windows.  The chemicals he smelled were paints and fumes from the kiln.  His breathing slowed, and he gradually calmed down.

He searched his memory and couldn't figure out how he got there.  The last thing he remembered was being kicked repeatedly by five massive football players.  And now he was sitting on a stool, still in pain but without significant injuries.  He could have sworn they'd broken a few of his ribs.  However, the worst thing he could find was bruises.  He hurt all over like he'd been in another car accident.  But, somehow, he was relatively okay.  There was a brief flicker of hope as he tore open his bag, looking for his tablet.  It was there, but to his horror, it was just as broken as he remembered.  The screen was utterly shattered, and the case had been snapped open, a cracked circuit board protruding like a fractured bone.

George sat in a melancholic daze at his table, staring off into the middle distance, expressionless.  It was as if he was a ghost haunting the room, unable to move on.  His pain continued to boil over inside his abdomen.  It would intensify, then diminish, then come back worse, again and again.  The rest of the class worked on their portfolios, oblivious to what George was going through. 

However, out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Piper looking at him.  She had been painting a series of fantasy minis with her friend, a colorfully dressed pastel goth girl he could never remember the name of, but her attention had shifted to him.  His heart broke as their eyes met.  She looked just as miserable as he felt, and seeing her like that only made him feel worse.  He considered reaching out to her, but then, he thought better of it.  He'd only screw that up just as he had years before with Farah.  So, instead, he put his hood up, laid his head on the desk, and huddled his face in his arms.

Finally, the school day was mercifully over.  He didn't bother stopping at his locker; he just set off for home through the pouring rain.  The streets were already flooded by this point.  Without his jacket, his hoodie wouldn't do much to keep him dry, but he couldn't find the energy to care.  

About halfway through his march, George heard rapid footsteps splashing along the sidewalk from behind.  Piper had caught up with him.  She had a long red raincoat and an umbrella resembling an orange slice, the only colors in the world in that dreary September rain.  

She lifted the garish umbrella above them and said, "Hi, George."

"Hi, Piper," he mumbled.

She looked awkward and uncomfortable but did her best to keep a positive attitude.  "Can I walk with you for a while?" she asked carefully.

"Yeah, sure, I guess," he said.

Piper seemed shy as they walked in silence for a bit.  She would turn to look at him periodically, seemingly at a loss for something to say.  Then, finally, she blurted out, "I, um... just wanted to thank you for buying me lunch.  My mom forgot to send me lunch money again."

"It's no big deal," he said.

"I know, but..." Piper paused, searching for the words she needed.  Eventually, she asked him, "Why'd you do it?"

It was an odd question, and he wasn't sure what answer she sought.  "I dunno," he shrugged, "can't have you going hungry, I guess."

"...Y-Yeah," she said, her voice breaking.  "Thank you.  I'll get you back someday."

Suddenly, George clutched his chest as a dull knife slowly cut his heart out.  The pain forced him to stop and lean against a nearby telephone pole to catch his breath and wait for the pain to soften.

"What's wrong?" she asked cautiously.

He let out a dry, wheezy cough and caught his breath before answering her.  "I'm fine," he grunted.  "Just a heart attack, nothing to worry about."

She reached up to put her hand on his shoulder.  Even hunched as he was, it was still a stretch.  "I saw what those jerks did to you.  Do you need a doctor or something?"

He shook his head and dismissed her concerns with a wave.  

"Are you sure?  You always look like you're in pain.  But I've never seen you this bad."

"Piper, can you please just..." George stopped.  

Several school buses were coming up the road, and the street nearby was practically flooded.  Without another word, George positioned himself between Piper and the bus.  It hit the massive puddle and splashed a wave at them, but George could easily shield her from the deluge thanks to their size difference.  Piper yelped in surprise, but George held fast until the other school buses passed by.  The first had displaced the water enough that the others didn't get him as much, but he was still soaked to the bone.  He heard jeers and laughter from the bus as it continued down the street.

George spat out the dirty street water that made it into his mouth and resumed his walk.  Piper was still shocked.  "Assholes!" she yelled after them.  She then noticed that George was leaving without her and trotted forward to catch up.

"George!  Wait!" she said nervously while raising the umbrella above him.  "I don't want to leave you alone right now.  Please?  My house is close by.  You could come over and..."

"And what?  You have some magic spell that can make everything better?"

"No, I… I have a washing machine and a dryer." She was starting to get annoyed, and George noticed.

"Thanks, but I have those at my house, and I'm almost... there," he groaned as his stomach shook from a phantom punch.  "Save your charity for someone else."

"Stop!" she shouted and jumped in front of him, doing her best to keep him under the umbrella.  "Just stop already!"

George tried to get around her, but she just moved to bar his path.  "What?" he said, raising his voice.  "What do you want from me?"

"Just just look at me for a second!"

George avoided her gaze, fearing what she'd say if she could see how much he wanted to go with her.  Perhaps they could've been friends, with a better version of himself in another life.  A part of him wished he had a companion like her, but the idea of someone wanting to be his friend was beyond him.

"Please," she pleaded softly, her voice straining to stay composed.  "Please just look."

Realizing he wasn't getting out of this, George reluctantly raised his eyes to meet hers.  He expected Piper to be angry with him for his shitty attitude.  But instead, she took off her glasses to reveal her dazzling blue eyes, cute freckles, and soft, hopeful smile.  Her bright red and gold hair, slightly damp from the rain, framed her face like a photograph.  For a brief moment, George could feel something familiar about her, as if he'd seen this look before.  But suddenly, the pain came at him as a splitting headache, just like the one he received the night of the accident.  

By now, Piper was on the verge of tears.  Finally, after a few brief moments, she asked, "Can you see me?" She gently held his cheeks with both hands and looked deep into his eyes.  "Please, tell me you can see me," she pleaded.

He did his best to do as she asked.  Aside from realizing how pretty she was, he couldn't understand what he was supposed to get from this.  Frustrated, George shook his head and looked away from her once again.  "Yes, okay.  I can see you.  So what?"

"No!" she cried.  Piper seemed determined to get the reaction she needed and forced him to look at her, startling George with her assertiveness.  Her eyes pierced through his pain, begging for recognition.  But she found nothing.  George watched as the sadness that had been welling up in her eyes began to fall, the tears staining her cheeks through the rain.  She was crushed, utterly.  "What happened to you?  Why can't you see?"  she said more to herself than to him.

Unable to bear her disappointment any longer, George pushed her hands away.  "I'm sorry, alright!" he shouted, and Piper jumped back in surprise.  "Whatever I did to you, I'm sorry!" The pain in his head intensified three-fold, and the rain dripping from his hair felt hot.  

And then he heard thunder rumble in the distance.

Immediately, George was beset by flashbacks.  His breathing, already labored from the pain, became heavier with each distant boom.  A large truck approached, and George thought it would smash into him.  As it passed, he saw his father's mangled body splayed out on the pavement, partially crushed by the impact.  He felt faint and stumbled onto the wet sidewalk, trying desperately to catch his breath.

Piper dropped her umbrella and quickly knelt by his side.  "Oh my gosh, George, are you okay?  What's wrong?"

"Stop," he cried.  "Please stop.  Please..."

Thunder rolled through the clouds in response. The truck smashed into their car and crushed his father over and over. A single terrible moment in time held George prisoner as a scared twelve-year-old boy with blood splattered across his face.

Piper shook him.  "George, talk to me!  What's happening?"

"It… should have been me," he whispered.  

With a soothing tone, she got closer and asked, "What should have been you?  What do you mean?"

George felt as though he was on the verge of passing out.  He needed to get home, away from her.  It was a little further down Carpenter Street and a left on Mason Way, half a mile between him and his sanctuary.  If he had his way, he'd never leave.

"George, c'mon.  You're scaring me.  Just let me..."

George snapped.  "You can't do anything!  Nobody can!" He struggled to get up, and now frantic, Piper tried to help him stand.  But he wasn't having any more of her pity.  He had meant to push her away, but he pushed too hard and knocked her to the ground.  

Piper began sobbing with her beautiful hair now soaked from the rain.  "Don't go," she begged.  "Please... please don't let it end like this."

George had no idea what she was referring to.  To his knowledge, this was the most they'd ever spoken to each other.  Still, even in his elevated state, he knew he'd gone too far.  Seeing her there, soggy and defeated, was just another example of how toxic he was to everyone around him.  Piper might have been his last chance for something better.  But now, he'd ruined that too.

His headache intensified briefly, making him grab his forehead.  "Just...forget about me.  Forget I ever existed.  Just... just leave me alone." With that, he turned and shuffled away from her.  

He didn't get far before he heard Piper's voice from behind.  "Fine," she screamed.  "Just walk away from me!  I don't care anymore!  You hear me!  I don't... I don't..."

George didn't look back even as Piper's tirade suddenly stopped.  Alone once again, George apologized to her silently.  She deserved better than a wreck like him.  Things might have been different if they had known each other years ago.  But he had made up his mind.  It was better this way.

Lightning flashed through the Everhart house, followed by distant thunder.  Its vacant halls and dust-filled rooms echoed with the oppressive rain outside.  Near the front entrance hallway, a bucket silently collected the runoff from a leaky roof, one of many such receptacles placed strategically throughout the house.  George's family had never been wealthy, but they had been comfortable enough to afford maintenance on the old house when required.  But ever since Henry had died and George's medical expenses had skyrocketed, a bucket was all the effort to be spared.  The house had accepted its fate without complaint.  It would fall slowly into ruin, sheltering the last of the Everhart clan until it couldn't.  And that would be that.

The front door practically burst open, and George collapsed just inside.  He'd endured pain, humiliation, and self-hatred to his limit and had used what little strength he had left to make it to the safety of his home.  But he could go no further.  As the infernal heat threatened to consume him from the inside out, George lay on the bare hardwood floor curled up in the fetal position and twitched with each wicked twinge.  His only company was the quiet drip into the bucket nearby.

He was there for what seemed like hours, begging, pleading, praying that it would stop.  But the pain kept getting worse, twisting and molding itself into new tortures before George could get used to them.  He was hot and cold, his heart skipping a beat one moment, then painfully slow the next.  He struggled to breathe, even as every strained intake of breath was filled with knives.  Was this it?  Was his body finally giving up and shutting down?  Was the pain coming to an end?  He hoped so.

"Not here," he grunted.  He didn't want to die cold and wet, splayed on the ground like a piece of roadkill for his mother to stumble upon.  He raised his gaze to the stairs leading to the upper floors.  He'd made the climb to his bedroom thousands of times, yet suddenly, the creaky central staircase seemed entirely too steep for a home.  But there was a letter he'd written for his mother hidden in his desk that he wanted to make sure she found, should the worst occur.  

The sun, heavily obscured by the dark clouds, had all but set by the time George had saved up the strength to stand.  "C'mon, loser.  One more time," he said and finally shut the door, quieting the storm outside.   The climb to his attic sanctuary was arduous, the thunder forcing him to hold onto the railing for balance as his father's voice echoed through his mind.  "

"It should have been you…"

Finally, he made it to his room.  He locked the door behind him instinctually - a habit he'd acquired after the bullying had started.  George knew his mother hated it, but she eventually stopped getting on his case when she realized it made him feel safer, even if George couldn't admit that to her.  Jessica had the key anyway, but to her credit, she'd never used it.  He wasted no time stripping off his wet clothes and tossing them to the floor without a care.  He grabbed a grungy towel from the wash basket and dried himself, then put on a pair of fresh sweats and a t-shirt.  They were his favorite sleepwear, comfy and cozy under any other circumstances, but even this tiny luxury seemed off.  The shirt felt tight in the wrong places, and the sweats were scratchy and rigid like thick canvas.

George hoped to feel his dream girl's presence to signal this episode's ending.  But she was way overdue.  He needed relief and wracked his brain to find something he could do to cope.  But as he sat on the edge of his bed, the only thought he could focus on was how much he deserved this.  He was a terrible waste of air, of flesh.  Lightning and thunder crashed, forcing his father into his mind's eye again, and George wished the memories would listen when he told them how sorry he was.

It was then that George noticed the birthday gift his father had sent him from beyond the grave.  The odd wooden box sat unassumingly on his computer desk, just as cold and uncaring as the rest of the house.  But he felt drawn to it.  That box and the stone inside it were the only relics of his father he had left.  Desperate for something else to focus on, George set it down next to him on his bed and poured all his attention on it.  He examined every strange symbol carved into its surface in excruciating detail and slowly began to realize that he recognized some of them.  He couldn't remember where he'd seen them nor what they meant, but he had seen them somewhere.  It was like a word on the tip of his tongue, a memory hidden in the fog of time.  Maddeningly, he knew it was there; he just couldn't access it.

He opened the box with shaky hands to procure the strange stone orb again.  However, something caught his attention.  A slip of paper was tucked just under the black velvet cushion that held the sphere.  He pushed the cushion aside and pulled out an envelope sealed with the Everhart family crest, that of a dragon in flight before a rising sun.  It had been a long time since he'd seen it, and it wasn't something he ever cared much about in any case.  Family crests were of little use in modern life.  But seeing it again, purposefully emblazoned in red wax, lent it a certain amount of authority George couldn't help but take notice of.

George traced the emblem with careful reverence before reluctantly slipping his thick fingers between the folds to break the seal.  Inside was a folded sheet of yellow paper ripped from a legal pad and a photograph.  The picture grabbed his attention first.  His hands shook as he saw the entire Everhart clan: his sister, April; his mother, Jessica; his father, Henry; and himself.  It was a beautiful summer day at the local park that hosted a carnival that year.  It was a wonderful, happy memory he'd purposely forgotten—a bleak reminder of what he'd destroyed.  

He set the photo down and unfurled the paper to reveal a letter written in his father's wild cursive.  It read:

To my Son,

George, if you're reading this, then something happened to me.  I wanted to give you this gift in person when you were old enough, but I'll settle for this if need be.  After a few dozen drafts, I'm still trying to figure out how to start this thing, but here goes.

Before I met your mother, I was a different person.  I was foolish and driven.  There were things that I thought I wanted, thought that I needed, thought I deserved.  I was willing to do anything to get them.  Even betray my friends.  Inside this box is one such item.  According to legend, the one to open this vessel will want for no desire, and their every wish will come true.  However, nobody has ever been able to open it.  

But I knew it would be me; it had to be me.  Everything that I had ever desired would finally be mine.

What I didn't expect was that, in the act of retrieving it, my heart's fondest wish would come true.  I met your mother, the most wonderful woman in this world, and she loved me.  And then she gave me you.  I forgot all about petty desires and realized I had everything I would ever need.  Even now, I can hear you playing with your sister, and it moves me to tears. 

Then again, maybe it really does grant wishes.  Perhaps I did open it and didn't realize.  Maybe I'm crazy.  It's possible.  I've never been a wise man.

In any case, the sphere is yours now.  When you can, get to a quiet place where you won't be disturbed and spend some time with it.  Who knows, maybe it will make your wishes come true like it did mine. 

Don't feel bad if it doesn't work.  It's older than the Romans, and nobody has ever figured it out.  I hope this will make a difference for you in whatever trials you face—either my words or the sphere itself.  As for me, my old life has started to catch up to me.  I don't know what will happen.  I may just be paranoid.

There isn't much more I can tell you now, so I'll end with a bit of fatherly advice.  Don't be ashamed of weakness, don't forget your strength, love as much as you can, and if you can't find a way, then make one.

I love you.

Yours Always,

Henry Argentum Everhart

(AKA Dad)

George welled up with tears as he heard his father's voice reading it to him in his mind, cutting through his defenses like a fiery sword.  Then, he read it again.  Then, again, savoring every word.

His hands shook as he picked up the orb, intending to fulfill his father's request.  He held it in front of him for a minute expectantly, but nothing happened.  Now, on top of everything else, he was beginning to feel stupid, sitting there holding a lawn ornament like a sacred relic.

But eventually, his intrusive thoughts gave way, and new ideas began bubbling up to the surface of his befuddled mind.  What did he desire most?  What would it take to make him content?  He felt compelled to answer and spoke aloud without intending to.  "I wish the pain would stop."  

But nothing happened.

"Please…make it stop," he sobbed.  But the pain only worsened in defiance.  He squeezed the orb tight and screamed, "Make it stop!  Make it stop!  Make it stop!"

Exhausted and angry, George jumped to his feet and launched the orb through the big circular window, shattering it.  There was a crackle of lightning, followed by a loud boom that rattled the floorboards and knocked out the power.  George bolted his eyes shut and fell to his knees as the visions overwhelmed him.  His world became a barrage of past humiliations and mistakes, with the pain of a thousand lifetimes ripping him apart in all directions.  All he could think about was the hell of existing in constant pain, without friendship, without family, with pity being the best he could hope for.  

And then he felt her - his illusory companion, his imaginary friend, his dream girl.  He couldn't see her but could feel her hand on his shoulder and knew it was her.  But the pain wasn't going away.  It was getting worse and worse and worse.  It felt like his head and heart could explode at any moment from the pressure.  She wasn't there to tell him it was getting better; she was there to say it would finally be over.

And suddenly, a new desire, more potent than any he had ever felt, welled up from deep inside him.  With a weak, unsteady voice, he said, "I wish…you were real.  I wish I'd known you my entire life.  I wish you needed me as much as I needed you.  I wish…for you…to live."  

He broke down, and as he wept, he whispered, "I wish I wanted to."

Suddenly, there was a sound like a deep, discordant note plucked from what sounded like an enormous out-of-tune guitar, followed by a low, steadily accelerating hum, as if a nuclear reactor had just been switched on.  The room was filled with a rainbow of colors.  When George looked up, the orb was hovering a few feet from him, its surface roiling with energy like a tiny sun, with bands of color swirling around one another, speeding up and bending violently as if desperately wanting to mix but lacking the final ingredient.  The plasma flailing off was warm and soothing, and the hum gradually morphed into a sweet, harmonious chorus composed of an incalculable number of voices.  A presence from inside compelled George to reach for the sphere.  

The moment his fingers brushed the surface, the swirling colors combined into a bright, sparkling pink, and a wave of force exploded like a comet in the atmosphere, sounding like a giant musician had finally tuned their instrument and celebrated with a mighty power cord.  George, and anything not nailed down, was repelled from the sphere. He was thrown back against a nearby bookshelf, prompting an avalanche of loose clothing and tumbling books.  But he regained his senses quickly and watched in awe as the room filled with a scintillating mist that formed around the sphere like an interstellar nebula.  It swirled and danced with hypnotic patterns, lighting the room with a soft pinkish glow.  George was mesmerized by the mist and watched as it flowed gently around the room like a living thing.  

A primal terror swept over him, but it wasn't his own.  There was something else inside him, something intrinsic yet alien, buried deep.  And it was absolutely terrified of the mist.  As a tendril of the vaporous entity drifted closer to him, the mysterious presence inside him became more distinct as it tried desperately to separate itself from George, to flee like a scattering cockroach in the light.  It begged wordlessly for George to run, to take it somewhere the light couldn't reach it.  

But despite George's trepidation, he felt neither terror nor malice radiating from the mist.  It was gentle and serene, like watching the sun part the morning clouds.  He reached for it, and the fog responded, curling around his fingers like it was caressing him.  He watched, transfixed, as it flowed down his arm and slowly enveloped the rest of his body, warming him despite the chilly evening air blowing through the broken window.  It seeped through his clothes and skin, deep into his bones.  The fearful presence inside him was suddenly silenced, and the pain along with it.  

For the first time in years, George experienced clarity.  It felt like someone had turned off a stereo playing screamy metal at full blast.  The hateful voices were gone, and his thoughts were finally his own.  And yet, he had no idea what to think.  All he could see was the mist flowing around him, through him.  He closed his eyes and surrendered to the blissful serenity.  And for a brief glorious moment, he was okay.

Then, he felt it.  Something was combing through his mind, slowly at first but gaining speed.  It felt like he was reliving his life in reverse, memory by memory, moment by moment, like soft fingers flipping through the pages of a sacred text.  Yet, there was intention behind it.  There was something this entity needed, some secret that only George could tell it.  All the while, George felt a pleasant tingle in his brain and spine, like his neurons were a fluffy cat being lovingly stroked.  He would have purred if he had any control of his body.

But then, the pain roared back with a vengeance, more intense than anything he had ever experienced.  Every inch of his body felt like it was on fire but frozen simultaneously.  It was as if the pain was out for blood, furious for being challenged.  George cried out as his back contorted and nearly snapped in half, delirious in the torrent of horrible sensations.  The mist responded, scrambling around his body to wage war wherever the pain was strongest.  But it was no use.  Whatever foul creature held him would rather kill George than give any ground to this upstart invader.  

The mist retreated to the sphere, and George cried, "Wait!  Please!" The dark presence within him wasted no time asserting its dominance.  "Come back!" He screamed.  

Instead, the mist coalesced into molten plasma, with the sphere at its center orbiting it faster and faster.  And slowly, the energy took the shape of a person.  The cloud glowed brighter as its features became more solid and prominent.  Lightning arced across the entity's surface, and the glow became brighter until it practically blinded him, forcing George to shield his eyes even as the pain ramped.

Then, the light suddenly faded.  George looked again and watched the sphere come to rest in the hands of a woman.  

She moved toward him quickly and gracefully and knelt by his side.  Her dark honey-blonde hair cascaded past her shoulders in long, silky curtains.  Her skin had a sun-kissed glow.  Her lips were full and inviting.  She gazed lovingly at him with the most beautiful crystal blue, soul-stealing eyes.  It was her, his phantom friend, in the flesh and fully grown.  She caressed his cheek, and her breath caught in her throat.  This wasn't some hopeful manifestation born of desperation.  Her touch felt as real as a punch from Connor or a hug from his mother, and the radiant woman before him looked just as surprised by this as George.  In her eyes was a heady mixture of joy, concern, and determination.

She spoke.  "Hello," she said, the word trailing off into an excited grin, which she quickly suppressed as she struggled to maintain a semblance of formality.

George tried to respond, but the words died before he could form them.  The pain was too great.  

"Please, just…save your strength," she said urgently.  "I-I don't know if you know this, but you've got some kind of curse or something, and it really doesn't like me.  It's gonna kill you if we don't do something."  She looked him over, her blue eyes glowing pink as the pain lessened wherever she looked but intensified everywhere else.  "I want to help you, but I'm not… complete." She rested her hand over his heart.  "But, if we become bound… If you become my Master and set me free, I can keep you safe."  

George couldn't believe what he was hearing.  Her voice was like music, but her words didn't make sense.  "I don't... what do you..." He tried but could barely speak.  He had so many questions for her.

The woman sensed his hesitation and leaned forward until she was inches from his nose.  "I heard your wish," she said softly.

George was astonished by her faint scent, lovely voice, and the light touch of her hair as it fell around him. "My wish?"

She nodded.  "If you take me… if you promise to be my Master, then I promise you'll never need to feel lonely again.  The pain will end, and you… we...can live.  All you have to do is say it.  Tell me you'll be my Master…please.  Please say it."

George gazed into her eyes even as he felt his consciousness slipping.  She was the most beautiful creature he'd ever seen.  In those eyes was a path forward, a future he never thought possible.  He couldn't tell her no.

However, his voice died in his throat when he tried to speak as he felt something like a spike impale him.  The woman reacted as if she could sense what had happened.  She rested her hand where the wound would have been, and George could see a faint pink glow radiating from her hands into his belly.  But it wasn't working.  She could only slow the pain, not stop it.  He began to feel cold, starting from his extremities and working its way to his core.    

The girl squeezed his hand tightly and began to cry.  "Please don't die," she pleaded.  "I waited so long.  Don't let it end like this.  Please don't leave me." 

George heard Piper's words resonate with those of the mysterious woman, and he finally understood what Piper had meant.  She wasn't just trying to help him.  She was burdened by her own pain and wanted it to end just like George did.  

The room was darkening, and George felt himself sinking into a frigid abyss.  With the last of his strength, he gasped, "I'll be... your Master."    

Her warmth returned to swaddle him in a cocoon of shimmering plasma.  He felt power surging through him in waves, each bolstering and strengthening him.  Feeling returned to his lower body, blood ran hot, and the everpresent headache vanished like a waking dream.  Meanwhile, the monstrous misery flailed and screamed like a cornered animal as it lost ground to the woman's steady reinforcement.  George felt emboldened and wished he could help somehow, but he couldn't move.  His body was their battleground, and all he could do was wait and hope.  Time blurred, and after what might have been a few minutes or hours, the beauty beside him squashed the pain down into some distant corner of his soul. The pain let out a final shriek that trailed off into a whimper, and then it was gone.

George felt himself floating gently downward until he lay comfortably in a bed.  A wave of irresistible exhaustion overtook him, and as he drifted off into a blissful, dreamless sleep, he heard the woman speak.  "Rest now, Master," she whispered.  "Everything will be different when you wake up.  But you'll never have to face it alone."  She kissed his cheek, then said, "Your wish is granted."