"No," Aiden's still ontop of her, still clutching her but he slowly draws back, brown hair tickling her face as he leans in. "I'm alive."

Because to Aiden, there's a fundamental difference. There's a rational reason for the way he acts--even when he violently slams his head against a wall or picks a fight with someone much bigger than him. Even if he plays baseball and swings the bat at someone's head. Even if he has a knife, and he's ontop of his mother, and all he can hear is screaming screaming screaming and then a sick gurgle as the knife pierces through her windpipe, as her head lolls to the side as lifeless as his sister.

Aiden leans forward and kisses Heather, slow and soft and surprisingly sweet.