'You can't just throw him out onto the streets! He is our son!'�

'But he's not NORMAL!'�

A 13-year old with long, blond hair and violet eyes sat on his dirty, unwashed bed in his bedroom, his covers clamped over his head, trying to block out the sounds of his parents arguing again. Arguing about him. For the past month, it had been relatively quiet, because his father went away on business and it had been just himself and his mother living in the dimly lit New York apartment. But then, on the first Monday after he had returned, there had been another incident, the incident that was fuelling the argument taking place at that moment.

(Begin Flashback)

It was late evening, and Tristan had been in his room, brushing his hair and making himself look good. Preparing for the transaction between his normal self and his monster self. His father has stormed in, drunk and angry, and slapped him across the face for being a disgrace, and looking and acting so much like a girl when he wanted a son. At first Tristan had just stayed down on the floor, frozen in shock. His father had gotten drunk before, as had his mother, but he had never been hit by them'� Then he realized that he had been touched! If there was one thing in the whole world Tristan couldn't stand, it was being touched without permission. It was his body, wasn't it? If he had wanted to be touched, it would have been him making the first move! Slowly, his rage began to build, fuelled by his father's shouting and screaming. A crash sounded, and Tristan realized that his father had smashed the mirror. Glass flew everywhere, one shard of it slicing Tristan's face.

Looking back, that was probably what pushed Tristan to transform prematurely. Someone had dared to mar his face! With a roar Tristan's body arched and began to change. His hair lost its waves and turned black. His skin turned white and his lips ruby red. His violet eyes began to glow, and on his hands and feet his nails lengthened and sharpened. Then all fell silent. His father was suddenly sober, and looking on in fear at the monstrosity that was supposed to be his son. Then with a cry he flew from the room, slamming the door behind him and locking on it as a desperate pounding began to sound on the other side. Inhumane screeches rattled his bones and left him shaking in terror, knowing that it was his flesh and blood behind the door.

(End Flashback)

'I say he goes! It's happening more and more often now, him loosing control now! I could have been hurt by that monster he turns into, if we hadn't had the foresight to put a sturdy lock on his door!'�

'No, please, give him another chance, just one more-'

'He's always getting one more chance! No more chances! He's going to the institute and he'll be put in isolation tomorrow. That way he won't hurt anyone anymore. I'm sorry, but it's for the best.'�

As his parent's voices lowered to a less deafening volume, Tristan stopped listening through the walls and slid down onto his mattress. He had been expecting this for a while, but still, he wished'� he wished he didn't have to go! He had friends, and a relatively active social life, despite his problems! Without realising it, tears began to well up in his eyes, and trickled down his pale cheeks.

'Why are you crying Tristan?'�

Tristan froze at the sound of a high, young voice addressing him. Slowly he rolled over, eyes wide and fearful to see who could have crept into his room without him noticing, much less his parents! Before him, in the dim light which was filtering through the window stood a young boy. He looked about ten, and had cropped purple hair and dark grey eyes. His face had a serene expression on it, and he looked at Tristan with mature, knowledgeable eyes.

'I asked you a question. Don't be afraid, Monday, I want to help you.'� The boy said again, snapping Tristan from his stupor. When he still got no answer, he walked over to his bed and sat on the edge, curling up next to Tristan with his head on his chest. All of a sudden Tristan felt a wave of comfort sweep over him and the tears on his cheeks dried up.

'W-who's Monday? Who are you? How did you get into my room? What do you want?'� Tristan asked, a flood of questions escaping him. The boy smiled.

'So many questions. Very well. My name is Sunday Ross, but most people call me Stephen. And you are Monday. I came into your room because you invited me in, and I want to help you.'�

'I invited you? When? I don't remember even meeting you before, so how could I have-'�

'Hush, Monday. Don't you remember? You wanted to not have to go to that institution, am I correct? There's nothing wrong with who you are. I said I wanted to help you, and I intent to do so by taking you to a safe place. A place where people like you can go where no one will hate them for who they are. Will you come, Monday? Will you come with me?'� Stephen jumped off the bed, eyes glistening with excitement. 'Let's go.'� He said, and stretched out his hand to Tristan, backing up so he was standing in the light again.

'Tristan? Who is that in there? Who are you talking to? Tristan, open this door!'�

Both boys snapped their heads towards the bedroom door, where Tristan's father was banging on it. He was desperately turning the doorknob, trying to gain entry, but the chair Tristan had put there earlier was stopping him for the moment.

'It's too late. We'll never get out with him there. It's impossible. I can't leave anyway, I'll hurt people!'� Tristan cried, the tears from earlier returning in an instant.

'Hush! Just take my hand, there's still time! Do it!'� Stephen commanded, with authority not usually found in a ten-year-old. Tristan hesitated for an instant, then reached out and grabbed hold of the boy's hand. He felt his body being pulled towards him, and then just as his bedroom door finally gave way and swung open, they were gone.

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