Being the family fuck-up was hard work, but somebody had to do it. When this was all people came to expect of you, after all, there was no reason to let them down. When Zina shut the door, the room was quiet. When River woke up that morning, he was already on high alert.

She always tried to be gentle. It never mattered.

"You have to look for your own place," Zina said, twisting her necklace around and around her fingers. "It's not good for you here. I can't give you the support you need."

"I'll never abandon you," said ZIna, when they were children. Lying in the grassy field behind the farm, she smiled warmly. "Even if everyone leaves, you'll always have me.”

His mind was loud, in the sort of way that was impossible to explain. When things hurt, they always felt excruciating – molten lava bubbling over the skin, burning you alive. Zina could speak, but everything was muffled, as though River was listening to the world through a plastic bubble. She'd learned long ago not to touch him, even when he banged on the walls with all the force of his fists, or lay on the floor and screamed. Sometimes, it felt like all River could do was scream.

More times than once, he'd woken up in the back of a police car, or the cell of the station. None of these nights were memorable. This was the scariest part.

"You'll never be successful," said Zina, snickering through her fingers. "We all know you're just the family fuck-up."

It wasn't all bad. River could love deeper than most people, and feel happiness more wholly than his friends. Everything happened so quickly, always. River drank a lot, on these nights. He drank a lot most of the time. When he'd drunk enough to feel numb, he ran – nowhere in particular, and perhaps nowhere at all. But it seemed like anywhere was better than here.

Each time River ran off, Zina went after him.

"You're not my real sister, anyway! You're just like your mother!”

This morning, like many mornings in the past, River woke up in a jail cell. He felt raw, exposed, like an open wound that had been poked and prodded at for hours. His throat hurt, from screaming, or maybe from drinking, it didn't matter. The police station wasn't one he recognized. These days, River's reflection wasn't even one he recognized. There was blood on his knuckles; it was dry now.

Moving was tedious. Each step swayed the floor; the bright lights above River's head pounded behind his eyes. Zina was the enemy, now. It was funny. A day ago, he'd have done anything for her.

"Get up, River."

A rough voice echoed in his ear. Everything hurt. The clunky boots of a police officer came into view outside River's cell, jingling a set of keys. "You're free to go. Your brother's here to pick you up." That morning, it was snowy: so early that the sun wasn't yet up. River's throat was dry, scorched, as though he'd swallowed fire. Outside the cell, when the bright lights of the hallway hit his face, all the poison he'd drank exploded out of him, burning the whole way up.

Friends came and went, at times when you needed them most. After a while, being betrayed by those you loved the most felt inevitable. Everybody said they'd support their friends through mental health episodes. But when it came time to experience this firsthand, everybody changed their minds.

River had had jobs before. None of them had ever lasted more than six months.

He was far from home, drenched in sweat and still in the same clothes from the night before. Inside the door of the police station, Salem clinked his keys. "How much did you drink, River?"

River didn't drive. The only benefit that came from this was never having driven drunk. It was raining, pounding in his ears, so noisy that the ground spun underneath his feet. "I don't know." The town was unfamiliar, and cold. Salem drove an electric SUV, which was boxy and one of the only few of its kind. Salem always seemed to get new gadgets before they came out. Shutting his eyes, River leaned his head against the headrest of his seat. "I'm not in Summerside anymore, am I?"

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His knuckles hurt, beginning to bleed again. Many times before, he'd punched something in the midst of an episode, leaving his hands bloodied and sore. Once or twice, he'd broken a finger or two. Salem was a calm driver, even when the traffic around him forgot how to follow the rules. The signal blinked, the screen lighting up at every interaction. "I have no idea how you got here, dude. Got a call from the police at three in the morning saying you were here. Said you wouldn't talk to anyone but me." It was a smooth ride, fast, the type of vehicle River would probably drive if he could. Salem wasn't the most affectionate person, but he cared a lot for other people.

"Zina kicked me out." Reliving the moment brought the pit back to River's stomach. Even the most loyal of people could leave him abandoned in the blink of an eye. Even the most loyal of friends could leave him questioning their allegiance. "Can I stay with you for a bit?" He was nauseous. Unrolling the window, he stuck his head outside.

River was hard to love sometimes, he knew that. Getting out of bed was hard, holding a job was hard. Some days, it felt like all he could do was just survive. Zina said surviving was more than enough. If this was true, it made River wonder why he felt such guilt about not doing more. Growing up, he'd been very mean to Zeb, and felt bad about it now. These days, River barely spoke to most of his siblings, and for terrible reasons.

Salem glanced over. "I have people over a lot."

It was very hard to keep relationships intact. River had ruined many over the years. "Yeah, you’re a slut. I know that already.”

Years ago, River had a big fight with his father, which ended in the two screaming at each other. River was never afraid to get into fights. Some people deserved it. He'd shouted at his father, throwing a fist at the window behind the man. "You're a terrible father. I wouldn't even care if you died!" This hadn't changed. If it weren't for Orion, River would be successful and stable. It was interesting, though, that a group of children raised in the same environment could grow up to be so different.

At the age of fifteen, River's mother sent him to an institution. She claimed he was difficult, which was true – but a parent's job was to support their children through their difficulties, not make them somebody else's problem. It wasn't hard to tell, growing up, who Lillian favoured most. It was always the most brainwashed of the children, the most obedient, as if the only job of a child was to be a puppet. It wasn't worth it. River would have rather been treated like shit than act as a clone.

Something about music was calming. On the days when River found it most difficult to get out of bed, he was calmed by music and art. In elementary school, River became interested in abstract paintings. In middle school, he got an easel from Salem to make his own art. Maybe when River was dead, people would care about him.

River couch surfed a lot, when he was younger, but never stayed in the same place for more than a few months. Before moving in with ZIna, he bounced around between the homes of friends and acquaintances. He lived on his own, briefly, but couldn't hold a job long enough to keep up with rent. The hardest part of this was being branded a lazy person, or a freeloader. It wasn't as if he enjoyed being a fuck-up. But every family had one, and the duty had fallen on him.

Salem's place had two bedrooms, and two large living rooms. With the amount of parties he had, it'd have to. The townhouse was spacious, but smaller than Zina's place. On the main level, Salem held a lizard on his shoulders, stroking its head. "You can take the extra bedroom upstairs.” He was high. When he wasn’t at work, he was almost always high.

When River lived with ZIna, her fiance had insisted he pay rent. This had meant that all of the meagre income he received from the government went to Atticus, and River was left to barely fend for himself. Zina hadn’t agreed with this - but it wasn’t her home. River touched the head of the lizard, which was very brightly coloured. “You’re not going to make me pay rent, are you? I don’t have any money.”

A fully-grown frilled dragon could get up to three feet long. Magni was three years old, and was orange and green in colour. He hadn’t warmed up to River, but often climbed onto Salem’s arms and shoulders. “Why would I do that?”

River shrugged. “You have a mortgage to pay.”

“Yeah, but I also hate landlords.” Picking up the lizard, Salem placed him back in his enclosure. “I’ll be in the yard if you need me.”

The most impressive thing about Salem was the fact that he was self-taught in two instruments. The theremin was invented in 1928 by a Russian man named Leon Theremin. It had an eerie, hollow sound, reminding River of a thriller movie, but it brought him odd contentment to listen to its music. When Salem disappeared into the backyard, River fiddled with the instrument.

It was really unusual to play an instrument without touching it. River didn't have a musical bone in his body, but he'd tried. In fifth grade, he played the recorder briefly in the school band, but gave up after losing interest in it. This happened a lot. River could like something passionately, intensely, and then give up on it after a moment of failure. He was like this with people too. All of River's ex-girlfriends would say he was emotional, dramatic, impossible to get along with. All of this was probably true, but he never tried to be this way, and he loathed himself to know what he had become.