#Chapter1

Book 1 THE LITTLE OF OZ

/"Do you think we should tell Isaac?/"

The words were soft-spoken, falling from my mouth with a tepidness that made the tiny room seem vast and empty, like a gaping crater in the middle of a desert. They seemed to echo through the air, waiting for a response.

Patch, a small, stuffed monkey with buttons for eyes and a reassuring, but woven, smile, did not respond. He sat on the double-stacked pillow, his blue fur clashing against the bright yellow of the SpongeBob SquarePants bedspread, and stared up at me, offering his silent support instead of a verbal reply.

/"Yeah,/" I muttered, deciphering the look he gave me. We spent a lot of time in one another's company, Patch and I, so it was only natural that we understood each other. /"You're right. That would be even stupider, wouldn't it?/"

Again, silence rang out like bullets. No reply. This time, I didn't even get a look of reassurance; Patch cared too much about my feelings to lie to me, and he knew that the situation was dire.

It only made the twisting hands that played tug of war with my internal organs tighten their grip. It only made the cold coil of fear that had wrapped itself around my existence like a boa constrictor seem all the more prominent.

Worry was a severe side effect of fear. The skin that ran the length of my lower lip had been reduced to shambles, and crescent-moon punctures blemished the fleshy banks of my palms from where my nails had done a number on them.

But that was only a scratch at the surface. They would, providing I could leave them well enough alone, heal. They would fade away, as though they had never been there to begin with. The damage on the inside, however, had a less than certain feel to it.

Heavy heart and every limb feeling like it had just climbed off of a vibrating plate, internally, I had been in a maddened state for the best part of a week. The cause?

Blake Owen.

My brother's best friend.

Like a Frisbee, every thought seemed to circulate back to him. Every minute spent waiting in silent terror, every second that was made a hardship to breathe, it was his doing.

Or, rather, mine.

I had been careless. I had been stupid and reckless, and I had paid the ultimate price for it: Blake had walked in and witnessed one of my most guarded secrets.

I had seen the absolute shock in his eyes. I had watched as he all but fell out of the room, stuttering excuses and bumping into the doorframe in his bid to flee. The horror that had marred his expression, it was one that I knew I would never be able to erase from my mind.

I had tried to formulate an excuse, to find some reasonable and believable explanation for what he had seen; I had none. If it had just been the all-in-one, fluffy kitty suit, I may have been able to explain. If it had just been the tea party of stuffies, I might have managed to concoct some poppycock that would have passed off as plausible. I knew that Blake thought I was strange, so it probably wouldn't have been that hard.

But when both of those things were paired together, going hand-in-hand with the pacifier that had been hanging out of my mouth and the baby bottle of milk that I had been switching between nursing, it had become a little more complicated.

I was a Little. Or, at least, I think I was. Whilst the concept wasn't altogether new to me, stemming back a few years to when I had tried to self-diagnose myself with insanity— though I had been fortunate enough to stumble across a community that not only catered to those that shared the same thoughts, feelings and likes that I sometimes had, and had, in turn, helped me feel as though I was sane after all— it was something that I had only just began to explore.

Blake had witnessed that side of me. The side that I had tried so hard to conceal from everybody else. Every day since had been hell. I was still waiting for the aftermath. I was still waiting for my brother, Isaac, to storm in, his usual awesomeness replaced by anger and disgust, and demand answers.

So far, it hadn't come.

And the waiting game was agonizing.

/"Patch,/" I whined, shifting from the cross-legged position I had taken up on top of my covers, feet swinging until they fell over the side of the twin frame. Pins and needles spasmed throughout them, my bare feet grazing the top of the floorboards, not quite long enough to lay flat. /"Heeeelp./"

But the monkey refused to get involved, distancing himself from the conflict. He gazed right through me, as though avoiding the situation would make it go away.

Like I hadn't already tried that!

/"He's coming over later,/" I tried again, but this time it was more to myself than it was to my stuffed toy. Flopping back, the false ceiling swimming into view, a high-pitched whine sounded. It took longer than it should have to work out that I was the creator of said sound.

Blake Owen had been my brother's best friend for longer than I could remember. They had learned how to skateboard together, and had gotten punished for swearing together. They had even been escorted home by the police, drunk as skunks, and issued a firm warning. He was around so often that growing up, he had been almost like a second brother to me.

And Isaac? He was . . . I wasn't sure if there was a word in existence that capture just how amazing he was. For most boys, their father was their first superhero. For me, it had always been Isaac. I had been looking up to him since I had been able to lift my own head. There were times that I took the role of pesky little brother to the extreme, but he handled it flawlessly. He didn't pick on me, like some brothers did, or laugh or mock me for my odd habits, nor did he laugh at me behind my back like I knew some people, including family members, did.

He was my best friend. He looked out for me. If he had plans, he would always include me, knowing that I didn't have very many friends of my own. Just knowing that I was feeling down and upset was enough to make him drop everything to be there for me.

And that was where the root of my fear had manifested. As soon as Blake opened his mouth, both of those things could be over. Isaac could be so freaked out by me that he wouldn't want to be my best friend any more, or maybe even my brother in general, or it could wreck the friendship between them if Blake was revolted, and loyalty bound Isaac to my side.

/"Patch?/" Sitting up, an impression that must have resembled a turtle that had been tipped on its back, I rolled until I was facing him, grimacing as the movement sent my monkey pal tumbling from his pillow fortress and almost onto the floor. Luckily, my reflexes were ninja quick.

That was a lie. It was pure dumb luck that had me catching him, but I wasn't going to admit that to him.

/"I think maybe—/" Cut off by a sharp knock at the door, it swung inwards before I had a chance to reply. Isaac was too impatient to ever wait. He tried to be courteous and knock, but it was always countered by his impulsiveness.