He wishes he was just angry. He wishes that rage was the only thing burning in his chest, day in and day out, but it's so much more complicated than that and so much harder to handle. His head is a tangled mess of grief, sorrow, and guilt that he can't even begin to unravel.

It's like the world is completely shrouded in black, like there's a veil encasing him that he just can't break through.

There is something he can break through, though, and that's the back entrance to the hockey arena. The lock is old and if you jimmy the door just the right way...

He smirks as the door clicks open. He slips inside, shutting it behind him and heading for the rink. His footsteps echo on the linoleum floors and already, he can feel the chill of the endlessly-cooled rink waiting for him.

One of these days, he's going to get caught for trespassing. He just hopes today isn't that day, because he needs to hit something and he needs to hit it hard.

----------

Casey skates in tight circles, twisting and turning on the sleek ice as he works his stick-handling magic. He skates back and forth across the rink, slamming pucks into the net every time he gets near it. The echoing snap of wood against vulcanized rubber surrounds him.

He wishes his mind would just go blank, but each pass across the rink is another five seconds to remind himself of another shitty thing and pile it on.

He has school tomorrow. School. He wanted to leave Roosevelt High feeling gratified and free. He wanted to look back on his high school years and go, yeah, that was fun. Thank God it's over, right? But instead, he's still there, stuck in this endless stupid loop surrounded by kids that just keep getting younger.

He skids to a stop, sending a spray of shaved ice up from his skates, and he pictures the school. Before he failed (twice) he was an outcast and he didn't care. He had April, Taylor, and eventually Annalise, and they were his group. His team. He didn't have to be anything other than himself with them.

Now, he's...a ghost, haunting a place he should have left long ago.

He throws down a puck at centre ice and strikes it with a shout. There's a loud crack as the puck flies, hitting the net with a solid thwump, and Casey curses. His stick hangs on by a few splinters, bent away at an awkward angle.

"Damn it," he mutters.

Without bothering to retrieve his pucks, he skates back to the box, hoisting himself over the boards and landing on the old black padding. He sits down and plants his stick on his lap, grabbing a roll of black athletic tape from his bag and starting to wrap it.

"Yeah, why don't you just break too?" he demands as he forces the stick to lay flat and straight. "Stupid thing."

He stiffens as a sudden breeze rustles his shaggy black hair, tickling the back of his neck and sending a tingling, crawling chill straight down his spine. He's felt this cold before, clinging to him. Someone is watching him.

"Okay, who's there?" he demands, getting to his feet and wielding his stick. The roll of tape dangles, swinging like a pendulum.

No response. His eyes narrow as he scans the arena. The cold still seems to linger, a tingling stripe on the back of his neck that won't leave. A stupid thought crosses his mind and his shoulders hunch.

"Dad?"

He doesn't know why he expects a response, maybe hopes for it. He's seen a lot of crazy things over the past years. If mutants exist, ghosts could too, right? He'd give just about anything to see his dad again, even if it was just long enough to apologize.

But his dad isn't here. He isn't even haunting him.

He wraps one more strip of tape around his stick, rips it off, and sails back over the boards. He collects his fallen pucks and brings them back to the net, lining them up to practice slap shots and see how his stick holds up.

With each puck he approaches, he pictures something different.

Ms. Somerset and her stuffy little office.

SLAP!

Headlights, blaring horns, a mess of gore and bone.

SLAP!

April, begging him to just try when she knows he can't.

SLAP!

Those stupid Purple Dragons and Hun's smug expression and—

SLAP, SLAP, SLAP!

Six pucks in the net in ten seconds. "A new record for the amazing Casey Jones!" he drones, throwing his arms up into the air as he spins in a tight circle. He cups his hands around his mouth and exhales, imitating the roar of a cheering arena. "Ahhhhhh! Ahhhhh!"

Someone behind him joins in.

He reacts instantly. In seconds, he's sent a puck flying straight at the voice and he realizes just a second too late who it is. Everything seems to move in slow motion as his eyes lock on the floating spectre from the other night, hovering only a few feet away.

The puck passes straight through her chest, clattering back to the ice. Her body ripples slightly and her eyes furrow with barely-concealed annoyance as she rolls her pure white eyes.

"Well...thank you, for that," she sighs.

Casey grips his stick, hunching a little as he goes into defence. "You...you're the ghost from the other night!" he snaps. "You messed up my fight!"

She stares at him. "I think what I actually did was stop Rocco from using you as a punching bag."

"That was my bust! I didn't ask for your help!" he shouts. He aims his stick at her. "I could've handled it alone!"

His heart pounds with rage and still, she just stares at him. Her willowy form drifts forward, closer to him, and he backs up as his still-pounding heart skips a beat. She looms close to his face, so close he can feel the chill coming off her black...skin?

"Alone?" she repeats. "Keep it up and that's all you'll be."

He seethes, muscles tensing. "Shut up."

She rolls her eyes again and floats backwards, crossing her arms over her chest. "You talk a lot, even when there's no one to listen, and then someone tries to talk back and all you want is for them to shut up? Make it make sense," she says.

"Well, maybe I'm the only one who gets what I'm going through!"

She lets out a brief huff, almost a laugh. It's hollow, like she isn't mocking him but doesn't have the energy to laugh. "You're definitely not the only person who's ever lost their dad, Casey Jones."

His face gets red, way too hot, but he can't find the words to speak. How does she know his name? How does she know about his dad?

He whips the stick up, bringing it to a halt right in front of where her nose should be, and she doesn't even flinch. "I told you to shut up, Shadow." Her shoulders sag a little as she sighs and he grits his teeth. "You don't know anything about me."

"Oh, so your dad isn't dead?"

"Lucky fucking guess."

She cocks her head. "Want to tell me about it? Or would you rather talk to yourself?"

For a second, he hesitates. Tell me about it, she said. Not talk about it, like someone who already knows what happened wanting to dig deeper. Is she seriously offering herself as some kind of vessel for him to sling words at? A net for his emotional pucks?

He slowly lowers the stick. "Why?"

He realizes that she does have a mouth, just not a very noticeable one, because her lips pout. "Why what?"

"Why do you want to listen? You don't even know me."

"Do I need a reason? Maybe I'm just nosy."

That almost makes him want to laugh. "You sound nosy."

"Okay, then that's my reason."

He exhales, tapping his stick against the ice a few times. "I was...in a car accident. My dad ran a red and this truck...t-boned us."

Damn it, already his chest feels all tight and achy. He hasn't said anything about this out loud, not even to himself. Others have said it, but he's let them talk in circles around him, explain to others how it all happened, but he's never told the story himself. It makes it too real.

The shadow doesn't say anything, doesn't interrupt. She just nods and waits for him to continue.

"The doctors said my dad died instantly. My sister and I got out fine," he says. "The only reason we got in that accident was because I was arguing with him."

"About what?"

"School. I failed math. Last year, I failed math, science, and Spanish, which is embarrassing because one of my best friends speaks it fluently and she'd been trying to help. So months ago, I was just an idiot who's been held back twice, but now—" He lets out a harsh laugh. "Now I'm an orphaned idiot stuck in senior year who killed my dad, I broke up with my girlfriend, my sister ditched me, and the only friends I have left keep treating me with kid gloves because they think I'm gonna fall apart at any second!"

He sucks in a sharp breath, panting a little, and still, the shadow stares at him.

"So yeah, my life sucks and it's never going to get better, so there."

He waits for her to respond, bracing himself. He expects sympathy, pity and soft murmurs of, "Oh my god, I'm so sorry." That's what most people say. It doesn't mean anything. It doesn't comfort him, doesn't lift the weight on his shoulders. No amount of apologies and sympathy will fix things.

But the shadow girl laughs. She laughs that same empty laugh and shakes her head.

"Nah, your life doesn't suck nearly as much as mine."

He scoffs. "What? You're...wait, are you even alive? I thought you were some kind of weird ass ghost!"

"Excuse me? Of course, I'm alive. I'm just...mildly incorporeal."

"I have no clue what that means."

She sighs. "I guess I don't blame you for thinking I'm a ghost. That's basically what I am," she says. "What have you eaten today?"

"Huh?"

"Just answer the question, puckhead."

He frowns. "Instant ramen?"

"Oh, nice. I can't eat," she says. "Food goes right through me. Not like I can taste it anyway." She puts her hands on her hips. "Continuing on, what have you done today? You've had a meal. You've walked around outside. Had a depression nap maybe?"

"Hey—"

"Can you feel the temperature of this rink? What about your clothes? You can feel those too, right? What about your skin? You said you had a girlfriend. When she held you, when you touched her, did it feel good?"

April appears in his mind's eye again even as his stomach curls; a goodbye kiss and orchids, hands pressed against his chest. "Hey, that's private—"

"I can't touch other people. No one can touch me," she hisses. In a flash, she moves closer, glaring down at him. "So, yeah, life handed you a few shitty cards. Cry about it. At least someone can hold you while you do it."

"I...I..."

She backs off, drifting back down. "And maybe thank people who try to help you. I know you think you're a big shot, but Rocco would have creamed you."

"I...well, that was—" he stammers.

"So you're welcome," she interrupts. "Remember, try not to be stupid!"

"Wait!"

But with that, she's gone, disappearing into nothingness before his eyes. He's left in the middle of the rink, cold and twisted up inside. He didn't get to ask for her name.

All he knows is that he actually met someone more pessimistic than himself.