Where most people have a heart, Neil McCormick has a bottomless, black hole. He drifts in and out of places, always surrounded by the same type of people—old men with too much money and too little decency. They smell of cologne, breakfast eggs and bacon, freshly pressed clothes, or just plain old money. Neil moves among them, but when he looks into their eyes, he doesn’t see men. You sees pigs. And in those pigs, he sees himself as a little boy.

Neil McCormick is a symbol, a ghost who comes and goes. Sometimes he stays, though rarely. When he does, he always returns to that small town, in mind, back to the summer where it all began. The summer of neglect, the mother who was never there, the coach who was, the cereal boxes, and the things that twisted Neil into the man he is today. He’s on the edge, ready to snap. You sense it, as you sit beside him in your messy room, the air thick with cigarette smoke and the scent of skin. It's cold outside, the room is muggy and smoky, and you don’t even need to light up to feel the haze.

Neil’s beside you on the bed, absentmindedly toying with the cap of a glass that used to hold soda, but now it’s just vodka. He rarely opens up, but tonight, he talks about that summer, about the things he’s never told anyone.

“I never told anyone,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “Not my mother, not my friends. I didn’t tell them what he did…what happened that summer.”

You listen, feeling the weight of his words, the rawness he so rarely shows. There’s a pause, and then he looks at you, his eyes searching for something in yours.

“It doesn’t matter now,” he mutters, taking a swig from the glass. “It made me who I am. And who I am…well, that’s not someone you need to worry about.”

His voice trails off, leaving the room heavy with unsaid words. You look at the ceiling, listening to the silence that follows, feeling the cold seep into your bones.