He grinds the words out, and my heart slides lower before settling in my belly. I muster a smile as I stare into his dark eyes, determined not to let his attitude dull my happiness. I lift both shoulders, feeling the protest in my aching body.
“I just don’t think it’s fair that you get all this while I sleep in the fucking park.” His true feelings come out, his anger overflowing, but then he catches himself as he studies my busted eye. “Jesus, Clo.” Sucking in a breath, he reaches out to touch my face, but pulls back at the last second. “Your eye looks like shit. You should have let me do it. I’d have left you with a lot less bruising.”
I touch my tender face, heat radiating from my skin. “You’re in enough trouble.” I scold him softly, not wanting to make him angry again. I had my reasons for not letting him do this for me. “What if someone saw you hit me? You’d be locked up for sure.” With a slight nod, he confirms my words, but there’s more I want to say. “Besides, you’d never forgive yourself for hurting me.” As rough as he can be, I know he loves me more than he’ll ever admit.
“Because letting someone else hit you is better?” All at once, the slight softness in him hardens again. He lets out an angry sigh and shifts his weight, crossing his arms so tightly I have no idea how he’s breathing. “I’m sorry, I just fucking hate this, Clo. I should be the one protectingyou.”
My heart melts in my chest.
My brother has always protected me and cared for me.
Always.
I can count on him, no matter who in my life is letting me down. He’s my rock, my best friend, and the only person I trust in this fucked-up world.
“We look after each other, you and me,” I finally say. “We’re family, right?”
I wrap my arms around my brother, taking in his warmth, overwhelmed by how much love I feel for him. Jake is far from perfect, but he’s all I have. The only person in the world who understands me, who gets me, who’d do anything for me without question.
“Jake?” I whisper. “It’ll all work out, you’ll see. This is our fresh start.”
He manages a crooked smile, but it doesn’t quite meet his eyes.
“Because things always work out for us, right?”
* * *
When I wakeup the next morning, Jake is already gone, but I feel better knowing he was here with me. I hate being alone at night more than I like to admit. The easiest way to avoid the nightmares is to stay awake, so that’s usually what I do. In Jake’s arms, though, it was easy to let myself go and fall asleep, knowing he was there to protect me. Now, I almost feel refreshed—well, aside from the fact that I feel like I’ve been punched in the face.
Since the buttons on my only uniform are all torn up and spattered in blood following my ‘attack’ last night, I throw on some yoga pants and a top to wear instead, until I can soak the stains out. I tie my long hair back in a ponytail and toss my books in my backpack, catching sight of my reflection in the mirror on the way to the door.
The makeup has done wonders in covering up most of the bruising. I almost look normal, apart from the swelling around my eye and the pain that rips through me every time the muscles twitch. Pain is good, though. Pain reminds me I’m still alive. It grounds me, assures me that even after all I’ve been through, I can still feel. With one last glance at myself, I feel my pocket to make sure my room card is in there, then I walk out.
One of the conditions of my release from Preston Meadows Psychiatric Unit was that I had stable accommodation to be released into. Turns out, paying someone a hundred dollars to pretend to be my aunt was easy. So easy that I wish I had thought of this years ago, back when I was a kid. If I could have fooled the system into thinking I had a loving and stable home with my ‘aunt’ back then, maybe I could have avoided the pain and hurt that followed.
It’s sad when a life on the streets feels like the safer option than the foster family I was placed with.
The last few months I’ve been doing it rough, sleeping in abandoned houses or wherever I could find shelter. It’s kind of nice having somewhere safe to sleep, but while the hotel is a welcome reprieve from having to sleep with one eye open, but it’s not without its downsides. I hate accepting help from people because it almost always comes with strings attached. Help from Sam feels different, though, like I’m collecting on a debt.
He owes me, even if he doesn’t realize it yet.
My mood settles when I spy the school in the distance. I take a deep breath and release it slowly, trying to focus my mind on the day ahead. I’ve always loved school. Assignments, classes, and exams have always been a welcomed distraction from everything else going on in my life. The only part I hate is when that lunch bell sounds because then I’m out of my depth. It’s my signal to take off, because I’m not the girl who fits in. I’m the girl who sits alone at lunch, wishing she was like everyone else, but who’s aware enough to know that she’ll never be like them. I’ve been through more than most of my classmates will go through in their entire lives and as much as I’d love to say that’s shaped me into a better person, it hasn’t.
Instead, it’s left me empty, resentful, and craving revenge.
I’m almost at the school gates when my phone pings.
My heart skips, because maybe it’s Sam checking in on me, which would mean things are going as they should. For once in my life, Ineedthings to go right. Disappointment floods me when I check my phone and see it’s not him. It’s my psychiatrist, no doubt wondering why I didn’t show up for my appointment yesterday afternoon, or why I’ve ignored every phone call since. He leaves me another message, which I delete without reading. I already know what it’s going to say.
Theothercondition of my release was that I attend mandatory outpatient sessions twice a week with a psychiatrist. Failing to attend without contact could have me thrown back inside so fast I won’t know what hit me. As much as I want to keep ignoring him, I know I can’t. Not if I want to have any chance of this plan working. With a frustrated sigh, I look around me to make sure I’m alone, then I hit call.
“Dr. Lawson’s office.”
I wince at the sound of his receptionist’s voice. There should be some law against sounding that chirpy, even on a Thursday morning.
“Uh, hi. It’s Chloe Stanford, returning Dr. Lawson’s call.” I blurt out the words, already regretting the call. “I can just leave a message if he’s too busy—”
“Chloe, it’s fine. Dr. Lawson asked me to put you straight through if you called. Hold please.”