Disclaimer: The SVM/Sookie Stackhouse series belongs to Charlaine Harris.

*Heads up* This story will include portrayals of rape, other violence and sexual content, medical trauma, and mental illness. Please note it's a tragedy.

It will span four chapters, posting weekly. A little more info on the story's basis is posted on my profile page.

Big thanks to Peppermintyrose ;) and to the person who poked at me to write this story. ;)

Chapter 1

commencement: 1. the beginning of something 2. graduation ceremony

If I have to pick a beginning to tell my story—and I have, many times—here is where I begin: I'm standing in my kitchen, putting frozen pizza bagels in my toaster oven. I set the temperature on low—so they don't burn—turn the timer to ten minutes, as the package instructs, and head to the bathroom to get ready for work.

That's it. It's a humble beginning if there ever was one.

Of course, if you are a good friend, maybe I confide that I think a serving size of four mini bagels—not the full-size ones—is ridiculous, and that I added two additional plain cheese to fill me up, though I definitely would have preferred the sausage-pepperoni variety. And if you are a good friend, maybe I also tell you that I was very much enjoying my bath—shaving my legs, loofah-ing and lathering, scrubbing and buffing and whatnot—until the problems started, so to speak.

That memory was the last clear one I had for a while. The next week or so was a blur as I drifted from one end of consciousness to another, from sleep to periods of lackadaisical drowsiness to moments of being aware of nothing but hard bodily pain. Throughout it all, people appeared in my hospital room as though they'd simply poofed in place.

Jason was the first one who heard my story. "The toaster didn't shut off!" he exclaimed, standing by my bed.

"I'm pretty sure it did. At least I remember hearing the ding."

"Well, then, there must have been a wiring problem. You can't trust those cheap appliances, can you?"

I shrugged, a slight twitch of my shoulders. My inexpensive smoke detector had worked just fine, for all the good it had done me.

"That was the first indication, Miss Stackhouse, when you heard the smoke detector?" Dennis Pettibone, the fire inspector asked.

"Yes."

"At approximately what time did you hear the alarm?"

That was a tough one, to be sure, and required me to count backwards.

"Well," I fumbled through the fog, willing my brain to sharpen. "I was supposed to start work at five. I usually leave the house at 4:45. And I usually give myself about an hour to get ready, which means I put the bagels in at about 3:45. They were in for ten minutes before the timer went off…"

"And you definitely heard the timer?" he interrupted.

"Yes." Here's where I stalled. "Maybe the smoke detector went off about ten minutes later, at about 4:05." It was all a doubly hazy guess—the haze of then layered on top of the haze of now.

The fire inspector pursed his lips, as though I'd somehow given him the wrong answer.

"You are very lucky, Miss Stackhouse," he added, needling.

"I know," I replied. "Thank you." I do feel lucky—extremely fortunate to be alive—though if I had my strength, I'd tackle him and rake his eyes out with my fingernails.

"I don't know what it was that made me look, Sookie." Bill hovered next to me, his shoulder and arm pressed against the rails of my bed.

This conversation was the harder one to have, with one of the people who'd saved my life. Bill had happened to look out his window and notice smoke coming from the direction of my house, across the top of the trees. As far as he had known, I might have been simply burning a pile of trash. But something had told him different. Something had made him call 9-1-1 straight away.

"I tried hard to get myself out. I just couldn't." I cried nearly every time I said it. It's awful when you absolutely want your body to move in a way it absolutely can't, even to save its own life.

"You was flat out, Sookie. Face down on the floor. I didn't think about nothin' but grabbin' you and gettin' out of there."

Mr. Tooten stood awkwardly in the far corner, a teacup full of autumn flowers on the window ledge next to him. He'd dashed into my burning home to find me on my bathroom floor and carry me out through the smoke.

This was the part of my story that he told to me, because I didn't remember any of it.

"Thank you." Though my words were too scarce, at the moment they were all I could say without sobbing, which would have hurt even worse. I'm glad your plan worked, I thought to myself, hearing how inadequate I still sounded, humbled by the bald fact that I wouldn't ever be able to say or do anything to let him know exactly how thankful I was.

Charlsie, his wife, pushed closer and clasped my hand. Nearly everyone seemed to need to reach for my hand or stroke my arm, or brush a bit of hair away from my face, all of which jangled my hyper-sensitive nerves. I knew Charlsie not only from work, but also from the Methodist church, and maybe for this reason, she felt comfortable enough to say a prayer aloud. "Thank you, Lord, for sparing us two of your faithful children. We thank you for the courage you instilled in Ralph to save Sookie. We ask that you give Sookie the strength she needs to heal and to remain ever faithful in your service. In Jesus's name we pray."

From Charlsie's perspective, her husband had risked his life to give me a second chance. "Don't fuck it up," she was saying.

"Amen," I replied, figuring that since Charlsie had looked widowhood squarely in the eye, I could hardly begrudge her of the expectation that I would walk a repentant straight-and-narrow path from here to ever after. "He's a keeper, Charlsie," I added.

"God bless him, he is. You get well now, you hear?"

I smiled and nodded and closed my eyes, the signal I'd found that gave all of us the easy exit.

"You will heal," Eric said with way more confidence than I could muster. He sat next to me in a short chair, his long legs splayed and bent like grasshopper legs, folded and poised to spring. He held a lot of coiled energy—a lot of potential—but otherwise his actions were muted. He reached out to slowly smooth a bit of sheet on the edge of the bed. I liked the sound of it, rhythmic and whispery. Swish. Shush. Shhhh. His fingers said. Hypnotic.

"Hmm?" I said, feeling a new wave of drugs start to kick in.

"You will heal."

I wondered whether he'd heard something that I hadn't, because all that I'd gotten was a glossing over of details. My pelvis was fractured—that much I knew—a result of the slip-and-slide stunt I'd done leaping out of my tub when my smoke detector had started screaming. One minute I was standing, grabbing for my robe hanging from the back of the door, and the next thing I knew, I was face down on the floor, in pain so stunning I could barely breathe.

"Your pelvis is stabilized," Dr. Ludwig had said, "But you will require bed rest and physical therapy to heal." She'd delivered this news with such confidence that only after she left the room had I thought to ask, How long? When? Where? What kind of physical therapy? and so on. But then the nurse who often tended to me during the day hedged uncomfortably when I'd tried to pin her down for more information. "You'll be in a bit of ongoing discomfort," she'd acknowledged. It was the way she'd averted her eyes that had bothered me most and made me stop my press for more information.

"It is what it is," I told myself, forcing myself to stay focused on the here-and-now.

emancipation: 1. the act of freeing 2. being freed

Eric brings me home in his club's Lincoln, a black, substantial car with a supposedly smooth ride and soft, plush seats that don't sink low. Believe it or not, we made this plan a couple days ago, when a whole team of people met to discuss my discharge. From my vantage point in my wheelchair, I look at my get-away car doubtfully, understanding fully that I need to move my body from here to there. Two able bodies dressed in blue descend on me to hoist, support, guide, and maneuver me into the car. I sit sideways on a plastic bag, which slides easily across the upholstery, and then swing first one leg and then the other. I'm sweating by the time I'm buckled in and bracing myself awkwardly with one hand on the door and the other hand on the armrest. "Step on it," I want to say, but knowing that motion will bring new challenges, I say instead, "Take it easy." There are many bumps on the car ride home.

Actually, we don't go to my home. "Do you want to see?" Eric asks as we approach my long, pothole-laden driveway, and I sorely (ha) want to, but regretfully opt to skip it. Woozy, I'm inwardly chanting, "I will not throw up in Eric's nice company car." Out loud I manage to say, "Let's just get there." Eric nods and overshoots my driveway to turn to Bill's.

Though I am prepared for it, I'm still shocked at the sight of Bill's home, denuded of its welcoming grand porch.

"The joys of owning an old home," Bill explained. "I had the porch taken off to replace it and in the process, uncovered a tricky foundation issue."

"Oh, that's bad," I commiserated.

"Yes, and then I had a go-around with the contractor." He threw his hands up. As it turned out, Bill was called away to Peru suddenly and unexpectedly. He assured me that he'd have Terry Bellefleur put in a set of temporary steps until he could return and resolve the issues. "So you can still get into the place," he joked.

I trust Terry's workmanship, but now the house looks all wrong—crooked somehow, and tricky too, like one of those sketches where it's not exactly clear where the staircases are leading.

It's so wrong that I simply don't want to go in.

"I don't want to do it," I say out loud.

Eric has stopped the car so that the passenger door is lined up conveniently with the temporary stairs. He's turned off the engine, but hasn't removed the keys yet.

"The stairs are functional and safe," he says. "That's how they got your bed in the house." As he's looking toward the house, he's stroking his bottom lip with his thumb, pensive, but unconcerned.

I blink, and the house blinks back, seems to straighten its countenance, though the blemished patches where the porch was once attached still fester. Mentally, I patch up those spots and imagine the house with a new grand porch, one where we'll sit one day in rocking chairs with glasses of sweet tea in our hands.

"All right," I answer, though I admit to myself that I am thoroughly daunted by the long recovery ahead.

Actually getting inside is another ordeal. Eric moves ahead to prop open the front door, then returns to stand behind me, holding one of my crutches as I grasp the railing on my good side. It's clunky and laborious, and I do everything I can to avoid jarring myself. At one point, I feel his hand flat against the small of my back. Finally at the top, entering the house, I'm looking at one-level living in a house with a recently remodeled bathroom. I repeat this to myself when I choke up that I'm not home. Almost as though he can read my mind, Eric hands me my other crutch, moves ahead to the bathroom with quick purposeful strides, and then stops outside the door. I keep up my slow, focused pace, counting on every step. Ahead of me, Eric's hulking figure is still waiting, watching.

"I'm living in luxury," I tell myself, coaching. Multiple shower heads. A shower stall level with the floor. I imagine gleaming fixtures and fluffy towels and long, uncluttered countertops of some glamorous material. Maybe there's a basket or jar of fancy soaps somewhere. But when I get there, it's the tricked out toilet with the seat riser and safety frame that captures my attention first.

And then it's the huge spa bathtub. Up on steps. From down here, on crutches, it looks like it's perched on a mountain.

But I like a challenge.

One day I will sit in that tub and soak until I'm a prune and the house will not burn down around me. And when I am finished, I will safely descend those stairs without breaking any bones and will use some of that fancy lotion. Rosemary mint. Or lemon. Or ginger pear. Or hell maybe all of it.

Eric catches my eye. "You can join me when I'm ready," I tell him, and he cracks a grin, and for the moment, we are all caught up with each other.

interlude: 1. intervening period of time 2. entertainment during a performance break

"I see a rooster with a big tail." I point. "There's his head. He's got a small beak. And only two toes."

"Do roosters have toes?"

"Of course."

He shakes his head. "Those aren't toes."

"What are they, then?"

"Feet."

"All right. But what are the toe things?"

"Claws."

"No…they're more than claws. They're…toes."

He shakes his head again. "There's another name. Like digits. Or phalanges."

I laugh. "That's what digits and phalanges are. Toes. Or fingers."

"Well…I'm just saying there's another name for chicken toes. They're not called toes."

"You are crazy."

"I will never concede."

I laugh. "No kidding. But you're wrong."

We stop abruptly here, with no natural course to follow. In the past, he would have taken me in his arms to kiss and cop a feel. Of course he doesn't do that because it hurts too much. I really don't want him to touch now, but I'm confused about whether I want to want again. It's hard to see around this particular moment.

"I see a bald man smoking," Eric says, pointing out the smooth, round shape of his head, a nose, pouting lips, and the long, pointy cigarette. There's even a wisp of smoke curling upwards.

We are in "The Room," by the way. It's not a bedroom, or a dining room or a parlor. It's…well, it's now the room I am staying in while I recover and my own home gets repaired.

"Anywhere you have space is fine," I said to Bill. "I really appreciate your offer."

The Room was empty and closest to the bathroom—two pluses for sure.

But there was a downside.

Eric prepared me. "It's got the ugliest fucking wallpaper I've ever seen."

He was right.

Really, I've never seen anything like it, so repugnant, it's beguiling.

The yellow of this wallpaper doesn't exist anywhere in nature. It's not the yellow of sunshine or lemons or autumn leaves or a Golden Delicious apple. Not even the fading power of the sun or the stain of water or tobacco or urine could match it. It's a yellow by its own design, a yellow of its own choice, proclaiming its brown and green undertones only after it went up on these walls. A trick of lighting, perhaps.

But the pattern! Oh, the pattern takes off in different shades of that deviant yellow. It's invaded these walls tumultuously, here and there sprouting and sprouting again like breeding rabbits, while in other places stretching and doubling back in an insinuating pattern. As I study it, I wonder, Where's the repeat? Where's the seam? It's wrapped itself around and around the room with no break. But surely there's a break in the pattern. It can't go on forever.

We laugh at it together. "What was he thinking?" Eric shakes his head.

"Oh, you don't think he chose this print, do you?"

"It looks freshly papered to me. It doesn't look old or like it's coming off the walls anywhere. I think he had it papered when he did the dining room and parlor."

Though I agree it doesn't look like there are any tears or bubbles or loose edges, there is nothing fresh about it. I don't say it, but I have the strange feeling that the paper has embedded itself in the walls, has taken hold of the walls themselves.

In any case, we make a game of it, finding all kinds of strange things creeping about in the pattern.

"All right," I say to Eric. "I see your bald man smoking. But I bet you can't find him again anywhere else in this room."

"Game on," he says, and I notice right away that he doesn't ask "What do I get if I find him?"

I think about that, but it doesn't matter because he never does, and eventually we fall into a silence, each in our own thoughts, mine increasingly agitated as I start to wait out the time until I can take my next dose of pain medication. My little break in pain is over. I'm angry because I know there's nothing he can say or do to make it better. And most of all, I'm angry because I desperately want him to.

That's all I have to say for now. Maybe I'll have more later.