Hello! This is my first time writing for The Fosters, although I have been reading fics from this archive for a while. Countless ideas came to my head, but I wanted to try something a little different. I must warn you that there are various references to self-harm, so if you are triggered easily then please keep that in mind.

Just some quick background on the story: it's set just after episode 1x10, where Callie finds out she lost the rape trial to Liam. As of yet, she hasn't had any romantic interactions with Brandon, however the two are growing closer.

I hope you enjoy...

You notice a lot of things when you don't say anything.

You notice the way people walk. The way they move, and the way they act around other people.

You also notice how they pretend to act like they care, when they really don't. It's obvious by the twitch on their face as they try to act empathetic; the haziness in their eyes as they force a smile.

I'd noticed that about a lot of the nurses here, or 'attendants' as they preferred to be called.

They think I'm crazy, I know they do. I've seen the way they look at me, their faces painted with concern at first, but when they look at me, when they learn what I am, the disgust is evident.

I know I shouldn't care; I know it's stupid to be bothered about something like this when everything else is going on, but there's something different about this place than anywhere else I'd been before. I want to do good. I want to get out of here - I need to get out of here. For me and Jude.

I sit at the plastic table - the edges are rounded so we don't 'hurt' ourselves - and watch as the other girls push their food around their plates, unwilling to put the rubbery pasta in their mouths. I don't blame them, to be honest. Eating disorder or no eating disorder, I wouldn't want to go anywhere near that revolting looking stuff.

I look down at my food. I finished the potato, but only because I knew if I didn't, my privileges would be revoked. A part of me is screaming not to comply, not to give in to this crappy system that the facility is making me do. But I have to, if I don't, I'll be deemed a psycho and I'll never see Jude again. Keep your head down, tell them what they want to hear and get out - it's the plan I've been living by since I was brought here.

The Fosters won't want me anymore, not after what I did, but I can't dwindle on that thought. That was what brought me here, after all.

A loud bell signals the end of lunch, and I sigh in relief that I can finally stand up and leave the table. The lunchroom is stuffy and smells just as bad as the food tastes, not to mention the constant buzz of screaming kids who just can't seem to get along. I vowed when they brought me here that I'd keep to myself. I don't need anybody. Nobody can make this any easier, despite what the therapist, Dr Ashford, says.

I look around the sterile room, trying to figure out what to do next. That's the thing about this place; they don't let you do anything unsupervised. Although I don't see them, I know there's an attendant watching me. That's what they told me when they brought me here. They told me not to try anything, not to make a ruckus, because that would only land me in isolation. A padded cell, more like, I'd thought to myself, as I tried to wipe the image out my antsy mind.

I hate that they think I'm a threat to others. They have to know that I don't intend to hurt anyone. Not unless they give me a reason to. And if you were me, I'm sure some sleazy, greasy drunk of a foster dad beating your brother would make it OK to get involved.

According to the system, it wasn't. Neither was the fact that they thought I'd been trying to kill myself.

I take my steps one at a time, the tatted converse I'd come here in squeaking on the linoleum floor. The sound makes my skin prickle.

If I'd counted correctly, it will be a week tomorrow since it happened. A week on Friday since I'd woken up in the bright, airy hospital room, dazed from blood loss and my ribs feeling more than a little achy from the emergency CPR someone had given me - the do-gooder had been inexperienced, obviously. My cracked ribs were enough to tell me that.

They didn't care about the ribs, though. They looked at me, a look of care and anguish in their eyes at first, almost fooling me into believing they were concerned. But I should have known that from the moment I was to wake up, I'd become my file.

I told myself not to care. It didn't matter who judged me anymore; I had Stef and Lena now. They wouldn't let anyone take me away, right?

Wrong.

I fix my eye on a girl in the corner of the room. She looks no older than twelve, almost the same age as Jude. She's tiny, though, tinier than anyone I've ever seen in my life. Her head almost looks as if it's too heavy for her skeletal body to carry, her golden locks chopped short, as if to stop the sadness of having to watch them fall out. She makes patterns on the table with her lead thin fingers, engrossed in her own world.

The girl looks up, as if she can feel me watching her. Her bright blue eyes flush prominently against her frail, thin skin. She offers a hopeful smile, pausing her invisible game on the table.

I try to smile, I really do. But nothing happens, as if the muscles required to move my lips into a half cheerful curve have somehow taken a temporary leave of absence.

The girl looks away when she gets no response.

I release a breath, ignoring the sting in my ribs as air puffs out if my mouth. I look around again, spotting the girls from the table I had been sitting at finally clearing away their half-eaten lunches. I wait for them to go up ahead, to wander down the corridor chattering seamlessly so I can follow them, just to have somewhere to go. I can't remember what's on schedule this afternoon, but I doubt it'll involve anything to satisfy my longing desperation to feel a sharp slice on the inside of my wrist and experience the pleasurable sensation of dark blood trickling through my fingers.

I could try, if I wanted to. If my desire to feel something was so strong, I know I could find a way. I always did, after all. It wouldn't be hard to find something sharp enough to break skin here. I could hide it under the mattress in the room I'd been assigned. It was actually finding somewhere to do the task itself that would require a little extra thinking. I've done plenty of that the past week: thinking. I've barely said one word to anyone since I've been here. It's for the best, though. I can't afford to let anyone drag me down in here. I have to stay alert; I can't let anything cloud my judgement.

"Callie."

At first, I'm not sure if I'm imagining it. I haven't made an effort to speak to anyone in here and it appears the others had respected my wishes. Until now.

Maybe it's this crazy medication they have me on. Maybe it's making me hallucinate.

"That is your name, isn't it?"

I turn around abruptly, surprised to find myself standing in the middle of the hallway between the lunchroom and the day room. I don't remember making my way here.

When I see the girl, her green eyes staring down at me as if I smell like puke, my breathing picks up.

The words ring in a familiar memory from the past, panicking me enough to make breathing difficult. I squeeze my eyes shut in desperation, pleading with all my might for the thoughts to stay tucked in the corner of my mind. I can deal with them later, when I'm stuck in that doorless room laying on a mattress made of hard foam. ("springs are a risk to your safety," the withered looking attendant had said when I'd glanced at the bed suspiciously the day they'd brought me here.) It isn't comfortable in the least, and it only increases the healing time of my busted ribs. But that doesn't matter: I'm not planning on staying here long enough to want to be comfortable.

I peel my eyes open. The girl stands a metre away from me, her face scrunched up in some god awful way that reminds me faintly of the dog in foster home number two. The same dog that almost bit Jude when he'd tried to pet it. I didn't like that dog, and I don't think I like this girl much, either.

"What do you want?"

The sound of my own voice almost surprises me. I haven't used it in almost a week and it's become tight and raspy. I cough to clear my dry throat, while the girl watches me like a hawk. She looks almost scared, like she's recalling the rumours she heard those dumb nurses gossiping about in the hallway. That I'm not just a threat to myself, I'm a threat to others, too.

It's not true, I tell myself, to sacrifice the little self-worth I have left.

But she wouldn't know that. It's not exactly like I've tried to stand up for myself and dispel the charade of lies going about this place. It's almost worse than when I started Anchor Beach High.

"You were missing from group. They sent me to get you." The girl turns on her heel and begins to walk down the hall, expecting me to follow.

I do, despite the fact my heart is telling me to run. Run far away from this place. It's stopping you being with Jude and protecting him like you promised mom.

I shake my head from side to side, aware that I must look like a crazy person, but I need the thoughts and lingering voices to disappear. I have to get through this group session; it's the only way I'll be able to prove that I'm not a head case and get the hell out of here.

I watch as the girl waddles from side to side down the hallway. Her fingers tap against her legging clad thighs as she walks. She looks jittery, as if she's trying to distract herself from something. Maybe she's an addict, anxiously awaiting her fix of withdrawal medication. I imagine her sitting in the med room, her eyes twitching and limbs trembling in anticipation of getting her fix, only a fraction of the buzz she used to get.

As the image fades away, I feel unjust. She is a drug addict, killing herself every time she dopes up. All I do is release a little tension every now and then by dragging a razor across my skin, nothing enough to seriously harm myself or others. Yet she's the one who gets relief, she's the one who gets a little of her addiction every day to help her by, while I sit and fight the urge not to stab myself with a plastic kiddie fork.

This system is messed up.

Soon enough we arrive at the familiar plastic push door to the hall. I peer in the window and spot the usual layout of chairs in a circle, which I hate. I hate people looking at me, judging my every flaw, but it's not just that: in a circle it's impossible to hide.

"Ah, Callie. Glad to see you're finally joining us."

The voice comes from Sandy, an older woman who runs the group therapy sessions. She has short, grey hair, and her lipstick is always too pink to be pretty. I shrug and take the only seat available in the circle, dreading the hour that is to follow.

I tune out as the other girls talk about their issues and their achievements of the day, one girl chirping excitedly as she tells us she managed to eat a blueberry muffin and didn't feel like throwing up. They all clap, while I close my eyes, wishing to be anywhere but here.

I think of Jude, wondering what he might be doing right now. The clock on the wall says it's just past 1pm. He'll probably still be at school, finishing his lunch with Connor and dreading attending his afternoon math class. God, I miss him so much. I've never been apart from him for this long before and all I want to do is to take him in my arms and never let go. I need him - I need him so I can be strong again.

I know I shouldn't worry about him. He'll be perfectly safe with the Fosters. They're good people, they wouldn't hurt Jude, would they? No. They were going to adopt us, they wanted us. He'll be safe, and he's probably forgotten all about me already. Good. It's better that way. He deserves to be adopted; to have a family. And that's something I could never give him, in this 'asylum' or not.

An hour later, I begin to fidget. I've noticed that over the past few days, whenever I think about Jude or the Fosters, I start to feel uncomfortable. I remember things I tried it block out and begin to breathe regret. Why did I have to mess this up for him. Why did I have to mess this up for us?

I close my eyes, breathing heavily as I try to ignore the sting in my ribs. If I had a blade, I would have done it by now. I just feel so damn angry and frustrated that I'm locked in here when I should be looking out for Jude. I failed him once again.

I can envision myself sitting in the upstairs bathroom of Stef and Lena's house now. Piercing through my ivory skin, watching as the split wells with little bubbles of blood, then wiping away the evidence.

I hadn't done it since we'd been living with the Olmsted's. But seeing him again, feeling his grip on me. That had pushed me over the edge.

Then the night of the trial, I'd gone further, exploring parts of my body I'd never dreamed of punishing before. His words came back to me, filling me up with self-hatred and absolute anger. At first, it was okay. I felt the pain as I dug a little deeper into my flesh, further than I'd gone before, but I could handle it. Soon, though, it became second nature - I was numb to it, and numb to just how much damage I was causing my tender skin.

"Would you like to share today, Callie?"

I peel open my eyes and look up to see the group of girls looking at me expectantly. I shake my head no, before looking down to my lap and fusing with the creases in my shirt.

My attention is fixed firmly on my sterile clothing until something one of the other girls says catches my attention. "...for visiting day, and my sister is coming home from Columbia to see me, and I'm so, like, nervous but I'm kind of excited, you get what I mean? Yeah and -"

"Visiting day?" I interrupt, snapping my head towards Sandy.

The group falls silent, each of them looking at me with surprised eyes, their jaws in their laps.

"Yes, here at Haven Falls we have visiting day every Friday, isn't that right, girls?"

"Yup. If your parents are coming, you should ask them to bring you some clean clothes because it's starting to get old seeing you wear those scrubs around here all the time. Blue is so not your colour," A skinny brunette says, causing the others to laugh, but I'm frozen in my spot.

If there's visiting day, then I'll get to see Jude. I couldn't care less about the colour of the stupid clinic-issued clothes I'd been wearing all week, if there was a chance I could get to see Jude, I'd wear those blue scrubs for the rest of my life.

The group resumes talking, as I think of a way to be able to contact Stef and Lena. Did they even know when visiting day was? Would they even bring Jude to see me? The questions rushing through my head are endless, and I'm glad when Sandy raises from her chair and dismisses us for the day.

As the other girls leave, I hang around the hall, hoping to catch Sandy's attention before she hops off to another ward.

"Oh, Hi Callie. Everything alright?" She says as she packs a folder into her purse.

"Yes. I mean no. I-"

Sandy looks at me sceptically, raising her eyebrow at my flustered attempt to speak. It's still a foreign feeling having not said a word to anyone in days.

"I was just wondering about visiting day? I'm not sure if my moms - I mean my foster moms - know about it all, and I really, really have to see my brother. He'll be wondering where I am, he's only twelve and I know he'll be scared without me so, I, um, kind of really need to make sure they're bringing him on Friday."

Sandy's eyes softened for a moment, processing my nervous train wreck of an explanation, before sighing softly. "Callie, it's really great that you want to look out for your brother, it's a good quality to have, and I'm sure he's lucky to have you because you seem like a really nice girl. But remember, you're here to get better. You need to focus on you for a while-"

"No, you don't understand. I need to see him! I can't get better until I know he is okay. I need to tell him that I'm sorry for leaving him!" I plead, my voice crazed. I'm losing it. This is exactly the kind of behaviour that gets you strapped up in a straightjacket.

"Okay, okay," Sandy replies, raising her hands in defence.

Relief passes through my body like a shockwave. I'm going to see Jude. "Is there a phone or something I can use to make sure they know when to come?"

"I'm sorry, Callie, but phone calls aren't permitted for guests at an early stage of treatment like you, but as far as I know, your foster parents should have received the brochure for Haven Falls' and that'll tell them all about visiting day. I'm sure they'll come if they aren't busy that day."

My heart sinks. There was no assurance that the moms would bring Jude to see me, especially if they hadn't read the stupid leaflet. Maybe as soon as I was taken away from the hospital they forgot about me. They probably trashed that brochure and would be happy enough to leave me in this loony bin to rot.

I don't really expect them to care, though. I saw their faces when I woke up in that yellow hospital room. I'm a burden to them, a situation that they don't have time or money to deal with. Thankfully they hadn't sent away the adoption papers yet, or else this place would be costing them a fortune.

That's when I do what I do best. I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and thank Sandy for her help silently before walking out the room. It takes everything in me not to scream; not to tear down those stupid motivational posters that line the walls of the stagnant hallway; not to search the corners of rooms for discarded thumbtacks. Instead I make my way to my doorless bedroom and huddle myself against the far wall, letting the tears come for the first time since I was admitted here. I won't get my hopes up. I won't let myself break.

Thank you so much for reading, it means a lot to me. This is going to be a multi-chaptered story, and I do have a plans for the next few chapters. I can tell you now there will be a lot of drama, along with a lot of insight into the way Callie thinks, and how her relationship will develop with the Fosters.

I am, however, interested in what you think, and what you would like to see in this story. If you leave me a review telling me your thoughts then maybe I can incorporate some of your ideas into future chapters.

Thanks again! - K.