Author's Note: This is predominantly AU, with hints of similar themes. Whether or not I can think of further ideas will affect the continuation of the project. The prelude is short, but should pick up in length as the chapters progress.
Disclaimer: I do not own Pretty Little Liars or any of its characters.
"It's family services, Emily."
The same line rings through my head each night, making all notions of sleep but a distant memory. A faded reminder of the past. How it has this funny way of following us around.
On nights like this, I typically call Paige and allow the gentle, constant hum of her voice to dissuade me from "the alternative", as they called it in Piney Woods. But after the evening's occurrences, I instead opt for three off-white tablets. Choking them down dry with the same ease as seven months ago. They say that old habits die hard. But what they forget to mention is how few alternatives exist. Especially when your safety net falls mute, ignoring your calls for help. And your guardians fall blind to your constant struggles. At this point, old habits are the alternative.
When morning comes, seven missed calls await my tending. Each reading the same caller identification: Paige. I don't ring back, for she will undoubtedly hunt me down at school. And with the argument that's bound to ensue, I decide to enjoy what few hours of solace remain.
A shrill bell rings, signaling both the end of fourth period and my peace. I wait at our usual table in the courtyard. One minute passes. Two. Then she rounds the corner. Long, brown hair in a ponytail. Books cradled to her chest. A scowl that doesn't cease when she slides in across from me.
"I called," Paige states. "Seven times, actually."
"I was asleep," I mutter.
Paige's frown heightens in intensity as she leans across the table. "Funny. Because last time I checked, you were pretty diligent in being an early riser." When I don't respond, she asks, "How many was it, Em?"
"Just one," I lie too quickly. And far too ashamed to admit my greater shortcoming.
"You remember," she pleads. "'Just one' leads to just one more. And before you know it, you're in over your head."
Of course I remember. It wasn't but a month ago that I was forced to sit through the same meetings as she. Forced to listen as various counselors droned on and on about the dangers of "just one more". The advice is as annoying now as it was then. So I protest, "I needed it. With the argument you insisted on having with my parents."
"We were just talking," Paige dismisses.
I'm forced to stifle a laugh, knowing full and well that "just talking" doesn't reach the octaves that boomed throughout my house. Simple conversation doesn't give way to the accusations made from both parties. "You called them shit parents," I eventually say.
Only now do Paige's eyes cut toward me, away from the table. "No, I merely said that they were incompetent caregivers," she retorts. "And judging by your state this morning, I'd say I was spot on."
I should be offended by her pointed remark. Insinuating that I've fallen back into the black hole that once consumed me. Consumed both of us. But Paige was there throughout the entire treatment process. She understands the signs. The slightest change in one's mood. Altered patterns of speech. A dimmed glow in the eye. Each of them symptoms. Symptoms that Paige had no trouble spotting then, and apparently has no issue with now.
Shame is the only feeling I recognize anymore. Lying to the girl who single-handedly carried my weight in treatment. My best friend. My girlfriend. My confidante. Brutal honesty being our only savior in the half-year stint; and now it's the very thing pushing us apart. She needs to know. About everything going on in the Fields' home. "They're doing the best that they can," I admit. "With what's…" but I can't finish.
Paige must recognize my hesitance, for she takes hold of my right hand. Face fallen. Eyes softened. "With what, Emily? I need you to talk to me," she pleads, giving the hand a squeeze. "Allow me to help, or it'll be as if all of our progress was for nothing."
I choke back a cough. So badly do I want to tell her about Family Services. How they've been harassing my parents. Harassing me. How checkups were to be expected, but a lone anonymous caller has further sentenced our family to the hell that is social workers and the looming threat of foster care. A constant, resounding fear of what lies ahead. Uncertainty.
I often compare the situation to laps in the pool. When your goggles fog over the course of the exercise. You're so intent- so utterly focused- on moving ahead, that there is no time to clear the way. Gather your bearings. Even when you can't see so much as a foot in front, and the danger of ill-timed turns or hitting the wall are increasingly prevalent, going at anything but full speed means losing. And some of us just can't afford to lose.
That's how I feel now, with the future so plagued by ambiguity. So unbalanced. At this point, veering even the slightest from normalcy could prove disastrous. Make one wrong move, and I'm in a new home within the week.
So badly do I want to tell her. Open up to Paige like I did at Piney Woods Rehabilitation Facility. Affirm that all of her efforts weren't in vain. But much like at the program's start, cowardice wins out. Denial. And so I lessen her worries with a quick, "It won't happen again. I promise."
We both know that it's not enough. But Paige sighs, stands us up, wraps her arm around me, and places a firm kiss to my temple. Then we're off to class.
Paige's stern advice is at the forefront of my mind the next afternoon, as I venture toward Rosewood High School's Senior Skip Day field party. It's tucked away at the edge of the city, buried deep within the woods.
"Where's Paige?" Spencer asks. "Figured she might be here to keep an eye on you. Being the astounding babysitter that she is."
I huff in return. There's no denying my friends' distaste for Paige's protectiveness. They're constantly making snide remarks as to how she's at my house too frequently, or constantly giving me rides, or randomly calling to check up at odd hours. I can't defend Paige in the least. For defending her would mean discussing what went on in the rehabilitation center. Why I was there in the first place. And with the ever-present stresses, it's a topic and conversation I don't have the strength for.
So, as we near sporadic masses of people, I veer away from Spencer and seek out anything to drink. The destination is a long, white table, littered with bottles of all shapes and sizes. I mix up a concoction from the arrangement. It's harsh. Burning. Just what I need to dull the equally-taxing thoughts of Family Services.
Throughout the evening, and well into the early hours of morning, Paige doesn't text me once. Probably because she doesn't know that I decided to tag along with our classmates. Regardless, she usually checks in even if I'm only at the house.
The buzz sets in painfully quick. I've been doing so well at avoiding anything remotely intoxicating that after three cups of drink, keeping upright becomes a chore. I prop against a log nearest the bonfire. Blurred faces pass behind the flame. Not one glances my way.
That is, until my eyes are forced open by someone's shaking. A blonde keeps two hands on each of my shoulders, nudging forcefully. "Emily, wake up." I silently glare up at Hanna. She's kneeling in front, Spencer, with arms crossed, to her back. "Maybe it's time we get you home," she continues.
But I'm shaking my head, grabbing hold of Hanna and forcing myself up. "I'm fine," I assure. Granted, both of their narrowed pairs of eyes broadcast disappointment and worry. Emulating the very emotions that course through me. And so I retrieve a set of keys, nestling into the car's front seat. The girls decided to stick around at the party. I, on the other hand, want nothing more than a bed.
In no position to drive, I'm forced to choose between sleeping off the drink and making a painful phone call. One that will surely result in a solid thirty-minute scolding. The need for comfort takes precedent, however, so I dial the number I've committed to memory. Seconds later, Paige answers, saying, "I'm on my way."
"Still convinced that you're recovered?" Paige spits, ushering me from the driver's seat and around the vehicle. I don't respond, understanding that there is no appropriate response. And by "appropriate", I mean anything that will lessen the effects of my lapse in judgment.
Instead, I remain silent, allowing the smooth feel of tires against pavement lull me into a trance. A trance that is broken as a familiar tune plays on the radio. It's that Coldplay song. No one said it was easy. No one ever said it would be this hard. The lyrics send a pang of guilt through my chest. They, the counselors and doctors, often preached that rehabilitating was child's play in comparison to being discharged from the facility. That temptations are around every corner, and living sober is more than a one-time achievement. Rather it's something that requires constant attention and nurturing.
Though carnally handicapped, I run through the concept with a sober mind. Even as Paige drapes my arm over her shoulder and leads us through the front door, climbing the stairs at a painstakingly slow pace. She practically throws me onto the bed, withdrawing from all tenderness she usually exudes. When Paige reaches for the comforter, I put both hands up, thwarting the gesture. "I don't need a babysitter," I snap, mimicking Spencer's tone. Drunkenly avoiding that it was I who summoned her help in the first place.
Paige's face contorts. Mouth slightly open. Shifting her eyes to the ceiling before returning to me. "Could've fooled me," she mutters, tossing the blanket aside and shuffling to an unpacked suitcase nearest my dresser. Sitting atop is a plaque. "Valiant is each individual in their effort to rise," she reads aloud. "Soldiers from the dust. Unbound by chains of the past that hold firm, threatening the future. But more courageous are those willing to fall. Those who knowingly plummet into the depths of all that is unknown. For they, too, rise. Emerging triumphant and built anew. And so we call out: woe to the unfallen. Woe to the unfallen. Amen."
It's a parting gift that they give to everyone who completes the program. Motivation to remain sober after one has exited the comfort of Piney Groves. Paige mockingly laughs to herself, tossing the frame back onto my suitcase. She doesn't even look to me a final time before leaving.
Sleep doesn't come easily. In fact, it doesn't come at all. For I'm kept awake, listening to the muffled bickering between Paige and my parents. I don't bother eavesdropping. Not tonight. For the conversation is always the same. Their lacking as parents. How Paige won't always be around to help. That recovery extends far beyond reaching sobriety. A group effort sort of thing.
I lie in bed, the lyrics from earlier cycling in my head. Oh, take me back to the start. They really hit home this go around. What I would do to travel back in time and snatch the pain medication from my hand. To convince myself that there are other ways of handling the stress. The constant pressure. To let the sixteen year-old Emily Fields know just how much one Paige McCullers will mean to her, and just how little she will let Paige know. To warn the sixteen year-old Emily of what pain it will cause Paige, watching her crumble.
More importantly, to convince a very immature, selfish sixteen year-old me that even the kindest, most patient souls have breaking points. Moments when enough finally becomes enough. How she should avoid reaching that moment at all costs.
And so I keep awake throughout the night, wallowing in the heartache. Succumbing to the floods of guilt, shame, and despair that pound into my chest.
Oh, take me back to the start.
School passes in a blur, on account of my nervousness for later. At three o'clock this morning, I decided let Paige know. To resort back to our days at Piney Groves, where open honesty reigned supreme. To promise that this time is the last. No more hurting each other. To let her know exactly what plagues my thoughts, and thank her for being patient, caring, and gentle. Especially when it's so clear that I haven't deserved a lick of any.
When night falls, I make the journey to the McCullers home. Paige and her father went on a college visit today, so I couldn't make the spiel at school. Which is probably best, for pure anxiousness fills the pit of my stomach.
Knock. Knock. Knock. Moments pass, and there's no answer. Knock. Knock. Knock. Nothing.
I dare to open the front door and peek inside. The living room is dark, mind a single lamp that shines against the furniture. Faint scuffling sounds from upstairs, so I venture inside. Silently hoping that none of the McCullers clan takes me as a robber and does something rash.
A voice leads me to the upstairs hallway. It's muffled through a cracked door at the end. I creep along, propping against the outside wall. Only now does the voice become clear.
"Is this the Pennsylvania Department of Family Services?" it asks. They wait. "Yes. I'd like to make an anonymous reference." Another pause. "Fields. Wayne and Pam. Daughter is Emily." And then my address is given, along with a slew of other information that I tune out.
The realization forces me to the ground. Hysteria. Betrayal. Each fixates into my bones, forcing both hands to palm my face, choking back the cries that threaten to break free.
The voice belongs to Paige.