I want to believe it. I want to believe them when they say that everything's going to be all right. I'm not a child. I know when something's really wrong and potentially fatal.

Because Logan's laying in the hospital bed, shock still, skin white as paper. The familiar, comfortable warmth that used to emanate off of him in waves was fading quickly, falling from my fingertips.

I was losing him.

James and Carlos were there, too. They stood behind me, whispering something, but I didn't hear. I heard, but didn't hear at all. I knew they weren't looking at the bed. Well, Carlos wasn't, I was sure. That would be too much for him, and he would begin crying, and then James would begin crying because they were a unit.

James was Carlos' protector. Carlos was smaller, more feminine, in a way, and James had taken it upon himself to defend Carlos from everything that could hurt him in any way, just as I was Logan's protector.

But I failed. I failed at the single most important task that I could ever have. I didn't protect Logan. I wasn't there when he needed me.

There was a warm hand on my shoulder, and I wanted to push it away, wanted to shout and scream that I was fine, that I didn't need pitied like a young girl who lost her doll. I'm sixteen. I can fucking take it.

I was so tired of being the leader. So tired of having to be strong for everybody else. Why couldn't they just suck it up themselves? It's not like we were children anymore. We were nearly eighteen, for god's sakes.

The monitor next to the bed beeped in a monotone pitch that rang uncomfortably in my ears. I wanted to punch something, wanted to kill myself.

Logan.

I leaned down, pressed my lips to his knuckles.

I should've known from the millisecond that I laid eyes on that guy that he was bad news. Tall, tattooed, buff, almost pirate-like. Enough to make George Foreman run for his mother, anyway.

"Are you sure you're okay with this?" I asked Logan, and he smiled, nodding.

"Totally. We've known each other for a long time. He used to work with my dad, remember?"

No. I did not, in fact, remember.

"I'll be fine, Kendall. I promise. Okay?"

"Well… all right."

Leaving Logan Mitchell alone in that park, without any protection, was, without a doubt the worst decision I'd ever made.

I returned to the park about half an hour later- and he wasn't there. I couldn't see him, couldn't hear his voice, his laughter. Worried, I quickly skimmed the perimeter of the fence, once, twice, and then-

"Kendall-"

His voice was strained, weak, hoarse, like he'd been screaming nonstop. And maybe he had been.

Before I showed up.

Logan was laying in a ditch, chest heaving. Blood gushed heavily from a wound on his side and several long cuts on his chest. He was shivering, tear tracks staining his pale cheeks.

"K-Kendall… he… h-he… n-not to… he-he said… I couldn't… or he'd… kill- you… and… oh…" Each word was punctuated with a heavy breath, and his torso jerked just that much harder.

"Shh, shh, it's all right, okay? I'm here, you're safe…" I picked him up and cradled him to my chest, not caring that his blood was soaking through my t shirt, most likely making red stains on my own chest. "I'm gonna get you help, all right? Just hold on, keep holding on…"

He wouldn't wake up.

The doctors said he was in a coma, with "low brain activity". Yeah, right. Sometimes, Logan couldn't sleep at night because his brain wouldn't turn off. Low activity? We all wished.

The one thing that bothered me most- his warmth was almost completely gone. His skin was clammy. And I just wanted him back.

Logan.

Review, please, even if it's just to tell me that it sucks. I need to know. I'll continue… if you want me to.