A/N: I forgot to mention that the title of this fic comes from Haruki Murakami's book Dance, Dance, Dance. That is a phenomenal novel, and if you haven't read it, you absolutely should.

Please review if you have any interest in seeing where this story goes. Questions? Concerns? Comments? Review!

I'm still not Stephenie Meyer.


Chapter One: Keeping Silence

"I have learned now that while those who speak about one's miseries usually hurt, those who keep silence hurt more."
~ C.S. Lewis

JPOV

Tap, tap.

It's strange how, with every other sound in this place, those two little taps are by far the most annoying. I imagine it has something to do with the fact that it's the only noise I can't place, can't understand. The plinking of the morphine drip is annoying, but at least I know it's serving a purpose by tempering my pain. The heart-rate monitor is similarly irritating, though, at least when I hear it, I know I'm still alive. I know the nurses and doctors well enough by now to differentiate their voices in the hallway, so even though they keep me up at night, I can at least place a name to the sound.

But that damn tapping drives me crazy. It appears to originate somewhere in the wall behind my head. It's always two taps, the exact same amount of pressure on each, both extremely deliberate. And though they're not loud, I find that those two damn taps can wake me up out of even deepest drug induced sleep.

Tap, tap.

It has to be a mouse. What else would be so consistently and insistently annoying? I consider turning around and punching the wall, thinking that maybe I can scare it away. But even the thought of movement hurts, so I clench my teeth and turn up the volume on my TV instead.

A half hour later, a nurse with an unnaturally bright smile makes her way into my room.

"And how are we feeling today?"

Like my skin is pulled so tightly across my bones that even the slightest movement could rip it apart.

Like every ounce of water in my body has evaporated and no matter how much I drink, I will always be a desiccated shell.

Like I've been split in two and the left side of my body is disintegrating slowly into ash.

"It hurts."

The nurse makes a note on her chart and then moves to my side.

"I know, dear, I'm sorry. Let's get these bandages changed and then I'll let you rest."

Right, rest. As if that's possible in a place like this. If the pain weren't enough to stave off sleep, the constant noise and constant motion of patients and doctors makes it nearly impossible to truly rest. I sleep, when I sleep at all, in fits and starts, never getting more than an hour or two at a time.

I grip the side of my bed with my right hand and look away towards the window as the nurse begins to unravel the bandages from my left shoulder. The first time I was conscious for this procedure, I'd passed out from the pain. I was lucky then. The second time, I'd thrown up when I saw how pieces of my flesh came away when they removed the bandages. And now, though there's no skin left to fall away anymore, the smell of my charred limbs still makes my stomach churn.

I don't scream anymore—I learned quickly that it only makes things worse. Instead, I just allow myself to weep, though tears never fall from my eyes. The weeping takes place in my skin. Those bandages that the nurse so carefully discards into the hazmat bin, they are already soaked with my tears. Only my tears aren't clear anymore—they're yellow and brown and pink from pus and blood. That's all the moisture my body has to offer. It's the only way I can cry.

When the nurse begins applying ointment to wounds, I bite down so hard on my lip that I taste blood in my mouth. I know she's trying to be gentle, but, truth is, even the weight of the air is too much pressure.

"I'm sorry, dear" she says as she sees me cringe in pain, "I know how much it hurts."

No. You don't know.

I've had all kinds of burns before. Sunburns, burns from candles, from stoves, from irons. Hell, I've even had frostbite before. When I was fifteen my friends and I went skiing and my socks weren't thick enough. When I took off my boots my toes were all but black, and when I ran them under cold water, they felt like they were being—

Well, at the time I'd felt like they were being held into a flame. Now I know better. And no one, no one who hasn't experienced this pain has any concept of how much this hurts.

Tap tap.

You've got to be fucking kidding me.

"Do you hear that?" I ask through my gritted teeth.

"Hear what?"

"That… that tapping. I think there's a mouse in my wall," I hiss as the nurse begins rewrapping my wounds.

"I didn't hear anything. But I can assure you there are no mice in the hospital. We get it inspected weekly. Rodents aren't something we can really afford to deal with here."

Sounds like you missed one, I think. The pain is too much, I can't speak anymore.

After what seems like an eternity the nurse removes her gloves and throws them in with the rest of my waste.

"I'll be back tomorrow morning," she says before making her way out the door, her ridiculously inappropriate smile still plastered across her face.

Twice a day. I have to have these bandages changed twice a day for… for how many years? Two? Three?

And it's only been two weeks.

My parents stayed for the first day, but as soon as I realized how painful it was for them to watch me, I made them leave. They put up a fight, of course, but I told the hospital staff I didn't want visitors anymore, and since I'm an adult, they had to honor my request. They'd gone home eventually. And, when they'd realized that I wasn't answering my phone, they'd stopped calling too.

It wasn't easy, that's for sure. But I didn't have to look at myself in the mirror to know exactly how much I'd lost in the flames that ravaged my skin. People came to the hospital expecting to see Jasper, but what they ended up seeing was the hollow shell that once encased their son, brother, or friend. I couldn't bear to see the pity and regret in their eyes, so I sent them all away, knowing full well that I might never see them again.

It wasn't easy, but at times like this, when the pain engulfs me anew—when every ounce of my body screams out in agony so that I wish the flames had had the chance to finish the job, I know that I made the right decision. Years of this. Years of constant pain. And the only way I can get through it is if I suffer alone. To have to watch others suffer along with me… that would be unbearable.

The additional morphine begins to take effect and I flip off the television, figuring I'm just about tired enough to get another hour of sleep.

I dim the lights with the control by my bed. The darkness is pleasant. For some reason, it always makes me feel cooler, as though I were immersed in ice. Darkness has other advantages, not least of which is its ability to hide things one would rather others not see. If it were up to me, all of my days would be spent in darkness.

I'm just about to slip into sleep when I hear it again.

Tap, tap.

This time, it's too much. Though my entire body threatens to rip apart at the effort, I make a fist with my right hand and slam it heavily against the wall above my head. I may not be able to kill whatever it is that's hiding in my wall, but at least I can try to scare it away.

It was a stupid thing to do. I can feel liquid seeping out of the wounds in my chest, and for a moment, even the pounding of my own heart against my ribs is excruciating. I sit, listening to my own heavy breathing, waiting for the pain to subside, and just daring that fucking mouse to make another sound.

When it does, it's not the noise I was expecting.

"So you can hear me," a small, female voice says through my wall.

What the hell?

I am not hearing a mouse talking to me. This has to be the morphine talking. I sit in silence, hoping that I don't hear it again.

But of course, I do.

"Jasper?" it asks.

The voice may be muffled by the wall, but without a doubt, someone, or something just spoke my name.

"What the hell?" This time, I speak it aloud.

"I'm sorry," the voice says sadly, "I didn't mean to bother you, or scare you. It's just that I can hear everything that goes on over there, and I just wanted to know if you could hear me too."

And then it clicks. It's not a mouse I'm hearing, it's a patient, just like me. We must have adjoining rooms. I'm suddenly embarrassed, understanding that all of the moments I thought were so private really weren't private at all. Embarrassment fades to anger when I realize that this woman, no, this girl, has intruded on all of my conversations, all of my struggles, all of my pain for the past two weeks without my permission.

I suddenly have to fight the urge not to punch the wall again.

"I'll try to keep it down," I mutter instead.

"That's not what I meant," the voice says, hurriedly, "I just… I mean… if we can both hear each other, I thought maybe we could… you know… talk?"

I close my eyes. She sounds like a sweet girl, I guess. But this isn't what I want. I don't want to talk to her; I don't want to talk to anyone. I've taken care to break my ties with everyone I know. I don't need to create new ones now. I don't want to hurt her—it's obvious she's lonely and probably afraid. But I have nothing to offer her but my pain, and I've already sworn to myself that I won't let my pain affect anyone but me. It's my fault I'm in here, and for that, I'll suffer alone.

"Sorry," I say, trying to sound firm but apologetic, "I'm not the talking type. Maybe you should have someone move your bed against the other wall. You might have better luck with someone else."

The room is silent for a long time. I'm about to drift back into sleep when I hear it.

Tap, tap.

I groan loudly.

"I'm sorry," the voice says, much softer now than it was before, "it's just that… well, I've been doing that for weeks now—tapping on your wall before I go to sleep. It's how I say 'goodnight' to you. Do you mind if I keep that up? Only at night, of course. I don't expect a response or anything. It just… it makes me feel normal."

Normal.

I've been robbed of that feeling too. I'd give anything to have it back. And if, for whatever reason, tapping against that stupid wall makes this feel normal… well, I sure as hell am not going to be the one to take that from her.

"Sure, whatever," I sigh, "I've put up with it for this long."

"Thank you," the voice whispers through the wall.

Tap, tap.

Normal.

I raise my right hand so that it is bathed in the moonlight pouring in through the window. I examine the tendons that run from my wrist down into my arm. I move my fingers one by one, watching as each responds with graceful elegance. I clench the hand into a fist, and watch how the blue veins stand out against the translucence of the pale skin.

Still making a fist, I let my hand fall back down beside me. I hiss as the slight jostling of the bed sends fresh tremors of pain through my body. Everything hurts, everything burns. All I can think about is the pain.

That hand—that's all I have left of normal.