"The worst is over now, and we can breathe again."
Broken, Seether feat. Amy Lee

LYDIA

So the doctor—can't seem to recall her name right now—decided it would be a good idea for me to write down my feelings. Gag me. She probably thinks that because I won't talk. I just don't have anything to say. Of course, though, the shrink must overthink and analyze everything. So here we are, writing down my feelings in this cute little journal provided by the hospital. It's navy blue. Whatever. I picked this one because it blends in with the mattress in my room and it's easily hidden. When Doctor Who (hey, look, I made a joke) "suggested" the journal thing, I agreed to it. Chose a bright red book, because I figured I'd have to turn it in or whatever so they could read it and make sure I'm not still suicidal. Lucky for me, I'm a damn good actress. I write whatever I think they want to hear in that journal, then write the truth in this one. And I hate to admit it, but it kind of feels good.

Here's what's bothering me (besides the obvious):

I'm stuck in this place with no way out.
I haven't seen or heard from Jude in the nearly two months that I've been here.
I can't talk to tell Clay and Quinn how much I hate them.

That last one seems kind of harsh. (At least, that's what I'd say if I gave a damn.) Honestly, I am so mad at them. They actually thought it would be a good idea to separate me from the one person I can breathe around? They actually thought the trip would be better if it was just us, in our happy little family? No. Actually, not just no, but hell no. I guess that's why I lost it.

All of a sudden, I just couldn't. I couldn't breathe, couldn't think. I couldn't see. I could hear, hear them telling me that everything would be okay, I'd see him in a few weeks once I was better. And that was … That was too much for me to deal with. I couldn't bear it.

For some reason, this sticks out in my mind: I remember screaming.

Sometimes I said words, but most of the time it was just noise. I ripped the bandages off of my wrists, and let me tell you something. That hurt like a bitch. My hands are feeling better now, but at the time… I don't even want to think about it. That's how bad it hurt. But I got the bandages off, and my wrists were already bleeding by the time I got to the stitches. I was screaming and crying while I pulled the stitches out, and to be completely honest …

I don't know why I did it.

It was stupid, and probably the reason the scars are so prominent now. It hurt, and all I was doing was putting myself through unnecessary pain.

Wait, maybe that's why.

It had been going on for months. The pain was a reminder that I was still alive, as much as I hurt and just wanted everything to go away. The pain kept me grounded, and I guess … Maybe I was looking for that? I was hurting already, in my heart, being ripped away from Jude the way that I was, and I guess I needed the physical reminder of it.

Maybe this journal is good for something after all.

Anyway, after I pulled the stitches out—which was no easy task with numb fingers, let me tell you—Jenny stuck a needle in my arm and pumped me full of some kind of something. I don't remember what it was, and I doubt she even told me, but the weird thing is … I don't remember what happened after that. It's like my mind is just blank. I can't remember getting out of the car or checking in. Walking to my room, unpacking, saying goodbye… I don't remember any of it. I don't remember anything up until last week, when I figured out that puzzle on Wheel of Fortune in the den-area thing down the hall.

It kind of bothers me, the way my mind is just a total blank. I've been drunk before. God knows I've been high. But it's never gotten to the point of me blacking out. That's what my memories are, though. Just blacked out. Kind of makes me wonder … What happened? And that raises another question:

Do I really care?

"I want to hold you high and steal your pain."
Broken, Seether feat. Amy Lee

JUDE

You know what intrigues me? Routines. The way everyone has one, whether they want to or not. Even in trying not to have one, you still have one. They can get thrown way the hell off course, and sooner or later, you get back on track.

Our routine was jacked up for a while. Once that Saturday afternoon occurred, it felt like the whole world got flipped around. We didn't go to school. I didn't do my daily routine of getting up, showering, and going to school or work, depending on the day. In the afternoons, we didn't do homework or take Meg to whatever activity she had on schedule. And she does a lot. Who knew eleven-year-olds had such busy schedules?

Anyway, that week Lydia was in the hospital, I was there with her. Every spare second I could be, I was there. Spent the night with her a couple of nights. I didn't go to school, and neither did Davis and Meg. Sawyer, either. I didn't really care about school. Or work. Or anything other than Lydia.

Then she was gone. I was left in the parking lot, watching as they drove away with her. That was the hardest thing I've ever had to go through. The divorce wasn't this bad. Dad packing up and moving literally across the country wasn't this bad. Having to stand there and watch as she called for me, as she cried, as she laid her hand on the window, reaching for me?

I can't put into words what I felt. How I still feel, whenever I think about it. There's just this ache, this emptiness, and I'm afraid it may never go away. I know it won't, not as long as she's there and I'm here.

I was pissed at Mom when we got home. I locked myself in my room and stayed there for the entire weekend. Davis made sure I had food and water, and I could hear Meg's soft footsteps as she crept to my door and put her ear to it, before she'd sigh and walk away. Mom wouldn't let me wallow anymore after that, and we had a long talk that Sunday night. She let us stay out of school until Wednesday, and the teachers were extra supportive about catching us up.

I also find it kind of funny that Mom went through the house and threw away all the razors. Sawyer said Peyton did the same thing, and I'm sure Quinn did, too. Now, Davis and I have to share this electric razor that leaves us both with a constant five-o-clock shadow.

That's not funny at all. That's morbid, and I'm going to hell for it, I'm sure.

Anyway, Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays are the busiest now. Every day, I get up, go to school, and work at the café when school's out. Fit homework and working out in there somewhere. Cart Meg around to whatever she has to do. And aside from all that, on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday afternoons, we all get to gather at the therapist's office and talk about our feelings.

I hate that.

Seriously. Who wants to go talk to some stranger about all the shit in their life? I get to sit on an uncomfortable couch that hundreds of people have probably sat on before me and tell this old chick my story? No, thanks.

The weird thing is, the counselor hasn't asked me about Lydia. What's really weird is that we don't even talk about her. We haven't for the entire month I've been going there. She wants to know about school, what sports I play (ha ha, NONE.). What my interests are outside of school. Do I play an instrument, what music do I like, my car. What I want to be when I grow up, where I'd like to go to college. I notice this because Lydia is always on my mind. Always, okay? And not talking about her ... Well, I'm not going to lie. It's hard, but at the same time, it's kind of ... refreshing.

And that makes me feel like an awful son of a bitch.

"I'm broken when I'm lonesome, and I don't feel right when you're gone away."
Broken, Seether feat. Amy Lee

SAWYER

I snapped at Ellie today. She didn't even do anything. We were just at the kitchen table, doing homework like we always do. She was muttering under her breath, because she literally cannot sit in complete silence. She was talking to herself, singing so softly I could barely hear her, and I just snapped.

I don't even remember what I said. I remember it was loud, and horribly mean. Mom whirled around from the stove, eyes wide at me. Dad came in from the living room, glass in hand, mouth open, eyes narrowed at me. And Ellie…

The look on her face…

I hurt her feelings. Really badly. I didn't mean to. I certainly didn't want to. But I did. And then I just stood up and walked out. Like nothing had happened at all. I got in the car and drove here, to the Rivercourt.

That was hours ago. I've been sitting on these damn, cold, uncomfortable bleachers for hours. I watched the sun go down a little while ago. Finally pulled this journal out as the lights came on.

I can't stop crying.

I've been crying since I walked out of the house. Ugly tears, too. There are tear stains all over these pages. And I can't stop. I've tried. It hurts, from way deep down in my chest. I feel awful, for hurting my baby sister the way I did. I can't stop thinking about when she was little, when she was annoying and on my last nerve and she wouldn't stop playing with MY toys. Dad took me aside and told me a story, about how when he was little, all he wanted was a brother. Someone he could play with, share his toys with, someone that would get on his nerves the way my sister did me. But he didn't get to grow up with his brother. They didn't get to really be brothers until they were older, and then Uncle Nate died.

Something resonated in me when he told me that story. I was four, Ellie was two. And all I could imagine was, "What if something happened to Ellie the way something happened to Uncle Nathan?" From that moment on, annoying little sister or no, Ellie was still my sister. And I loved her, and I was going to cherish every moment I had with her as long as I could. Then today happened.

I can't get that thought out of my head now. "What if something happens to Ellie the way something happened to Uncle Nate?" What if the last thing I said to my baby sister was … whatever I said at the kitchen table? What if what I said makes her go and do something like Lydia did?

What if something I said was the reason Lydia did what she did?