Hello and sorry for the long time between updates! I have been so, so, so busy and haven't had a chance to really sit down and work on this. I could only imagine to get some really stupid stuff down, so I guess I was also suffering from writer's block.

This chapter hasn't even been edited, I just wanted to get it up because I've kept people waiting for so long and I don't want to leave people waiting for longgggg periods of time :)

As always, please let me know what you think of this chapter and the story as a whole!

"A face that awakes when I close my eyes
A face watches every time I lie
A face that laughs every time I fall
And watches everything"

- "Papercut" by Linkin Park

Ilse rolled over, pulling the blanket tighter around her as she buried her face in Leon's slowly rising and falling chest. His arm curled around her subconsciously. She felt maybe she should get up and check on Wendla, it seemed like the right thing to do. Then again, she was hardly sure she wanted to venture from her bed, she was worried how she would find Wendla. Her distress was all too evident, and to see someone once so strong reduced to a quivering child was unnerving to Ilse, no matter how many times she had seen it happen. She did not notice Leon stirring beside her.

"Ilse?" he asked, rubbing his face to wake himself up. When she didn't respond he looked at her, stroking her back with the hand still in place there.

"I didn't mean to wake you." She said softly, putting a hand on his chest, as he looked like he was going to get up.

"But you wanted to go check on your friend," he smiled softly, his eyes still bleary. She leaned over and kissed him, she was to reluctant to let go, as he was so warm. Somehow he always managed to be warm as a furnace. "Don't forget to get dressed." He mumbled, running his hand absently over her bare hip. She swatted jokingly at his hand.

"Where are my clothes!" she said, poking him accusingly in the side. He winced, but smiled genuinely.

"I haven't any idea, I vaguely remember hiding them after you fell asleep." He said, shrugging. All her other clothes, either purchased by Leon or acquired by herself, were in the bedroom Wendla was staying in, haphazardly thrown into the bureau. She smiled at him, tilting her head.

"Why?" she asked, pursing her lips to hide her amusement. She rested her chin on his chest and looked up at him, waiting for him to answer. When he did his voice made his chest rumble pleasantly.

"Because you're happiest when you wake up," He said softly. "And I like to see you happy, so I sabotaged a silent escape." His smile was crooked, and she kissed him again, biting him on the lip.

"I'll just take your clothes." She said, dragging one of the blankets with her as she rolled off the other side of the bed. Leon was laying on the bed laughing at her, but she managed to find some of her underclothes. She took his shirt and pulled it on. It was a dress shirt, and though Leon was slim, he was also very tall, so the shirt hung down almost to her knees.

"Very dashing!" He called as she exited the room, shivering at the cold wood under her bare feet. She waved a hand over her shoulder dismissively, shaking her head. She closed the heavy, wooden door behind her, finding her clothes right after she did. She prodded the slip with her foot, smiling. Leon was a joker, which was quite endearing. The large foyer area was silent, the sounds of early morning foot traffic barely audible through the thick, stone walls. She stopped for a moment to prod the fire, which had died sometime earlier, though the hearth was still quite warm and it felt nice against her frigid feet. It warmed her legs, and after a moment of gathering her thoughts and smoothing her hair, she faced the door to Wendla's room, bracing herself. Tentatively she crossed the room, slowly easing open the heavy door, which creaked, much to her annoyance. Ilse attempted to edge the door open slowly to make less noise, but it squealed in protest with every prod, and she finally shoved it completely open in her annoyance. On the opposite side of the room she could see Wendla's sleeping figure, curled up against the wall in a tight bundle of blankets. Well, at least that had not changed, she always made herself incredibly small and compact when she slept. Ilse stole a quick glance at the clock outside the room before she pushed the door shut once more. It was six in the morning, and she had barely gotten an hour of sleep, but she would survive. With a grimace she turned her attention to Wendla, who needed her more than she needed sleep at the moment. Ilse moved quietly about the room, stoking the fire and putting some of the items that had been knocked asunder back in order. When she realized she was stalling her approach of Wendla she breathed another sigh and crossed to her sleeping friend, gently sitting herself on the precipice of the bed, not wanting to wake her. She studied Wendla's face, which was actually quite blank, but too dark to be completely peaceful. At times her mouth would twitch downwards, frowning. Her hands, which had grown surprisingly thin, were clutched near her chin in what Ilse imagined had been a protective, comforting position before she had fallen asleep. Ilse sat for a moment longer, noticing the puffiness around her closed eyes that had been induced by tears. She thought to when they had been younger, when she had stayed the night at every available moment at Wendla's house. Once Wendla had remarked how Ilse always looked upset as she slept, but now Ilse could only say the same about Wendla. Her stomach pitted as she watched Wendla's face fall in and out of expressions of fear and sadness, Ilse was not used to seeing her so vulnerable. She never had been. Things had changed when Ilse had been forced to leave, but Wendla had only grown more confident in herself, maybe so she could be strong enough to be happy without her best friend, but maybe just because she had grown up having a life only a few steps shy of perfect. Shaking her head, Ilse moved to stand back up so she could leave, and as she did one of Wendla's hands fell limply off her face onto the thick, down stuffed bed. Ilse reached out instinctually to return it to where it had been previously been resting, tenderly picking up the delicate wing, but as she did she her fingers felt a thick, raised bump that trailed across Wendla's wrist. Quizzical, she pushed the sleeve another inch up Wendla's arm, dropping the limb in shock when she saw what was hidden under the long sleeves of the night gown. Across Wendla's wrists were deep, angry red wounds. Ilse gasped in horror, struggling to remain quiet as she examined the torn and twisted flesh. Wendla's eyes snapped open and she stared groggily at Ilse.

"What's wrong!" she asked, sitting up in a hurry. Ilse, who had paled instantly at the sight of the gashes, fought the urge to do something rash, like hit Wendla and demand an explanation. Or perhaps she would just scream. She wished she could do something more than just stand there and stare. "Ilse!" Wendla barked, grabbing her by the hands. "Stop staring at me." She spat finally, letting go of Ilse, who stood there, unmoving.

"Wendla…" she said slowly, biting down on her lip so she could process her words before she spit out something stupid and inane. Wendla was scowling ferociously, but Ilse saw tears beginning to form in her green eyes, which were becoming increasingly less angry and simply more glazed.

"What did you want, Ilse?" she asked after a long, uncomfortably silent pause. Wendla's eyes were fixed on a spot across the room, and she showed no intention of looking at Ilse, who had just managed to close her mouth, which had been gaping in surprise. Wendla was deflecting, hoping to appease Ilse with her flat tone, one that showed no emotion. When Ilse failed to respond, Wendla snuck a peek at her out of the corner of her eye, swallowing to prevent her tears from welling over. Ilse looked confused, shocked, angry, and slightly disgusted. Ilse's face slowly went blank, like she had forgotten what she had just seen.

"Do you want something to eat?" she asked, her voice flat, distant. She was staring at Wendla, who appeared to be pretending she was actually alone. After an uncomfortable moment she cleared her throat and nodded her head, the movement barely detectable. "Well get up and get dressed. Things with long sleeves are in the bottom right drawer." Ilse muttered, though Wendla was glad to see Ilse was going to accommodate her privacy, at least for a little while. Ilse shut the door as she left, and Wendla stared after her. Wendla shook her head now, wishing she had thought of something to say to her friend, anything would have been better than her blank and bitter stare that had all but physically thrown Ilse from the room. She dug her nails into the palms of her hands, stemming the flow of bitter tears that threatened to run down her cheeks.

X

"And now, forever, I know
All that I want is to hold you
So close"

- "So Close" by Jon McLaughlin

"Translate the following sentence for the class," said the poorly paid, poorly educated, and poorly qualified reformatory school instructor as he singled out yet another one of the dimwitted delinquents who had little to no idea what Latin even was. "Marcus, my friend, is the son of our neighbor." The boy seated in front of the teacher stared blankly and grunted. The boy behind this particular boy, however, slammed his forehead against the desk in disbelief. This was an utter insult to his intelligence. He sighed loudly and shook his head, though the teacher must have heard him, for in a moment all attention was once again on him. "Is there a problem, Gabor?"

"No, sir, there is not." Melchior grumbled through gritted teeth, clenching his mouth shut tightly to refrain from the man's lack of etiquette. He and his classmates back home had always been addressed as Herr Gabor or Herr Steifel to teach them proper manners, yet the man who was supposed to teach manners to a pack of hyenas failed to even extend them a common courtesy. The teacher smiled smugly, though Melchior failed to see why. He knew he would be asked to stand up in front of the class and translate the sentence, which he would do easily and then retake his seat. Just like every other day at the mind-rottingly dull institution. If he wasn't a criminal when sent there, he surely would be by the time he left because of the sheer boredom that needed to be filled.

"Please stand, Gabor." Said the teacher in his horribly annoying nasally voice. Melchior grumbled and stood as violently as was possible, making sure to clatter his desk against the ground and accidentally drop his writing tablet.

"Marcus, amicus meus, fillius est vicini nostri." He smiled sarcastically at the teacher and at the last moment gave the man a small bow.

"That will certainly be enough." Snapped the reedy, equally bored teacher. Melchior thought at first that perhaps he would find an equal in his Latin teacher, a man who was seemingly quite good at Latin when one first encountered him. However, he had been at the reform school no more than two days before realizing the man was also quite stupid. Back in his seat he leaned forward and rested his head on his arms. The bell rang shortly after and Melchior led the charge out the door towards the mess hall. Once seated at a small table in the far corner he breathed a long, angry sigh. He wasn't hungry today. This particular day had been so boring he thought he might physically injure the next man to try to teach him something that had long ago become common knowledge to him. He plucked absently at the sleeve of his blue shirt, which matched his hot and scratchy pants. They only made the place worse. Not only was he trapped inside a building of insidious ignorance, he was trapped there in a hideous woolen, blue ensemble that itched quite ferociously. He rested his head on his arms to drown out the noise of the mess hall and he thought he might fall asleep at his secluded table. He did not sleep well at night, there was too much to think about. Most of his thoughts were consumed by Wendla, why his parents had sent him away, and the death of his best friend, Mortiz. The thoughts about Wendla were the most troublesome, there was no conflict there. He could rationalize his being trapped in the reform school, and perhaps even why Moritz had killed himself, but that was because they were problems that ended in a solution, or at least some sort of identifiable result. With Wendla, however, he was not even sure if there was a problem, and his chest ached when he thought of her. He missed her. When she had stopped writing so suddenly he had fallen into a strange depression. At first, upon arriving at the school, he had considered making friends and working with what he was given. Wendla sent him three letters before she disappeared to him. After sending her his sixth letter and receiving no response he began to shut himself off from those who were technically considered to be his peers. Now, they hated him, but he did not mind. His thoughts were consumed by plans for the first time he was released for any sort of vacation or break. He wouldn't see his parents. He would take the money he had managed to save throughout his short life and he would find Wendla and take her away. No more school, no parents, no rules. At his empty lunch table he fell asleep on top of his bag, almost too wrapped up in his dreams of freedom with Wendla to notice the bell for class go off. He jumped up and darted to his next class. I'm turning into Mortiz, he thought as he rubbed his eyes, clearing his head, at least for the time being, of Wendla.

X

"I've been locked inside your heart-shaped box for weeks
I've been drawn into your magnet tar pit trap"

- "Heart Shaped Box" by Nirvana

Martha Bessel was seated at a small, rickety wooden desk hurriedly finishing a history assignment she had forgotten to do the night before. She was holding a wet cloth over her left shoulder, which made writing quite awkward, as she was right handed. Her father had thrown a bottle at her the night before, and it had cut deeply into her arm. Of course he had yelled at her for getting blood on the floor. Then he had slapped her for not cleaning it up quickly enough. Nevermind that her arm was still bleeding. Her mother had stood demurely in the corner, focusing on a knitting project. Perhaps she thought her daughter deserved to be beaten. Stupid cow, Martha thought ferociously. All she wanted to know was what her mother would say if she found out her husband was having an affair. What her mother would say if she found out her husband had been fucking their daughter for almost six months now. Martha didn't know she had snapped her pencil until one of the splinters began to dig uncomfortably into her shaking palm. She laid her head down on the desk for a moment, wincing when she shifted the rag uncomfortably on her cut. She grimaced as she thought of a day with a long sleeved dress chafing painfully across it. She stared at the clock, barely making out the time. Just fifteen minutes after six. She had to be at school in two hours and she sighed dramatically to herself. She had been too terrified to go to sleep. Whenever her father hit her were the nights she could usually expect him to appear while she slept, though now she just did not fall asleep. It seemed less tedious that way, no waking up process for her. Sure, now she functioned like a dead person at school now, and her grades were slipping, but what was the use? She didn't really care, and she couldn't help but giggle in a maniacal, slightly insane manner. Like school would ever be of any use to her! At this rate it didn't like she would ever make it out of her own house. She gathered her papers together. The writing was sloppy and the paper was only halfway done, but she needed some sleep. As she shoved the papers into her bag she heard the front door open, this caused her to almost trip on herself as she dove to blow out the lamp and scramble into bed as quickly as possible. So she had been right in thinking her father had left earlier. Around four she had heard the front door open and close quickly, and the house had been hit by a sudden, almost inconsequential wave of winter air. Her father's low voice echoed through the foyer and she buried herself deep under the covers, trying to slow her breathing, which had risen sharply because of how much she had been startled.

"Wait, so you want my daughter?" she heard her father slur. She reached up nervously and tugged one of her braids. It was her default action when she was frightened. She began to pray rapidly that no one would come into her room, that her father had just been mistaken in what he had heard from the other man. She knew it was a man. Long nights of waiting silently in the dark for an approach had taught her the difference of footfalls between a man and a woman. Almost as if on cue, the door creaked slowly open and her hands began to shake. She saw it was not her father in the doorway, and for a sickening moment she thought perhaps it was a police man. That Anna or Thea, or perhaps Wendla, had relayed her story to the police at last. The smell of cheap wine that preceded him told her it was not.

"Get dressed and come out here, Martha." Said her father from somewhere behind the hulking figure. He was gigantic, at least seven or eight inches taller than her father, who was only a few inches shy of six feet tall.

"Yes, sir." She said meekly, waiting for the door to be shut before she got out of bed. A strange feeling of ill-will grabbed at her stomach, the sinking sensation when a person knows something is wrong, even if they can't place their finger on it. She thought this something was Wendla. Maybe at last she would know where her friend had gone. She, Thea, and Anna had gone to her house several times, but the shutters were drawn and her parents only answered the door once. Wendla was sick, they told them. Very sick. Martha hoped she was alright. She pulled on a nightgown and tied it at the waist, adjusting the sleeve so that it would not fall on her cut. She tugged nervously once more at her braids before sighing to brace herself to reach with shaking hands for the doorknob.

Please read and review! I really value opinions. In fact, when it comes to writing, I live off of them :)