I don't want to brag, but this chapter is utterly amazing. It's got to be the best chapter in the story, by far. I worked extremely hard on in, and I'm so happy by how it came out!

There's a scene towards the end of the chapter, which I got the lines from the show, in season 4 episode one. I've put a * at the beginning of the lines, indicating they aren't mine.

Julia's infection, should I write that it's something worse then it is? Or just leave it as an infection?

With that being sad, enjoy! :)


Chapter Twelve

Communication. It's the first thing we really learn in life. Funny thing is, once we grow up, learn our words and really start talking, the harder it becomes to know what to say. Or how to ask for what we really need.

- Meredith Grey, Grey's Anatomy

I'm five and ¾'s years old. I am standing in front of an enormous big brick building. Vanessa, my foster mother said it was called Mount Hope Elementary School. The building doesn't really look like an elementary school to me. There's black bars covering all the windows making it look more like a jail then an elementary school. I hold Vanessa's hand tightly. Vanessa says, everybody's got to get an education. I've never been to school before. When I lived on Satan Island in the big brown farmhouse, Adam would tell me about school. He taught me to read some words. Before the explosion, I could almost read all the words to The Very Hungry Caterpillar. I also knew how to write all my letters and was learning to spell words. I don't really like learning anymore. It makes me sad. When I write and read, I think about Adam. I don't like thinking about Adam because he's gone. Thinking about Adam also makes me think about my daddy. I don't like thinking about him either because he didn't save Adam in the farmhouse. Vanessa tells me all the time that you won't go nowhere in life you don't got an education. Vanessa begins to pull me up the concrete steps to the big doors at the top of them. I don't want to go to school. I don't want to think about Adam or my daddy. "Don't pull this crap with me," She says, holding my wrist even tighter. "Everybody goes to school. If you don't go to school, you'll be stupid. Do you want to be stupid?" I shake my head and follow her up the steps. "All your foster brothers and sisters go to school. You are too." "Is Diamond gonna be here?" I ask hurrying up the rest of the steps as Vanessa pulls open the door. Diamond says that I'm Vanessa's fake kid and she's her real kid. I may be three years younger than her but I'm not stupid. We don't even have the same color skin. "Diamond and Darnel." Darnel is 11. Vanessa always tells him to shut his mouth. "What about De-lisha?" I ask following Vanessa down a long, huge, empty hallway, our footsteps echoing behind us. "De-lisha is too young to go to school." "You said if you don't go to school, you're stupid. Is De-lisha stupid?" I ask as Vanessa turns around and slaps me across the face. It stings, like a sunburn. "Don't call my children stupid. Now shut your mouth," Vanessa begins walking down the hallway again. I run after her to catch up. She stops at a wooden door; she knocks a few times, and then opens it, walking inside the classroom. I go in after her, entering a world I've never seen before as if I'm in elsewhere. A lot of boys and girls my age look up at me from their desks. Everybody, even the teacher has the same color skin as Frank. I look down at my skin and then up at the other kids again. The teacher walks over to Vanessa and I. "I'm Mrs. Banks." She says smiling down at me. "You must be Julia?" I nod, confusingly. I wondered why I didn't look like anybody. I wondered why I wasn't dark like they were. They all looked like Frank. Maybe Mrs. Banks knew Frank. "Do you know Frank?" I ask her. Mrs. Banks shakes her head. "I don't think so." She then looks up at all the kids. "Class," Mrs. Banks says. "This is our new student, Julia Shepherd." "Why don't you go take a seat by Shannel." She points the empty seat in the back corner by the window. "You'll walk home with Diamond and Darnel after school." Vanessa says handing me my purple bookbag. "Don't pull any crap." Vanessa kisses me on the cheek she slapped and walks out of the classroom. When she's gone, I wipe it off with my sleeve and walk to the seat in the back of the classroom. I sit down behind the wooden desk not paying attention to what Mrs. Banks is talking about. Instead, I look out the window and wonder why I'm so different then everybody else.

I struggled with communication my whole life. I was that shy kid who hung out on the playground alone, scared to talk to anyone. I was that kid who was scared to ask questions, and to say what was on my mind. I learned to keep everything to myself. Things were easier that way. It saved me from getting attached to people, getting beaten up. People say I am disconnected. The majority of therapists I've had over the years said it wasn't healthy. I wasn't just disconnected from people; I was disconnected from myself, from the world. My mind always being in a place I called elsewhere. In foster care, I would get punished for things that parents wouldn't even consider bad. Growing up, communication doesn't get any easier. Even adults have a hard time putting words together, saying what they really what to say. It's easy to tell they are angry because they yell. The majority of my foster parents hit me when they were angry. It was easy for them because I wasn't their child. They didn't think they would get in trouble for hitting me and they never did. I've never told because I don't know how to communicate. There are so many types of communication I don't even know were do being. Communication isn't just about talking it's about so much more then that. Communication is about exchanging information. To be able to communicate, you've don't just have to know how to talk; you have to learn how to listen, and understand. Seriously, who would want to communicate with somebody who talks all the time and doesn't give the other person a chance to endure in the conversation? We communicate with our emotions and our body language when we don't know what to say. Or sometimes when we can't speak the words out loud we write them down. Then there's technology. Computers, televisions, cell phones, iPods. Things we rely on because with out them, we'd be lost. Let's just take a second and imagine life without communication. What if one day you just woke up and all forms of communication were gone. You couldn't talk to one another, you couldn't read, you couldn't write, you couldn't show emotions. What if everything was gone? With out communication, the whole world would be hell. I couldn't even begin to imagine how lonely people would be. I think we begin to learn communication at such an early age because it's one of the most difficult things to learn. Nobody knows how to communicate perfectly. There's not just one way. People go to therapy to work out their problems, trying focus on how to communicate better with their selves and others. The thing is, you can't just stop communicating when it gets rough. You have to work though it. The only way you can work things out is to communicate. The therapists say I'm disconnected because I don't communicate. If you think about it, I guess it makes sense. To be able to communicate properly, you have to learn to trust someone, to find somebody to talk to. You see, with me, I'm don't have anybody to trust. I don't know how to trust. I wish someone would write a book teaching you how to trust. Maybe if I learn to trust, then I'll be able to communicate. When I finally find somebody I trust, I just know. It doesn't happen every often but when it does it's a wonderful thing, that is until you lose communication along they way and they fuck things over. Causing them lose your trust. Communication is a funny thing because with or without it, you'll be fucked either way.

I was beginning to feel suffocated staring at the gloomy white walls, which surrounded my convoluted hospital room. The sterile walls, cleansed with death, birth and uncertainty told stories of broken hearts and wished upon dreams, which were never to be seen again. The familiar latex, perfume, sweaty, bloody smell of the surgery ward no longer lingered through the air. Instead, my nose is overwhelmed with the strong overly clean smell of antiseptic. Trying to distract myself from the boring, depressing thoughts I was having about upsetting white walls, yawing, I pull energy drained body up into a sitting positing, crossing my legs underneath each other. The morning sunlight glistens like diamonds through the large glass window, on the left of my hospital bed. I listen closely to the faint sounds of the swallows chirping and seagulls squawking, their songs being over sung by a ferryboats horn, and the horn becomes over sounded by the buzzing and beeping sounds from my heart monitor as well as the dripping of my antibiotics falling from the bag attached to the IV tube. My French braid bounces against my back as I turn my head to towards window, only to be greeted by a rather unsatisfying, just as gloomy view of rooftops. My mind plays back the memories of last night, how Derek had hung up the phone before I actually got a chance to talk to him, how this made me even more upset, throwing another fit, acting like an unhappy two year old; unable to calm down. My fit went on for a least an hour. It got so bad to a point where Mark had to hold me down, while Addison stabbed my arm with a douse of Ativan to sedate me. Trying to get rid of the image in my head, I begin to think about ferryboats as I hear the familiar scrapping down of my hospital door being slid open.

"Ms. Patterson," Mark says to Janet who's sitting across from my bed, working on a crossword puzzle in The Seattle Times.

Janet looks up at Mark. "Good Morning, Dr. Sloan." Her eyes go straight back down to the crossword puzzle.

Her charismatic tone of voice surprises me deliberating she hasn't talked to me since she arrived here an hour ago. Also considering the fact that Janet's voice is never charismatic. It's high pitched, irritated and squeaky, the total opposite of charismatic. An uneasy feeling, begins to form inside my stomach, hoping Mark wouldn't mention the unpleasant events from last night. Putting that aside, I let out a rather dramatic sigh, trying to get Mark's attention. Mark ignores me, his eyes stare relatively noticeably at Janet's chest.

"I looked up Beautiful in the thesaurus today, and your name was in it." He remarks to her, stepping closer so he's inches away from Janet's face, which has by now basically gone blank. Her mouth hanging slightly open, her wide hazel eyes staring ahead at something, which isn't there. Mark leans over so his lips are extremely close to her right ear. "You know, we could bypass all the bullshit and just get naked."

I watch Mark in disgust, my facial expression similar to Janet's. I blink a couple times trying to figure this whole Mark hitting on my fifty-year-old social worker thing out. Mark was a man whore, a huge man whore to be more precise. It was the only reasonable conclusion I was able to come to.

"Excuse Mark," I apologize to Janet for him, finding this whole thing way too hysterical. "He's a huge man whore. He basically hits on everybody in eye sight."

I decide to leave out the fact in which he also slept with my stepmother.

"How many times do I have to remind you two this visit is for medical purposes only?" Janet barks at the both of us. Her voice is back to her usual high pitched irritating tone. "Dr. Sloan, I would apprentice it if you would stop trying to get me to sleep with you and focus on getting Julia better."

"Thanks a lot, Mini D." Mark says aggravated. Walking over to the foot of my bed, he opens the light blue binder in his hands, and looks down at my file. "You're scheduled for a CAT scan this morning. Are you feeling any better?"

My fever had gone down a lot since last night, but the burn on my stomach has swollen and gotten worse, if that was even possible. I didn't however, need another lecture from Mark about telling Janet the truth on how I got the burn. I force a smile onto my face and I do what I'm best at, lying.

"I'm fine." I inform him, sliding off my lumpy hospital bed, my body sinking into the uncomfortable plastic black seat of the aluminum wheel chair.

"Somebody farted," Mark asserts. Winking at me, he walks over behind the wheel chair, his fingers grip the black handles. "Let's get out of here."

Thinking it's a pick up line on me I look up at him in dismay.

"Ew. Mark seriously?" I bleat as the smell of rotten eggs lingers through the air. I being to realize Mark wasn't using another pick up line. He was actually being serious. "Mark!" I scream as he pushes my chair out of the hospital room. "That's totally disgusting. It's sick. You're so gross Mark!" I pinch my nose, indignantly while Mark explodes laughing.


Mark drives my wheelchair through the sterile hallway of the surgical ward passing a number of lifeless, unhuman like nurses, interns, residences, and attendings. Their body language is the total opposite compared to the overly happy, energetic, high-spirited nurses, interns, residences and attendings who work in the pediatrics ward. The overly strong smell of antiseptic clearer has now disappeared. The air is now filled with the magnificent, latex, perfume, sweaty, bloody smell. I begin to feel suddenly timid as I feel the flutter of butterfly wings in my stomach, knowing how much trouble Mark and I would get in if Janet knew where we were.

"Where are we going?" I question, my eyes jump around the familiar fifth floor, yet still fascinated by my surroundings. My question breaks the unusual silence Mark and I shared since his lame attempts to sleep with my social worker and his even lamer farting in my room joke. "Are you sure the CAT scan is on this floor? Why are the nurses staring at you?" I continue babbling.

Mark rolls my wheelchair past the nurses station, were several of the female nurses behind the large curved desk greet Mark with evil, irate glares.

"Derek gave me a book with pickup lines," Mark explains once we turn the corner and the nurses station is out of sight. "He said I should try and pickup up somebody other then his wife."

I giggle as a funny image of Derek chucking a book of pickup lines into Mark's hands as he yells at him to use his estrogenic hormones on someone other then his wife pops up in my head. "I'm taking it Derek hasn't forgiven you yet?" I wondered, knowing that would never happen.

"Not really," Mark divulges, disappointedly. "He just wants me to stop sleeping with his wife."

"Have you?" I interrogate him.

"I'm not going to say I have and I'm not going to say I haven't," Mark answers. "I know you want me to say I have but that would be lying. I am trying Mini D. Addison and I, it's complicated. We continued seeing each other after Derek left New York. It wasn't just a one time thing. You know that, you saw us together. It's hard being in love with somebody you can't have."

"Why'd you tell me that?" I ask as my chair stops rolling and Mark appears in front of me.

"You deserve the truth."

Mark's joking, childish, man-whoreness, has disappeared. His eyes look at me in a fatherly matter, concerned yet secure. The smile, which he forces on his face, hides the burden he goes through everyday of loving a women he can't have. It hides the guilt he feels every time he looks at me, knowing he's tearing apart my family. These things, nobody be able to know just by looking at the surgeon. But I know, I know because Mark's my friend, my best friend. He knows I know because I'm his Mini D.

I look at Mark with insecurity, a small smile appearing on my face.

"You're my best friend," I say quietly, the unfamiliar words bounce off my tongue. These words are even more unfamiliar then saying Derek is my father. "Addison is my stepmother. This is my family," I look at Mark, my blue eyes pleading. "You're my best friend Mark," I say again. My eyes shift nervously towards my toes. "You'll always be my best friend. But you have to stop sleeping with Addison. You're ruining Derek and Addison. You're hurting me," my voice cracks, my throats dry.

"I don't want to hurt you," Mark emphasizes me. "So many people have. I don't want to be one of them."

"Then give me a hug, before I start crying a river" I order him.

Mark locks his strong arms around me as I begin to become overwhelmed with a feeling of protection and comfort causing the strong amount of insecurity I had a moment ago to vanish.


Mark impels my wheelchair down a familiar corridor, one I must have walked through during my last visit in Seattle. The sound of his footsteps echoing through the long hallway stop as my wheelchair comes to a halt in front of a glass door, it's venetian blinds closed, blocking my view of the inside. Feelings of doubtfulness and imprecision gush through my veins as my eyes bounce from the glass door, beginning to trace the walls of the empty corridor, hoping I could remember the significance of this hallway compared to all the others.

"I'm not going to get a CAT scan am I?" I state the obvious.

Mark's grayish blue eyes gleam as he stands on the linoleum-tiled floor, his hands crossed at his chest, waiting for me to figure out where we are. My head turns back to the glass door, my eyes become attached to the white bold block lettering, in the middle of the door. The first line reads Dr. Derek .C. Shepherd, while the second line, Head of Neurology. My furious eyes dart from the pile of letters to Mark.

"Some best friend you are," I bellow ferocity, as I quickly jump out of my wheelchair, turn my back on Mark, slowly walking down the never-ending winding corridor.

"I told you I'm not going to hurt you," Mark shouts after me, his voice humorless. My feet come to a standstill.

"You're hurting me right now!" I call back at him.

"No, you're hurting yourself," He chided. "Just hear me out. Please Mini D?"

"Why should I?" I ask in a ranklement way.

"I'm your best friend!" Mark hollers.

I stand there as silence flows through the air. I take a breath letting the words Mark just yelled at me sink into my warm skin before I turn around to face him.

"As you're best friend," Mark's charismatic, childish, sarcastic, man-whoreness is back. My head turns away from him once again, not wanting to show him I'm actually happy about that. "It' my job to worry about you because somebody has too. I'm worried about you Mini D. You're sick and on top of being sick you're hurt. The phone calls we share, you're overly happy voice, that isn't you. How you would try and change the subject every time I mention Derek or Addison. Then, you showing up here. The burses, the burn, how those people hurt you," Mark looks like he's about to kill something or somebody; the redness of anger in his face, the tears forming in his eyelids. This defiantly isn't him. His mouth opens again, his voice shaking along with the rest of his body. "You're so little. Well not exactly little, but little compare to me. The nightmares you have. It hurts me. Knowing you're hurting so much and I can't do anything about it. You won't let me do anything to help you. I'm trying to help you, but, I don't know how. Each time I do, you seem hate me even more."

This whole somebody caring thing is hard for me to grasp a hold of. For the last thirteen years of my life, nobody's cared. So I made rules. It was easy to follow the rules because it was just me. As soon as I stepped into the surgical ward, that day many months ago, I became attached, breaking my number one rule. As soon as I stepped off that elevator, it wasn't just me in my life anymore. Mark, Addison, Derek. They became my life. While began to talk to each of them, I slowly began breaking more rules, until I had none left. Then, I watched them leave my life, as quickly as they entered.

I study Mark as watery tears begin to fall from his glossy grey blue eyes. From watching him, my own blue eyes become full of melancholy.

"I can't let you go back there Mini D because it's like a piece of you goes away each time you do. I can't lose you. I'm scared Mini D." Mark croaks. He wipes the tears away from his cherry red cheeks. "I'm scared one Sunday the phone calls are going to stop."

I walk towards Mark slowly at first. Carefully, one foot in front of the other. Not being able to control the suspense, my feet sprint the rest of the way to were Mark is standing. I fasten my arms around Mark's stomach and lean my head sideways against him.

"There's always going to be Sunday phone calls," I promise.

"Mini D," he says belligerent, pushing me off him, his hands on my shoulders, his eyes solemn. "You don't get it. The only way you're going to able to not go back to New York is to talk to Derek. You've gotta tell him what's happening. If you don't, it's going to continue to happen when you go back. I'm scared," Mark says demoralized. "I'm scared the beatings will get worse. I'm scared I won't be there to protect you. I'm scared you're going to die," Mark gulps.

"I promise, I'm not going to die Mark," I ensure him. "I'll tell Derek, but you've got to come with me. I can't tell him without you there. I need you." My voice becomes a whisper. "I'm scared too."

Mark nods, ambivalently. "We'll do this together okay?" He sticks out his large hand while my small one moves towards his, our hands clasping over top of one another.

Mark and I share a now-or-never look, our eyes shift towards Derek office door as we step inside together.


The grey walls of Derek's office remain vacant. The ferryboat picture no longer hangs on the blank wall to the left of me. My anxious body begins to shake as I shut my eyes, vanquished with discombobulation. I squeeze Mark 's hand so tightly, my own starts to ache. I try focusing my mind of ferryboats hoping my feeling of vulnerability would disappear. When I'm feeling a bit provocative again, I open my eyes wishing to be elsewhere. They look upon Derek, his head in an angled downward position, his blue eyes stuck onto a notepad on top of his large oak desk while his black fountain pen scratches across his paper.

"How's the book?" Derek chuckles with sarcasm in his voice, enough to show his anger, yet enough to remain civil. "Manage to pick up anyone other then my wife?"

"You're book fucking sucks Derek," Mark proclaims. "I didn't come here about the book."

"Then what do you want Mark?" Derek asks in a sharp tone.

"The nurses hate me, I'm not getting laid, I could really use my best friend right now." Mark implores looking at me, then back to an irritated Derek.

"I'm not your friend Mark," Derek says, infuriated.

* "I didn't come to Seattle for Addison and I didn't come to Seattle to be chief. I came to Seattle for you. I came to Seattle to get you back."

Derek's eyes shift from his paper towards Mark as he stares at him ungainly. I let out an unarguably laugh. Derek's eye's move towards me, his facial expression becomes shocked and even more full of fury. While Mark realizes how wrong his words he said to Derek were.

* "I know I want to take it back now," Mark's cheeks become flustered with humiliation as he shakes his head in despair. "But I've already said it, so." He laughs awkwardly waiting for Derek response.

Derek laughs awkwardly along with him. "Yeah so, want to tell my why my daughters here? And why you guys are holding hands?" He raises his eyebrows, his elbows move into an upright position as he rests his chin on top of them.

"She's my best friend," Mark says in a presumptuous voice.

This causes Derek lean back into his chair, breaking in a fit of unmanageable laughter. Mark and I exchange concerned glances as I begin to feel suddenly small.

"Let me, let me get this straight," Derek leans forward, on arm on his desk, the other clutching his side. "Since I won't be you friend," Derek says to Mark and then looks at me. "And you refuse to be my daughter, you guys become best friends?"

There's more laughter as I shrug, not sure what Derek finds funny about this whole thing.

"Let me guess," Derek says betweens breaths. "Mark you think that since my daughter is your best friend, and you," Derek points a finger at me. "You think since you undaughtered me you're able to get away with not telling me you're in the hospital?"

"Mini D's my patient Derek," Mark tries to explain the whole me being sick thing. "She's here for medical purposes only."

"Medical purposes only? I don't fucking care about that. When my daughter gets hospitalized, I should have the right to know."

"My social worker says you can't know because you're still going under the eveulation process, which probably isn't even the right reason because you haven't talked to me in months." I rebuke Derek, as my body temperature reaches boiling point. I quickly let go of Mark's hand so he doesn't notice.

"Why's she here Mark?" Derek asks him ignoring me. "If you want me to even consider being your friend again, you're going to have to tell me why my daughters in this hospital." Derek demands Mark.

"I could lose my job!" Mark yells at Derek.

"Well you could lose our friendship." Derek says crossing his arms across his chest.

"We've already lost our friendship. I've lost Addison. I can't lose my job because I can't lose Mini D. She's all a got left." Mark bellows, his tempter now choleric.

"There a burn on my stomach, which I've had for months," I raise my voice over the two of them arguing, making sure it's loud enough for them to hear me, hopefully to stop as well. Derek and Mark turn their eyes away from each and look towards me. "Because I didn't get medical treatment for it right away, it's infected. I've been to doctors in New York. They gave me medication and it doesn't work. They don't know why. My last doctor suggested Mark." I say.

Derek stares at me, his eyes full of worry, wanting me to say more. Except, I don't know more. My ears suddenly begin to pop. I try to open my mouth again, to tell Derek that's all I know. Except it' a lot harder then it normally is. Instead, I look at him with sorrowful eyes and shake my head sadly, indicating to him there's nothing more. Likely the silence is interrupted by a knock at the office door. Derek gives Mark an is-it-okay-if-i-let-this-person-in look. Mark nods.

"Come in!" Derek shouts, his voice sounds distance.

The scrapping of the office door opening against the floor is just a blur. I felt my skin begin to crawl. I look down toward my arm dangling from my side, lifelessly. I become stunned in an amused like way by how deathly pail it's become. Black cloud like shapes begin to form in front of me, making vision become disorientated. Extremely disorientated to a point where I can barely make out the shape of an enraged Janet, standing in the door way. Janet's screeches seem like more muffled up blurs as blood rushes up to my head, feeling as if I'm about to vomit. My mind's spinning a thousand miles per second as my energy level drains. My lifeless arm shoots back to life as it moves quickly, my hand grabbing onto the side of my stomach, while a searing pain shrieks from inside it. There so much pain, it's like my stomach pulled out of me. Derek's familiar vacant grey office walls has vanished right before my eyes, everything becomes pitch black, like a light eating whole in the center of the universe. I feel my body collapse as I being the never-ending fall into elsewhere.