A/N- I don't own Divergent, rights belong to Veronica Roth.

September 4th

At the beginning of the week, I got a letter in the mail from the police. I thanked my lucky stars that my mom didn't see it, when I just happened to be walking home and decided to empty the mail box. Sitting there, was the letter. Waiting for me. It was giving me the details of the support group that I have to attend, which so happens to be tonight at six in the evening. It's in the centre of Chicago and is honestly the last thing on earth that I want to do. However, I know I'm going to have to get it over with if I want that night of my birthday to remain dead and buried. It's three in the afternoon, and I'm staring at the clock, figuring how the hell I'm going to get into Chicago. Earlier, I started to tap away at my laptop and worked out that I would have to take two different buses, and then walk for twenty minutes to get there. I don't know how long the support group will take, but I honestly don't think I should be walking around Chicago on my own at night. Especially when I don't know where I'm going. I tap my fingers on the table, staring at my mobile phone. There's one person who I can call. One person who told me to call whenever I needed anything. Right now, I genuinely need something. To call or not to call. Eventually, after a long-winded internal debate, I decide that it's my only option. I select Four's contact number and hold the phone to my ear, listening to it ring out. It rings for a while before there's finally an answer.

"Hey Tris, I'm just at work. Is everything okay?" He utters quietly.

"I'm sorry, I honestly didn't want to bother you. But I um, need your help." I reply, timidly. I wish I didn't need to ask him for anything.

"Sure, no problem, what is it?"

"Could you give me a ride to that support group I'm supposed to attend? It's just that it's in the city and I don't want to tell my mom and-"

"I'll take you, you don't need to ask twice. What time does it start?"

"Thank you so much," I sigh. "It starts at six."

"I'll be outside your house at half five then."

"I owe you one!"

"No you don't," he laughs. "I'll see you then Tris."

"Okay, bye Four." The line goes dead and I feel a flash of relief. At least this way there's no chance of things going wrong. Although, I am becoming increasingly worried about the police station sending me letters. It would be so easy for them to just send another one, and subsequently my mom would probably see it and demand an explanation. It seems as though I'm going to have to run out to get the mail every morning for a few weeks. Yippee.

When it gets to five o'clock, I decide to head upstairs and chose something to wear. I know it's just a support group but I at least want to look my age if I'm going to be around a bunch of other teenagers. As I flick through my wardrobe, I realise how desperately I need to go shopping and get some new clothes. But I hate shopping with a passion so I doubt that's going to happen any time soon. I decide to put it off until autumn when I will have to buy some warmer clothes. I slip on a different pair of jeans and shirt, and pull my hair out of its pony tail. This will have to do. I hope we don't have to speak in front of everyone, I don't even know what to expect. I'm still stood in my room when I hear the beep of a car horn outside my house. Four. I grab my bag and stuff the letter in, running down the stairs. As per usual, my mom's at the hospital so luckily I don't have to explain myself to her. I head out the front door, locking it behind me, and slide into the passenger seat in his car.

"So, where are we going?" He smiles at me.

"I've got a map and directions here," I pull out the letter that the police sent to me and hand it to him. He examines it for a moment, nodding his head.

"Yeah I know where this is. Buckle up." I do as he says as he begins to drive away from my house, heading into the city. The last time I was here was when Four was driving me home, away from the station. I've never had a chance to actually venture into the city and experience it in a way that I normally would. Now, it's tainted with a negative memory. I hope some day I will be able to enjoy it. About twenty minutes later, we're pulling into a large car park which is mostly empty. There's a one story building that looks comparable to a modern church or youth club type place. They're undeniably function rooms for counselling. There are huge banners advertising various teenage support groups that are held on different days.

"Are you ready for the torture to begin?" Four smirks at me.

"I don't think I'll ever be ready for this," I huff and unbuckle my seat belt. "I'll just go and get it over with."

"I'll walk you in and pick you up after." He gets out of the car and I follow him into the gloomy looking building. Only when we're on our way do we see all the other teenagers heading to the same destination. They seem…different. Particularly intimidating. They correspond to your stereotypical image of teenagers who get themselves in trouble with the law. I catch eye contact with a girl with a side pony tail and huge hooped earrings, she stares at me as if she's trying to shrink me or turn me into dust. I keep close to Four, and follow him into the building. Once we're inside and get to the double doors of the large hall that holds the support group, Four grabs me by the shoulders and pulls me to the side.

"I'm not letting you go in there," he says, while a boy that smells of alcohol and piss walks past us.

"But I have to! It was part of my caution for the drinking and the drugs." As much as I would love for him to just take me home right now, there's no other way.

"But Tris, you don't belong in there. Look at them," he glances around us, then continues to bore his blue eyes into mine. I don't know what I was expecting. I thought it would be a normal support group for teenagers, where they all cry about their problems, talk about bullying, and make each other bracelets. This support group is in a run-down part of the city, and it's obviously the place that they all get sent to after they have a run in with the law. Police funded. They seem to be incredibly beaten down by life. It's sad, really.

"Then what am I supposed to do? The police will try to contact me or something! My mom will find out and who knows, they might try to make me do community service or something." He sighs and inspects the floor, obviously thinking hard about what to do.

"Fine, but I'm coming in with you." He tries to hold back a smile.

"Are you a troubled teen?" I raise an eyebrow at him.

"Yes. Nineteen years old and addicted to pornography," he says in a serious tone. I burst out laughing.

"You can't say that!"

"Why not?"

"Because that's stupid! Just say that you got caught stealing or something." I can't believe he's honestly thinking of doing this.

"Do I look like a thief?" He gestures to his work clothes, a well-fitted designer suit and tie. I sigh, exasperated. There's no way that he can pass for nineteen, let alone a criminal.

"Why did you have to dress like you're going into Hollywood or something," I walk up to him and start to undo his tie, pulling it off from around his neck, then shove it into my bag. I also undo the first couple of buttons on his shirt. Damn, for some reason now he looks even better than he did before. I make him pull off his suit jacket, and tie it around my waist. It's black so it's not that obvious, it just looks like a normal jacket. I examine him for a second and he just stares at me, eyebrows raised.

"Are you trying to undress me, Tris?" He asks when I un-tuck his shirt from his pants.

"No, Im trying to make you look more like a nineteen year old hood rat. It's not a total success but a vast improvement," I stand on my tiptoes and mess up his hair a bit with my hands. When I stand back to examine my handiwork, I realise, I didn't make him look dishevelled. I made him look sexy. Fail.

"Whatever, this will have to do." I grab his arm and we walk through the double doors together. It's quite a large room, and in the middle is a circle of plastic chairs. Around the edge of the room there are various tables filled with leaflets, snacks, and drinks. People are helping themselves before sitting down. We walk into the middle of the group, and we're to the last ones to arrive.

"Hello! Please, come and take a seat in our circle of trust," a middle-aged woman with short brown hair says. We take a seat next to each other, opposite the woman in the circle. I stifle a snigger at the sight of Four on the tiny plastic chairs, he looks like a giant in a dolls house. "Welcome, everyone. My name is Linda, please make yourselves comfortable." I examine the room and the teenagers who are sitting down, there's a pungent smell in the room. I don't want to know what it is. A small, shy looking girl with mousey brown hair comes and sits down in the empty seat next to mine. She's swallowed up in a huge hoodie and leggings. She looks tired and even skinnier than I am. "Now," Linda continues. "We're going to go around in the circle, introducing ourselves. We're going to tell each other our name, age and why we are here. Would you like to start, dear?" She asks the girl next to her.

"My name's Stacy. Fifteen years old. Alcoholic." Says a tall, chunky girl with dirty blonde hair. She looks confident and ballsy.

"Daniel. Stealing. Seventeen." A boy with black hair and olive skin says. His voice hasn't yet broken and he looks young for his age.

"Rob. Eighteen. Drugs," he has a pale complexion and wears all black, he looks directly at me and I quickly look away.

Soon enough, everyone is looking at me. Because it's my turn. My voice nearly gets stuck in my throat, I hate public speaking, I can't do it. I hate the way everyone is looking at me expectantly. I don't want to do this. I unquestionably don't want to do this. I pray that my cheeks don't heat up and nearly swallow my tongue. "Tris. I'm eighteen. I'm here for drinking and drugs." It doesn't feel right, drinking and drugs aren't my problem. I just got caught doing it when I shouldn't have. All of these people look like their problems have effected them. While Four and I are sat here, happy as Larry.

"Fighting. I'm nineteen years old. My name is Four." His knuckles tighten around his seat. I remember what he told me that day that he picked me up from the station. About how he got arrested, for assault. I wonder why he chose to say something that he actually used to have a problem with. I bet he's been here before, and this must be some terrible flashback.

"Four like the number?" A confident boy asks.

"Exactly like the number," Four says to him. He says it in a quiet, deadly, intimidating manner.

"Nah, that's cool dude. I aint sayin' nothin'." The boy retorts, leaning back slightly and holding his hands up in surrender. He obviously doesn't want to get on Four's bad side. I don't blame him.

"Is Four a gang name?" A girl asks.

"You look about twenty-five," another voice pipes up.

"Alright, alright! Quiet down everyone! Next person, off you go," says Linda. I look at Four and he gives me a reassuring smile. I can't believe he's doing this for me. The rest of the group continue to tell us their names, age and problems. It's generally all just drugs, alcohol and petty crimes. For a while, Linda talks about the effects that our criminal behaviour has on other people. Such as how stealing from a shop affects the person's business and therefore their family life. She tells us how it will also affect our future, and if we get a criminal record, we will find it difficult to secure a well-paid job and go to college. I honestly don't think anyone is listening. It looks like they've all been here before.

"Often, and you may not even realise this," Linda says. "There is often a trigger. A trigger for you wanting to take a drink, wanting to steal that new game in the shop, wanting to hit someone. Can anyone think of something that has triggered them in the past?"

"What could a trigger be?" The girl, Stacy, asks.

"It could be anything. Maybe you're bullied at school. Maybe your home life isn't that great. You might even just be lonely."

"My boyfriend used to make me feel bad about myself, and he pressured me to take things with his friends," another girl across the room says.

"My older brother got me in with his gang. I genuinely didn't have a choice." A boy with his hood up murmurs.

"Girls at my school bully me because of my short hair. I got depressed so I started taking drugs hoping that they would make me happier," the girl with the mousey brown hair sat next to me says.

"What about you, Tris?" Linda asks me.

"What?" I say. I don't really have drugs or alcohol issues, so there isn't a lot for me to contribute.

"You were drinking underage and taking illegal substances. Was there anything that was making you sad?" There are lots of things that make me sad. I shake my head a little. "Nothing that made you angry?" I swallow and look at the floor. My mom makes me angry. "Have you ever had a very negative experience?" I squeeze my eyes shut and furrow my brows. "Has there ever been anyone who's said mean things to you? Perhaps they've made you feel worthless?" My heart drums and there's a buzzing in my ear.

"Stop it," I say, trying to shout but it dies in my throat.

"Who's made you feel worthless, Tris?"

"I don't want to talk about it."

"That's why we're here, Tris." I survey the room, some people stare at the floor, some give me blank or sympathetic expressions. "This is a safe room. We're all here to help each other. To tell each other our sad thoughts so that we can move on and understand ourselves." I don't look at Four. I wish he wasn't here. "I want everyone here to raise their hands if they've ever been called a nasty name." Everyone raises their hands except for me. "Have you ever been called a nasty name, Tris?" I stare her in the eye and nod my head. "Did it make you feel bad about yourself?" I nod my head again. "Was it someone who was close to you? Someone who you spent a large amount of time with, or lived with?" Again, I nod my head. My mom's ex-husband. "Why don't you tell us some of the things they said to you?" There are countless names. Bitch. Idiot. Skinny. Ugly. Dirty. Pig.

"I can't say it," I whisper. I can't repeat those words. Then it will feel real.

"That's okay. We are ready to listen when you are ready to speak," Linda says to me. She carries on talking to the rest of the group but I zone out, buried beneath my dark thoughts. This is the worst punishment they could have ever given me, I would rather sit in a cell for a week. At the end of the discussion, she walks around and hands us each a leaflet about our problems. She doesn't give me an alcohol or drugs related issue leaflet. She hands me a few different ones, about psychological abuse, domestic violence and coping with anxiety and depression. She stops in front of me for a moment, and hands me a card.

"Here's my number. I run private sessions if you would ever like to talk." She lets the card sit on my lap amongst the leaflets before walking away and handing everyone else theres. When she's finished, I get up off my seat and march through the door without waiting for Four, stuffing the leaflets into my bag.

"Tris!" Four shouts. I try to hold back tears but whenever I blink they stream down my face. He catches up to me once I'm out the building and grabs me by the arms, leaning down a little to look me in the eye, my back against the wall. I can't believe I'm crying in front of him. As if this day could get any worse. The tears increase, and so does the hurt and anger.

"Why did she do that?" I sob, my voice filled with rage. "What good came out of that, huh? Is that how she gets her kicks? From making kids talk about their fucked up feelings and idiot families!" I know my face probably looks ugly and contorted with a wide range of emotions, but I don't care right now. He looks at me and shakes his head, suddenly pulling me against his chest with so much force I think I'm going to pass through him. I remain stiff, but when he rubs his hands on my back and leans his chin on my head, I release a held-in breath and close my eyes. We stay like that for a minute, before he pulls away.

"Come on, we need to get back to the car." He keeps his harm firmly around my shoulders whilst we walk back to his car. When we're in I hand him his jacket back. We buckle up and he pulls out of the car park in silence. We hit a lot of traffic since we're in the city, the quiet music that plays on the radio fills the car. It's started to rain for the first time in a while, and the squeaking noise of the windscreen wipers against the glass are calming, along with the pitter patter of rain. However, this is still a very depressing evening. We still haven't said anything to each other yet, but I can tell he wants to. I remain looking straight ahead. In my peripheral vision, I can see that he continues to look at me, then at the road, then at me again. I have no doubt that he's trying to piece his words together, perhaps engaging in an internal argument.

"That day when you found me drunk," his deep voice breaks through the silence. "It was the anniversary of my mother's death." I take a minute to process what he just announced before turning my head incredibly slowly to look at him with what can only be described as a baffled expression on my face. He squeezes the wheel tightly and purses his lips together. I let him continue. "She died when I was fourteen. They discovered the cancer too late and there was nothing they could do. I was laying down with her when she died, holding her hand." I swallow and eventually find my voice.

"Four, that's…that's terrible. I'm so sorry that happened to you."

"I know. I really loved her. So did Marcus. That's why I never understood why he married Sarah, how he managed to move on."

"For some people, moving on is the only way." I think about the countless men my mother has brought home since her and my dad got a divorce. All she's ever done is search for a new kind of happiness with someone else.

"Yeah, I know. And I really am trying to come to terms with that. It's just every year, on that particular day. I don't cope very well."

"That's understandable," I spare a glimpse at him and he smiles sadly. "I take it that these are things you don't tell people?"

"What do you mean?"

"About the fighting and your mom. I'm the first person you've spoken to about it, aren't I?"

"How did you know," he says glumly.

"Because of the way that you tell me. It's serious, like your giving me something," I shrug.

"I am giving you something. I'm trusting you."

"Well, you can always trust me," I smile.

"I'll hold you to that."

We approach my house, and it feels good to be back home. "Get your keys ready so you don't get soaked." He looks outside at the rain that's pouring down. I reach into the front pocket of my bag and grab my house keys. My mother's car is in the driveway, I need to think up an excuse of where I've been.

"Thanks for doing that for me. I'm sorry you had to come in there."

"Tris, just forget about it. We don't have to talk about it anymore," he shakes his head. I'm thankful that he's not trying to pry information out of me or ask me if I'm okay.

"I'll see you soon then."

"If I don't see you through the week, I'll see you through the window." He winks and I laugh at how stupid he can be. When I get out of the car and walk up to my front door, a little part of me hopes that it's just me that sees his softer side. I put my keys in the door and Four beeps his car while driving away, I wave one last time and walk in the house. I can hear my mom rustling around in the kitchen.

"Beatrice, you didn't eat the food I left out for you." She says to me, standing back up again after routing through the cupboards.

"I know, sorry," I slip my shoes off by the door.

"Who was that?" Her hands are on her hips.

"Who was what?"

"Who's car were you just in?" She sighs. Then I remember, I forgot to think of an excuse.

"It was Four." I walk past her and open the refrigerator, looking for something I can eat quickly. My mother looks at me with an amused expression on her face.

"What were you doing?" She sits on the kitchen chair, crossing her legs.

"Nothing."

"Nothing?"

"Nothing." I'm such a terrible liar. I really should work on that.

"Were you alone at his house?" She abruptly asks. I nearly spit and choke on my drink. She thinks I was with him, in that way. My cheeks burn. Which is worse? Support group or sex?

"Mom! What the hell?" I nearly scream, my face holds a hopeless expression. I stomp my foot a little like an annoyed child.

"Beatrice I need to know what you get up to when I'm gone, and whether your making the right decisions."

"Mom please, stop. There's a library in Chicago that I wanted to go to and get this book that I wanted. It was late so I didn't want to get the bus on my own, I called Uriah but he didn't pick up so then I rang Four!" Wow. Where did that come from? Desperate times call for desperate measures. My brain actually decided to work. My mother looks at me for a moment, her face softening.

"Oh, I see. I'm sorry I just, want you to be safe."

"Well, I am very safe mom. And I'm eighteen, so I'm not having the sex talk with you, alright?"

"As long as you know the consequences of-" I plug my ears and start chanting.

"La la la la la. Going to my room now goodnight. La la la la." I march up the stairs with my bag slung off my shoulders, and slam the door behind me. I shiver a little, thankful that that awkward conversation was almost avoided. Almost. I collapse on my bed and run my hands through my hair. What a stressful evening that was. I zip open my bag to pull out my phone, and take the leaflets and shove them at the back of my bookshelf behind my books. Then I look in my bag, and see Four's purple and blue patterned tie sat in the bottom. I forgot to give it him back. I pull it out of my bag carefully, running it through my hands. I sit on my bed, holding the tie to my lips.

PLEASE READ: I just want to clarify that in my story, Evelyn (Four's mother, obv) really did die. She's not going to come back later on in the story with a 'surprise!' and piss Four off. She was a doting, loving mother and wife, who sadly died of cancer when Four was 14. Also, Marcus never hit Four with a belt and didn't lock him in cupboards. I'm not saying that he never hit Four, but he certainly isn't a psychopathic child abuser.

Thanks so much for the support: reviews, follows, favs :) I appreciate it.