A/n: Next chapter. Read, review, and lemme know...I'm thinking I'll end it here. Should I continue? Maybe do a spin-off of sorts, about where he goes from here? I dunno..leave me lotsa reviews! :D

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Dear Lily,

I bet you were surprised to find this letter waiting for you, weren't you? You probably think I hate you. Couldn't be further from the truth. I could never hate you, not ever. Maybe I placed my trust in you. Maybe I told you the deepest, darkest secrets of my life, things I vowed so many times never to tell anyone. And maybe you broke my trust. Maybe you spilled the biggest secret I had. Maybe you told it to the people I never wanted to hear it. But does that constitute hating you? No.

The truth is, Lily, I....I don't want to say I'm grateful. I'll never be grateful for seeing the looks in their eyes when they found out. The pity...it's a horrible look, you know? I never wanted to see it again, not after they first took me away from my mother. But the sadness, the disgust, the everything in my father's eyes when they saw my arms. And it wasn't just there, Lily. Do you know how humiliating it is to be sitting on some table, covered in a thin sheet while people are prodding and poking at you, and seeing all these things you wanted to hide from everyone? Including yourself? They went in looking for bruises. From her. I begged them. Honest to god, I fucking begged them. A teenager sitting there sniffling and crying while they're telling him to please remove the gown. Telling him to stop crying, it was okay, but it wasn't okay, Lily, and they saw. My arms, my legs, my stomach. Every inch of me. Her bruises, my...punishment.

That's when they decided I was a lunatic. Sorry, that's "troubled youth". That's what this places is called, by the way. Sumner's Home For Troubled Youths. We all know what it is, though. It's a psych ward in the form of a group home. It looks okay from the outside, like some big mansion or something, but once you get inside, it's just like a hospital. All white walls and sterility, and charts and medicines and fucked up people. Pardon my french.

There are some other kids here on my floor. The kiddie ride in an amusement park of psychosis. Okay, sorry, that was just melodramatic. Anyway, there are some other kids here. Boys rooms on one side, girls on the other. I think they expect us to bond or something. Become friends and help each other fix ourselves, like on TV and movies. Except no one really says much. We're all kind of scared of the other. We have charts, but we're not allowed to see them. Not even our own. So no one really knows who's here for what reason. Which, when I think about it, is kind of nice. Don't have to see those looks anymore.

I have to see a psychiatrist twice a week. Wednesdays and Saturdays. Then group sessions with a licenced therapist every other day. (You know, I never knew there was a difference between shrink and "licenced therapist" before now. Guess there is.) They want me to talk, but I don't. They expect that at first, in group, because it's so open and frightening for us newcomers. Whatever. I'm expected to open up and pour my heart out to Dr. Eimer, just because it's one on one. Right. She's the only one who knows why I'm here. I think I hate her for that. I'm ure as hell not going to talk to her because of that.

Anyway, I digress. I'm way off topic here, aren't I?

My point was, while I'm not thrilled to be here ( I hate it every single second of every moment of every day), I guess it's better than the alternative. I don't know what happens after this. I don't know if a few bruises and mine and my father's statements are enough to get her put away or not. I do know that that's the only way I'll never see her again. I know a part of me hopes she's prosecuted, and the other part can go fuck himself for thinking otherwise.

I suppose this will help me, this experience. I suppose I'll bond with someone, and we'll share all our thoughts and fears and hopes and dreams and all that other shit they want us to share in sessions. I guess eventually they'll find out why I'm here, and I guess eventually I'll stop. They'll fix me, and I'll be cured. Or something.

Either way, no matter what happens, I guess it's obvious I wanted out. I wanted a way out of where I was in life at that point, and I didn't know how to get it. I couldn't ask for it, so I had to show people I needed help. I chose to do that by mouthing off and beating some kid(s) up. I still cringe to think about that. I tried to send a letter of apology to Mrs Good, but what would I say? Sorry I mouthed off like every other kid, but my mommy abused me and I like to bleed for fun? Uh, no. I can barely stand to think of those kids I beat on...how are they? Dr Eimer won't tell me, so I think I must have really done some damage. I'm sorry I did it. (But there's another side of me that's glad, is that sick and scary or what?)

So...I forgive you for telling.

Right, you're thinking who the hell am I to "forgive" you, right? When this was the nicest and least thing you could do for me? Well, sorry, that's all I can do for now. I sure as hell can't thank you. Not yet. Maybe someday. Maybe.

Anyway, I'm sorry, I have to get to group, so I'll have to cut this short. Heh. Cut. How's this for messed up? We're not allowed to have anything sharp here. ANYTHING. We have to write in felt tip pens, because pencils are sharp. We have to account for all silverware at meals before anyone can leave the room. I'm not even allowed to have stupid stuff, like CD cases, or whatever. I'm not even allowed to keep my nails long, because those can be used for bad, evil purposes. This is a prison, and I hate it. Little do they know, if I want it bad enough, I can find it. Like in the stalls in the mens washroom? Third one down, there's a sharp edge on the paper dispenser. Or during group, sometimes I can slide hands around back and the edges of the chair are rough enough to rub my skin raw.

I probably shouldn't be telling you this. Obviously not something you want to hear, and may very well take away what little sanity I have in this place, if you chose to point this out to the authority figures here (I hope you won't). I am trying, Lily. I'm trying to be okay, but sometimes I just need it. I hope you can understand that, and I hope my trying is enough for now.

I'm sorry.

For everything.

Most of all, I'm sorry I can't be there for you.

I really do have to go now. For the best, probably. Don't want to get all sappy, eh? Anyway...write me back, okay? Maybe you can be my sanity. My solace.

My angel.

I love you, Lily. Remember that.

- Travis