Not happy with this chapter at all. I'm feeling a little stuck right now. Hopefully I'll get it figured out by the next update.

XIX

It was obvious to Ellie that everyone had missed the point. Early that evening, her mother arrived in her room, a smile even faker than Ellie's pasted on her lips.

"Eleanor, darling! You gave me quite a scare."

Ellie wasn't in the mood to play games. "I'm sure," she said, her voice cold. "Now, would that be after your third drink, or before your fifth, that you started to notice I was missing?"

"Ellie! Show some respect. This isn't about me. Why would you do that?" Her mother was clearly indignant that Ellie had the nerve to be less than a pathetic, whimpering bundle of bones.

"This is about you," Ellie said. "Not entirely, but no, you can't get out of it that easily. You've made my life miserable, mom. I'm supposed to be the child, not you." She gave her mom a pleading look, which Mrs. Nash ignored.

"I don't have to stand here and listen to this shit," she said. "I thought you'd be happy to see me. Guess I was wrong." She turned on her heel and abruptly left the room, leaving Ellie staring after her, and biting her lip to keep the tears at bay.

Dr. Cavanaugh had apparently been outside the room for the entire exchange. "Nice woman," she said quietly, taking a seat. "She always treat you that well?"

"She's my mother," Ellie said, as if it were an answer.

The doctor nodded slightly. "And that makes it okay?"

"She's family. If even she can't love me, who will?" Ellie hated herself. Try as she might, she couldn't seem to stop herself from blurting out random pieces of information. "I'm not talking about this. Not talking about any of it. Just leave me alone. Please." She'd been reduced to begging, a fact that she wasn't happy about.

"I can't. You know that. And more importantly, I won't. Ellie, it's obvious you're miserable. You've said as much with your arms. But things won't change if you don't let us help you." The doctor was patient but firm, but Ellie shrugged it off, and once more, turned to face the wall.

"That's not going to work this time." The words took Ellie by surprise. She had fully expected to repeat their routine of earlier that day--was, in fact, almost looking forward to it for purposes of amusement. "I can't force you to talk. But I'm not just going to sit here in silence while you gloat or feel sorry for yourself, or whatever it is that you're doing. No one's trying to belittle your pain. But this not talking thing, it doesn't work for me. If I have to, I'll spend the hour--or however long I have before they check me in here right beside you--talking to myself. But I'm not going to sit here in silence." Ellie sighed and rolled back over.

"Look," she said. "I don't hate you. I'm just not interested in doing any of this right now."

"Doesn't matter," Dr. Cavanaugh said. "You land yourself in here, and you don't really get much choice in the matter. Tough love and all that fun stuff."

Ellie rolled her eyes. "I'm tired," she said. "Can I please just get some sleep?" The fact that she was wide awake, and it was barely nine o'clock, did not elude her. Dr. Cavanaugh, however, had little choice but to allow her some rest. She yanked the curtains closed, then warned her a nurse would be in every few minutes to check on her. Ellie had already rolled over, the tears running silently down her cheeks. She desperately wanted out of there and away from everything.

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Sean woke up early the next morning, before his buzzer had a chance to sound. He had promised himself the day before that he would return to school, no matter what happened, and he intended to do so. He made sure Bueller was fed, and quickly showered and got cleaned up. He'd finally faced the bathroom the afternoon before, and it was already easier--he kept his eyes up, and he could almost forget what had happened.

He skipped shaving that morning, as he had the day before. He couldn't face a razor--hadn't even bought a new one yet--and he certainly couldn't use the same one as before. He had disposed of it--thrown it away, to be precise, because he didn't know what else to do with it. A small part of him wanted to keep the thing, but he knew if he did, he'd be in worse trouble than he was after the shooting. It was that forced him into the bathroom, forced the razor into the garbage, and forced him to google ways of cleaning blood stains on the computer at the local library.

He drove himself to school and tried to numb his brain from the images of the morning before. He wasn't successful. He was haunted by the thought of her, the way her clothes were stained and her hair stuck together because she'd laid one of her hands near her head.
He'd gotten rid of his own clothes. They'd been, as well. He'd held her until the ambulance came, begging her to wake up, to talk to him, anything, just so he'd know she was okay. He hadn't seen her since the ride to the hospital. He'd called, and they told her she'd woken up, but that was all. He hadn't called since.