I KNOW IT HAS BEEN A WHILE SINCE AN UPDATE. FEELING IN THE WRITING MOOD - SO YOU MIGHT GET A FEW CHAPTERS. PLEASE LET ME KNOW WHAT YOU THINK!


Do you feel any pain around the stiches?" the doctor asked, pulling Emma from her mind back into the small exam room.

She shook her head. Which was a lie. Even as the doctor lightly touched around the stitches along the left side of her rib cage, she felt pain radiate up and down the entire area.

But she just wanted to get out of there. She felt so uncovered, even though only her shirt was pulled up on the side.

"Well, it's healing up nicely." He said, "Just continue to clean the area once in the morning and once in the evening." He then moved to her back, checking the second area. "And this one looks a bit red around the incision area. Have you been cleaning this one as well?"

She nodded her head. Which was yet another lie. She couldn't reach it.

"Hmm." He said, reaching over to the cart next to the table. "I'm just going to clean this a bit." She jumped a bit at the cold antiseptic as he carefully applied it, "It's still healing, but we want to keep it as clean as possible."

She nodded. She just wanted to leave.

She waited in silence as he finished and reapplied the covering over the wound. Maybe he said something else. Maybe he didn't. She wasn't paying attention. If she actually cared she would tell him about the pain in her ribs, where some of the bruising was. She'd tell him that it hurt to move quickly. She would've told him that she couldn't reach the wound on her back. She'd tell him that it wouldn't get cleaned because there was no way she'd ask anyone to help her with it. She'd ask him for something to help her sleep. She'd beg him to give her something to keep the nightmares away. She'd ask him for something to block out the horrible pictures that flew through her mind at any given point without warning.

Instead, she sat quietly, her legs hanging over the edge of the table, with jeans around her legs. She felt like she was watching someone else. Watching from outside of herself. All the time.

She jumped as the lid from the trashcan thumped as the doctor threw away his gloves. And she heard him asking her, "Are you in pain anywhere else?"

She shook her head.

"The President's secretary has scheduled an appointment for you tomorrow afternoon at two. And it looks like the First Gentleman's scheduler has the appointment in his calendar as well." He said, "And then we'll…"

"Wait." Emma interrupted. "Who made an appointment?"

As if it was nothing, the doctor barely looked up from the chart. "Your mother's secretary. It's a consultation for further care after looking at the…"

"Why?" Emma snapped. And her mind wouldn't stop. Anger began to come in.

Her tone must have signaled her frustration, because the doctor looked up, concern in his eyes as he coddled her, "Very typical, from what I understand." He said, "The President's schedule has so many moving parts, and her secretary schedules her personal appointments."

"I get that she's busy." Who didn't? "But why did her secretary make MY appointment? I don't need anyone to…"

"Oh. Now I see where the confusion is coming from." He said, "Today's visit is just a check to make sure you're cleared to be up and around safely. Tomorrow's appointment is talking about long-term care. And because you are a minor, one or both of your parents have to be present to make those decisions."

"Long term care decisions like what?"

"Well," He looked down at the paperwork, "It looks like the President and First Gentleman want to discuss therapy and hand reconstruction options, among other things."

Emma pulled her shirt down, tugging at her sleeves over her hands, especially her left one. She could tell he wanted her agreement and understanding, so she nodded. But she wasn't confused. She was angry.

"Can I go?" She asked, getting off the table and pushing down a whimper at the pain through her ribs. She had more important things to do. Anything was more important than this.

"Just take it easy. Take breaks. Sit down if you get winded. You are still recovering from majorly invasive surgery, and your body is going to need…"

"Thanks." She said, opening the door to the small waiting room, where Allison and Stevie were waiting. She didn't care what he said.

Allison and Stevie both jumped up, and Emma noticed Stevie elbow Allison, gesturing to the doctor.

"I'm done." Emma said, not waiting for her sisters as she walked out into one of the halls of the White House. She was done.


She smiled and nodded on the ride to the store, pretending to be interested in what the newest fashion trends were, what Allison thought of the cute doctor, or what Stevie thought would look cute on her. But she tuned them out after a while, pressing her face to the cold window, willing herself to calm down. To let the anger settle in her body so it didn't explode. Anger and embarrassment.

She didn't want her parents there for her appointment. She just wanted the stitches out so she didn't have to worry anymore. What else was there? She didn't need anyone talking about her anymore. She didn't need anything else.

She didn't need her parents involved in everything. She was still sorting out what "parents" meant to her, anyway. Her stomach turned with the pressing need to define what her dad – or Henry – or … whatever it meant. Even thinking about that felt like a betrayal. A betrayal that she'd been given no choice but to deal with. But she didn't want to.

Emma pulled her left hand across her stomach, tucking it away and out of sight like she'd done for years. And embarrassment flamed across her face at the thought that her hand was something that needed to be fixed. She knew it wasn't normal, but for someone to point that out as something that needed reconstruction surgery, and for that person to be her mother – Emma swallowed the urge to cry and replaced it with anger – anger at her mother. Didn't she have more important things to worry about? Like, maybe, dead children in Iran?

Emma forced herself out of her head before she went too far. And she made herself enter back into the conversation with her sisters.

Allison was saying something about how Emma would get used to the detail being with them whenever they went anywhere.

"Do they go with you too?" Emma asked.

Both her sisters nodded, and Stevie said, "Yup. Depending on where we're at, numbers of people vary. But, you'll get used to it. Eventually, you won't even notice."

Emma sent a quizzical and mistrusting look at her sister, and then Allison and Stevie both laughed.

"Yeah, not true." Allison added, "But at least you're living with Mom and Dad, and in the White House, the detail will pretty much just monitor where you are, but they aren't in the same room all the time."

The vehicle pulled over into a space in a non-descript alley.

"Ok, first stop!" Allison exclaimed, and Emma willed herself to not jump at the loud exclamation.

They chatted while the detail did a sweep of the store, cleared people out, and made sure the girls could get in through the back entrance, which her sisters explained would be one way to avoid the press.

After what seemed like hours of Allison and Stevie making pile after pile of things for Emma to try on, they sent Emma into the dressing room.

She pulled the curtain to shut out the store and her sisters, leaving her with only a fraction of the clothes she had to put on her body and the mirror.

"Try on one of the dresses – the pink one!" Allison excitedly called from outside. "It'll look really good with your eyes!"

Emma held up the sleeveless dress, a fitted lace gown. And without looking in the mirror, she pulled off her sweatshirt, t-shirt, and jeans, and stepped into the dress. Then she looked up.

"It doesn't fit." Emma lied. Because she would never let anyone look at her in this dress.

Her arms, full of scars that trickled around her shoulders to her back, were a ghastly sight. And there was no sleeve to hide her hand in. And, while the neckline was high to hide the scars on her chest, she couldn't help but compare her bony, pale legs to Allison's toned and tanned legs. No. She wouldn't wear that.

"Oh, dang it." Allison said. "Too big?" Then quickly, as if answering her own question, she said, "Try the black one?"

Emma rifled through the pile, her heart sinking as she found the dress with a low neckline. And then a sleeveless shirt. And a knee-length skirt. And a short sleeved shirt. Another dress. Another way for people to see what secrets Emma kept with her body. Another way to embarrass her mother.

"Did the black one fit?" Allison called out, her voice fading farther and farther into the background as Emma again glanced at her reflection. With her right hand, Emma traced the barbed white skin from her left shoulder down to her elbow, the sounds of her past screaming at her, pulling her away from the DC dressing room to the dark cell, underground where her screams couldn't be heard. Her fingers pulled her further into the past as she ran down her left arm to scar that started in the middle of her forearm down the muscle of her gnarled hand. The infection from the battering, the botched attempt to remove the infection, and the disregard to care for her shattered bones led to what she now stared at in the mirror.

"Emma, are you ok?" Stevie called out, but it was so far in the background of Emma's consciousness, mingling with memory of pain and horrific screaming of Emma's past. She could smell the alcohol they'd given her – but it hadn't been enough to dull any of the pain. The knife cutting into her skin, opening up the bleeding and infected hand, to only wash it with the alcohol and some antiseptic before they'd sewn it up with a needle and something else. She could feel the hands on her shoulders as she writhed in pain, holding her in place while they'd removed pieces of infected tissue, sometimes mistaking pieces of her shattered bones for infected skin. It'd taken months simply to move her curled and withered fingers, and she'd given up on being able to do more than hold small things between her fingers.

The reflection in the mirror of the curtain behind her ripping open jarred Emma out of her past, and she saw her two sisters, fear in their eyes, "Emma, are you ok?" Stevie called out from the opening.

"Why didn't you answer…"

And, from the mirror, Emma knew the second they'd seen what she'd been afraid of. Her.

Both of their faces went white. Allison's hand went to her mouth as her eyes quickly fell down her shoulders and the back of her arms. Stevie's mouth dropped open.

Emma turned around to face them before realizing what she'd done, giving them an even better view of her. She tried to wrap her hands around her arms, and she yelled, "What are you doing? Get out!"

But they were frozen, and Emma desperately searched for her sweatshirt, or a sheet or something to cover her bare arms and back. And she yelled again, "Get OUT!"

They got the message, jumping out of their frozen state. Pulling the curtain, they said something patronizing, some apology, or some suggestion about other things she could try on. But once they shut the curtain, Emma stopped listening. Her entire body felt on fire as she ripped the dress from her body, pulling the oversized sweatshirt and hiking the jeans as high as possible without securing the belt. She grabbed the sneakers in her hand, just wanting to leave and get away from all of this. She couldn't look at her sisters as she threw the curtain open, and said, "I'm done." Walking to the guy in the suit that she didn't know his name – but one of the guys on her detail, she pushed the door to the back of the store open and said, "I want to go."

She slammed the car door behind her, ignoring her sisters need to get in as well. She climbed over the seat into the back of the SUV, angled her body away from the door, pressed against the window, and sunk down in her seat. And she hugged her knees to her chest, ignoring the pain from the movement and pulling in her stitches. She just wanted to leave.