I wish I could say Shawn woke up that night and everything just went back to normal within a day or two, or even within a week.

But that's not how it happened.

He woke up the next day, but everything didn't go back to normal. He didn't remember anything about the night of the accident, or even the day surrounding it. He couldn't get out of bed for the first week because of the broken bones in his right leg. He had a large cast on that leg that went all the way up to his thigh. He also couldn't even stay awake for more than a few hours at a time, and the brief intervals when he was awake he was groggy and almost incoherent. He was in constant pain from his head injury and his broken ribs and leg, which made him more on-edge than usual, though most of the time he couldn't muster the energy to be overtly belligerent and hostile. He just wasn't…himself. He didn't crack jokes or smile or have the Devil-may-care glint in his eye that told the world he had mastered life, bring on the next challenge.

He just sat in the bed, staring blankly at the wall, a sullen, angry look contorting his face into a sneer instead of an impish grin.

I was at the hospital everyday, but by the second week I was starting to lose hope.

Would I ever get my friend back?

Physically, he was getting better quickly. He could hobble around his room relatively easily after a week if he used the crutches the doctors had given him, and the doctors thought he would be able to go home after three. But mentally, he was just…different.

He was still sharp, still had his memory…but he didn't care.

He never even mentioned Psych once.

One day about a week and half after the accident, he finally snapped. Henry was getting him lunch, so we were just waiting in the stony silence I had grown accustom to. Shawn just didn't have the energy or the desire to talk and I had given up trying to make him.

After about five minutes of neither of us speaking, he dropped his feet off the edge of the bed, wincing as he grabbed his crutches and forced himself to his feet.

"Do you need something?" I asked, standing up. "I can--"

"I can get it myself, Gus," he snapped through clenched teeth, slowly making his way across the room to the small desk, inhaling sharply with each step. He grabbed his wallet off of the desk and opened it up. I don't know what he was looking for, but after a few seconds of searching it was obvious it wasn't there.

"Damn it!" he growled, throwing it on the floor in frustration. I instinctively went to pick it up, but he stopped me with a sharp scowl. "If I want it, I can pick it up myself, Gus!"

"I was just trying--" I started to argue, but he wasn't in the mood to listen to reason.

"I know what you were trying to do!" he shouted, his ears burning red with frustrated anger. "You were just trying to treat me like a damn baby! I'm not a damn baby, Gus! I can take care of myself, so just leave me the hell alone!"

I sat back down in the chair under the TV, trying not let on I was hurt by his outburst.

I knew he didn't mean anything by it…I knew he was just frustrated and in pain, but this was the tenth time in two days he had yelled at me, and I was starting to get tired of it.

I felt guilty for even thinking that way, but I couldn't help it.

This wasn't Shawn.

This wasn't my best friend.

I watched as he struggled to bend down to pick up his wallet, his good leg trembling with the painful strain of balancing his entire weight. A loud groan escaped his lips as he finally got low enough to the floor to wrap his fingers around the wallet, but his face suddenly grew pale and I could tell he was about to pass out. I quickly stood up again and managed to get to him before he hit the floor.

I helped him back to his bed and sat him back down. He sat perfectly still for a full five minutes, his breathing coming in short gasps as he tried to fight back the pain.

Finally, the pain won out.

"Damn it!" he shouted again, throwing one of his crutches furiously across the room. It narrowly missed my head, but I somehow managed to duck out of the way in the nick of time.

Shawn didn't seem to even notice. His eyes were frenzied and filled with bitter agony as he hurled the other crutch soon after the first.

"Damn it, Gus! Why the hell didn't you just leave me in the woods?" he shouted, collapsing back onto his pillow, his face as white as a sheet now.

"Shawn—!"

"Next time," he cut me off, his eyes clenching shut as the pain only intensified to the point that his entire body was trembling. "Next time, just let me die, Gus."