I don't smell coffee the moment I wake up. At first I'm startled, thinking that he's still here, in the house, where he shouldn't be. But after a moment of computing past events that feel so far away, I slump down against the head rest and breathe.

The air is cool, like silk running down the cracks that burn every fiber in my throat. I gulp more of it down, as if I just ran twenty miles and can't get enough water.

Beside me, Eli stirs in his sleep, mumbling words that aren't coherent. His cold foot is gently pressed up against my thigh, and the contact makes me blush, even though I know it's not intentional.

I let the recliner lean back as far as possible. Staring up at the ceiling, where the stains and marks are unfamiliar to me, I try to remember everything that happened without feeling sick to my stomach.

I can't do it. Maybe I'm not supposed to. Maybe the aftermath isn't meant to be peaceful or serene. It's a battlefield, filled with dead bodies and drying blood, and even though the shooting is done, the sound of guns firing still echoes around the air.

Silence

That is the only word to describe Eli's reaction. Words couldn't place what he was thinking, if he was thinking anything rational at all. But eventually, after ninety-eight seconds of deafening ringing in my ears, he spoke.

"Show me the bruises."

His tone startled me. It was as though I were speaking to a different person, one filled with more rage and hatred than someone is meant to carry. It's not me he's mad at, I kept reminding myself over and over again. He's mad because I'm hurting. And I should be thankful.

I stood up hesitantly, gnawing at the hem of my shirt with shaking fingers. The only other person who has every experienced the wrath of my bruises was the girl in the mirror. Her eyes were dead, too tired to even react.

Run

That was the first thing that popped into my mind as I slowly pulled the fabric up towards my stomach. Run as fast as I can. Run until the grass meets the sky. Run until I can't possibly run anymore.

I couldn't run. Not then, not now. Like the girl in the mirror, I'm tired. Weak. Dying. Maybe, just maybe, I could have made it three strides without tipping over.

When the bruises finally reached Eli's view, he looked right through them.

Denial

It's not something he, or anybody, would ever want to see. They're repulsive, purple and swollen and growing with each passing second.

But then something happened. The truth finally hit him, each and every lie snapping away in a thrashing moment. He jumped up from his chair and sucked in a gasp that seemed to be as sharp as knives.

He turned away, then. Away from me, away from the bruises, away from all the things he didn't want to see. I don't know if it was to make me feel better by not seeing his reaction, or to just block the image out of his head, but whatever reason, I stood silently and waited, just like I had before.

He strode over towards the counter and placed both palms on the granite. I could see his body shaking, the slight dent of his stomach rapidly puncturing in and out. He was fighting back tears. Tears of anger, tears of knowing, tears of sadness.

It almost made me want to cry. We could have cried together, the two of us, both wiping each other's eyes and trying to patch things up.

It wasn't the time, though. I still couldn't break the overflowing dam. That moment, that terrifying, shattering, life alternating moment, just wasn't right.

I don't know if any moment will ever be right.

When Eli turned around, I braced myself for the tight embrace that never came. But once again, he didn't hold me close. He didn't even continue crying. He just wiped the remaining tears off his olive eyes and walk closer to me. I started moving, too, without even thinking about it, and met him halfway.

Acceptance

He scanned my bruises, giving every mark of pain it's own story. I felt exposed, shaken, scared, a consuming need to hide, yet I knew that this had to come, eventually.

It's a whole different experience, showing, compared to telling. Both petrifying beyond words, but there's something about the physical aspects you can point out with a finger that's so real it's literally paralyzing.

Gently, Eli reached a hand out to brush the darkest wound ever so slightly. I jerked back at his touch, sliding my shirt down with a heavy amount of force. I wasn't ready for contact. His soft fingers against my skin reminded me too much of my father's fist. Memories hurled at my face like a swarm of buzzing bees, and I couldn't handle it. Not yet.

"Sorry," he mumbled.

"It's okay," my throat wasn't sore anymore, "It's fine."

"Do they hurt?"

I swallowed hard. "A little bit," I choked out, "Only when I think about it."

His eyes bored into mind. "How often is that?"

…

…

….

"All the time."

Change

That's when Eli hugged me. Not a bone crushing embrace that made my whole body ache, but a supple shift of his arms folding around me, his cheek pressed against my hair.

My hands linked together at the back of his neck. I buried my face into his chest, inhaling the sweet smell of whatever deodorant he was wearing. We breathed in a rhythmic pattern, neither one of us wanting to crack open the outer shell of that moment. So I just held on tighter and let him stroke my hair, thinking back to all those times I craved to be held like this.

It could have been seconds, minutes, hours, decades, that we embraced each other. Eventually Eli pulled pack, his hands barely clutching onto my hip.

I allowed my arms to reluctantly slide off his shoulders, and instantly felt cold without the vibrant heat from his warm skin.

We walked over towards the couch and sat down. It was then the intense wave of exhaustion hit me. I suddenly couldn't keep my eyes open, couldn't even turn my head to face him. All I wanted to do was sleep, and sleep, and stay locked in eternal darkness forever.

"What are we going to do?" His voice sounded a million miles away; the echo of a loud explosion.

I slipped the recliner out and sighed. "I don't know," I slurred tiredly, "I don't want to think about it now."

And that was it. He didn't try to persuade me to think about anything. I was grateful. Too much had been done in that short amount of time. Any more and my whole body may have crumbled to the floor like stone.

Eli shifted positions so his face was next to mine. I could feel his hot breath in my ear. "Are you okay?" He whispered, as though someone else was listening, "Do you want a blanket or anything?"

I don't even remember shaking my head. But apparently I did some sort of signal, because Eli tenderly raised my hand up to meet his lips. Normally I would have blushed or widened my eyes at him, but right then, just the idea of living killed me.

"Goodnight Clare." He said, and then his head was on the other side of the couch.

The last thing I remember was stroking the place his lips once were.

Aftermath

And now I'm here. In Eli's house, on Eli's couch, invading Eli's life.

But still, things don't feel any different. I don't have that epiphany of my life suddenly spiraling into another parallel universe. I look around Eli's living room and see it the same way I would have two months ago. As a living room. It's a little disappointing. I have been hoping that with taking a leap of faith and changing my destiny, I can change, too. No more fear or denial or constantly feeling as though I need to run away. But even with my secret broadened to the existence of someone else, I feel myself start to quiver with a paralyzing sense of being trapped. The room around me starts spinning in circles, faster and faster and faster, and I can almost imagine an evil force resisting me from joining it. As though I were always meant to be alone, by myself, separated from the rest of the world.

A hand places itself on my shoulder. Afraid of being alone keeps me from ever letting anyone in, so I slap it away.

"Clare? Are you alright?"

The question is familiar. Of course I recognize it. Of course I begin singing the answer in my head, creating a tune, but I still can't let the word come out.

Why do I feel as though I'm confessing all over again?

I look at Eli. His face is filled with alarm.

Alarm because of me.

God, I am so self-fish.

I attempt to recollect myself by blinking a few times before speaking. It barely works; just enough that I'm able to give him an answer. "I think so," I say, "Just in shock."

"That's understandable." Eli runs a nervous hand through his tangled hair. He's just as uncomfortable as I am. I didn't even think that was possible.

He begins studying me closely, as though more bruises came and arrived during the night. I look away, still not able to bear the feeling of being inspected so closely.

"What happened to your hand?"

I look down at my hand. Throughout all that has gone on, the wound had completely washed away from my memory. The blood is dry, now, like marker on my skin. I tentatively stroke it to find with despondency that it's still sore.

"I cut my hand on a piece of glass," the truth, I notice, is finally beginning to come out and not taste like metal between my teeth. At least something is changing. "Guess I forgot about it."

I raise my palm to Eli so he can see the damage more clearly. Surprisingly, he clutches my hand and looks at it with more interest. "That's a pretty nasty cut," he concludes, "How did you forget about it?"

"I'm used to the pain."

The words aren't actually meant to be said out loud. I cover my mouth in embarrassment and regret. How do I allow myself to obtain such a lack of self-control?

Eli slowly drops my hand back onto the couch, staring at the wound with a mixture of revulsion and discomfort. "Right…" he stretches the word out slowly, "I guess I should have known that."

"It's okay," I respond with a short laugh. "It's not everyday you run into a mental girl with an abusive father."

Eli snaps his head up to throw me a bewildered expression. I guess I can't blame him. What kind of person makes jokes at a time like this?

"Clare," he becomes completely serious. I sit up straighter and fix the creases on my sweatshirt, "You need to tell a counselor."

Nausea slithers up my throat. I can't do it. I can't do it. I can't do it. How is it even possible to confess about something like this? Throw sagacity out the window and just say it in black and white? Creep your way into the truth, opening it up, door by door, until reality strikes them in the face? The amount of ways to confess is equivalent to the amount of reactions I can be given.

"I don't want to."

Eli scoots closer and drapes an arm around my shoulder. I don't move; don't lean into him or push myself away. I'm too terrified to do anything.

"I know," he bites his lip, "I just," closes his eyes, "Can't imagine," pinches the bridge of his nose, "What you're going through." Lets out a deep breath.

…

…

…

"Me neither."

It's eight thirty. We're late for school. Like it actually matters. I never want to go there again; never want face anyone again. Yet I know I have to. Eventually.

I stand up from the couch and discover that my head has gone completely frail. Nothing seems real. My hand might not actually be clutching the armrest. Eli might not be staring at me with determined eyes.

"We're late," I say.

Eli sighs and looks at his watch. Nothing on his face seems to change at the knowledge. "I know," he sighs, "But that doesn't mean we shouldn't go."

"What about clothes?"

I know I'm being stupid. But I'll do anything to pry my way out of this situation.

"It doesn't matter. You just- we just have to do this."

"Have to do this" are a string of words everyone hates. Because we all know that when they are said, that something dreaded- whether it is a way to change your future or collect a part of your past- is arriving one moment too soon. Feeling that gut-wrenching exhaustion once again, I sink down on the floor against the couch and close my eyes.

I can sense Eli staring at me, not knowing what to do. After a second he sits down on the couch. His knee is just touching my shoulder. "We really should leave soon," his voice is strangled with an unrecognizable emotion.

I open my eyes and look up at him. His hair is still a wreck and his sweatshirt is completely wrinkled. "How am I even going to do it?" I whisper desperately, even though I know Eli won't have an answer.

He blinks four times, never keeping his gaze off me. "I don't know," he shakes his head, "But it just, it just doesn't even matter, Clare. Sometimes what you have to say is more important that how you say it."

"I don't even know what to say."

Eli sighs and plops down on the floor next to me. He begins tracing patterns on his knee.

"Just say it how you said it to me," he finally states. Those words make it sound so simple, but something in the quivering of Eli's voice makes me know that he understands it's not. Not even the least bit.

My knees give out even though I'm already sitting. The churnings in my stomach have reached a whole new level, and every itch on my body feels like a letter in the word fear.

"I wasn't even thinking when I told you," I let out a humorless laugh, "But now all I can do is think. I just wish I could shut off my brain. At least then things would be easier."

Eli stops tracing patterns. He's not looking at me, but I can still sense his attention on me. "If you had no brain," he says harshly, "You wouldn't even be here in the first place. I mean, it must have taken some thought to come to me."

My father's face comes into mind. His hand grasping my arm for dear life, the dying disposition flooding through his eyes, the way it felt to rip myself away from him, watching his fingers slide off my bruised skin.

"Not really."

We continue to sit on the floor, refusing to look at one another. Fifteen minutes have probably passed since Eli has woken up, and I know valuable time is being wasted, but I don't want to move. I don't want to shift any part of my life right now.

Eli looks over at me, "How long?"

How long for what? I almost ask him, but I know what he's saying, know what dangerous territory he's trespassing on. I grip my stomach as if doing so may protect me from saying the words.

"About four years."

He doesn't say anything. But his body his tense. The flaming rage inside of him is exposing through his skin and burning into my own. Instinctively, I shift away.

"Four years?" His voice is toxic, "Four years? Four freakin years?"

My eyes burn holes into the carpet. "Yes," I whisper.

"Four years," he says again, as though he were telling me the news, "I can't even believe it. Four years. God, so stupid!"

"I know," I cry out for the first time, "I know! I'm such an idiot!

"Yes you are!" Eli yells back. His tone makes me flinch. "How could you let someone hurt you for that long?"

I stand up sharply and point a raging finger at him. "It wasn't just 'someone', Eli. It was my father."

He stands up, too. Our bodies are only inches away from touching. I refuse to make any contact with him. If we do, a fire might start.

"And that makes it even better?"

I explode a suffocated scream. "No, but it makes it even harder! Don't you get it? He's my dad, Eli, my dad. I don't want to be one of those pitied kids who go into a foster home because mommy left and daddy got abusive. I don't want to grow up without a parent! I don't want to be like that kind of person!"

"So you'd rather be the kind of person who gets beaten by there own father? Is that really any better?"

I turn away from him. He's right. Everything he said is right. Everything he said is the truth.

But the truth hurts. And I can't handle any more pain.

Eli walks up behind me and places his hands on my shoulders. "I know you're scared," his voice is soft now. I don't know if it's because he's too exhausted to be mad or actually knows how close I am to breaking. Frankly, I don't even care. "And well, that's really it. You're scared. And you should be. But stop trying not to be scared, Clare. All you're going to end up doing is scaring yourself more."

I lean back against his chest and his grip on me tightens, almost possessively. "I can't help it. Being scared is all I've really known."

"I know."

I wipe my eyes even though I'm not crying and take a step forward. I know Eli's watching me, waiting for what I'm going to do next, but I'm not even sure where I'm headed.

All I know is I'm not going back.

I can't go back.

I spin on my heels to stare at Eli right in the eyes. He seems shocked by my sudden gain of confidence, but doesn't move a muscle.

"Let's go."

We don't speak as we put on our coats and head towards Eli's car. We don't speak at the first red light, or the first stop sign, or any of the ones after that. We don't speak when the car ignition dies off in the Degrassi parking lot and terror becomes my only emotion.

I'm trying to save up my voice. As though these few moments lurking ahead may flood my vocal cords.

Eli steps out of his car and shuts the door. I don't do anything.

The nausea is all I can feel. It's taking over me: every freckle and every vein and every ounce of blood in my body. My skin turns as scorching as fire and there's absolutely nothing to cool it down.

I look down at the cut on my palm, which is now covered by a band-aid. Such a small wound took such a long time to heal. How is there enough time in this world to heal all the other ones on me?

How is there enough time in this world to heal me?

Why did I even think I could be saved in the first place? Eli's strong and brave, but he has his own problems to deal with. He doesn't deserve someone else's weight on his shoulders. What was going through my mind? Nothing ever has a happy ending. Just silence. An endless, echoing stream of silence.

The passenger door opens up and the harsh wind brings goose bumps on my arms.

Eli is staring down at me. He doesn't seem annoyed by my lack of motion. Just worried. And maybe a little scared, too.

Scared and worried because of me.

"Are you coming?" He asks.

What other choice do I have? Stay stuck inside Eli's hearse forever, staring through the windshield and watch the world go by. Watch the sunset and the rain fall and other people's lives shatter and come together again.

I nod my head. "Yes."

The hallways are pretty much empty when we enter the school. Most people are already in class. A few students linger by their lockers. The bad asses: the ones who don't need no education. Their heads turn slightly as Eli and I walk on by, but there attention diminishes even faster than it arrived.

The guidance counselor's office is only six floor tiles away from us now. My feet are moving but I can't feel them. I can't feel anything at all. Not even Eli's arm around my shoulder.

SILENCE

- Six

RUN

-Five

DENIAL

-Four

ACCEPTANCE

-Three

CHANGE

-Two

AFTERMATH

-One

The door, I swear, is wearing the same expression as my father. That daring look. Just waiting to see how far I'll take it.

But I guess at the moment everything reminds me of him. Each object in this narrow hallway brings me back to my dad, one way or another. And closing my eyes and counting to ten won't make that go away

Where is he now, I wonder to myself. Looking for me? Waiting for me? Sitting at home in the dark, with a full cup of coffee sitting idly on the table, praying that this will just go away? Throwing things around in pure chaos, glass shattering, furniture breaking, his whole house falling apart in sync with his life?

Or is he at work, laughing with the guys and smiling at the girls, telling them all just how wonderful he is. Putting me, his daughter, in the shed of his mind and dealing with his life one bridge at a time.

These images are driving me insane. I can't even think of my father without being exposed to that callous agony in the center of my chest. His face, his voice, him, are just too much to bear.

"You're shaking," I hear Eli say.

I am shaking. I just assumed it was all in my head, like so many of the things I think are real.

Eli slides his arm off my shoulders when I turn to face him. His eyes are filled with concern.

Concern because of-

But then I realize something. Eli isn't just concerned because of me.

He's concerned for me.

He never had to help me. He didn't have to show me the rooftop or tell me about Julia or let me in his house at three thirty in the morning. He did all of it, maybe not even because he wanted to, but maybe because he felt obliged to.

Maybe he just did what he did because when you care about someone, you help them.

When you care about someone, you don't beat them. Even though you may love them.

I suck in a deep breath and refuse to let it out. For this one moment, I just want to enjoy the air in my lungs. I want to know I have something to hold onto.

"I guess it's time," I say once I finally exhale.

Eli looks at the closed door. "Do you want me to come in with you?"

Yes. More than anything in the world. I don't want to face this alone. I don't know if I can do this alone.

"No," the word tastes like venom, "I mean, I want you to, but you can't."

Eli tilts his head to the side, confused. "Why?"

I let my eyes fall shut. I'm not even speaking to him anymore. "This started with me. It needs to end the same way."

His warm hand brushes the skin on my cheek. I lean into his touch, wanting more than anything to grab that hand and run away from all this. Escape reality.

But I can't. This isn't about doing what I want. It's about doing what's right, even if it may be the most terrifying experience in my life.

"I should go in now."

Eli nods and sits down against the wall.

"You don't have to stay here for me," I whisper, even though I think I might die if he doesn't.

His eyes roam up until they meet my own. "I'm not doing this for you, Clare," he says huskily, "I'm doing this for me. I need to be here when it's over."

A smile, the first one in a long time, makes it's way onto my face. "Thank you for doing this, even if it's not for me."

He shrugs, as if, you even need to say that? "I can't help it if I'm self fish."

I smile once more at him before turning the knob and entering the counselor's office.

I can barely even breathe. Everything seems so unreal, yet I can feel the power of reality itself weighing down onto my shoulders.

Ms. Evans turns her attention of the computer screen and onto me. She gently slides her glasses off. "What do you need, Clare?"

I think of my father again. Every aspect of him; the way he smelt, the way his hair stuck to his forehead whenever he got out of the shower, the way his hand felt rubbing my shoulder as he would walk passed me. The look in his eyes when I ripped away from him forever.

The dam breaks

I cry. For the first time in four years, I cry. Severe sobbing sounds escape from my mouth as I bury my head in my hands. Already, my eyes sting and burn, but I don't care. I'm finally crying.

I cry for Alli, my best friend who I let slip away.

I cry for Adam, who will never get to live in the right body.

I cry for Eli, who went through more loss than most people can ever imagine.

I cry for my dad, the broken man who will never get to see his daughter's face again.

And I cry for me. The daughter of that broken man. The girl who drowned in secrets and lost herself in a sea of bruises. The girl that can barely identify herself and doesn't even want to.

The girl who got beaten.

But somewhere beneath the exterior of all the pain and agony, there was another reason for my tears. It wasn't happiness or joy or even relief. It was a feeling of finally being able to do something in my life I was never able to do before. And maybe I don't know exactly where I'm headed, but as I let in a wave of oxygen and look up to face my destiny, I get a slight glimpse of what that something may be.

BREATHE