Artie: Blackbird

Take these broken wings and learn to fly.

Sometimes I dream I'm walking, and that's the whole dream. Just walking for what feels like days. And other times I'm stuck in one place, and the scenery is trapped in an endless five feet loop, but I didn't have either of those dreams last night. Last night I walked to the Brooklyn Film Academy where they were playing my films, but the only sound coming from the screen was: "Wake up!"

"Artie!"

"WAKE. UP."

Joanna was violently shaking me, and I moaned as I rolled over. "What?" I groaned, annoyed.

"This is the third time I've come in here. Mom said to get your ass up or we're leaving without you."

"You're too young to be swearing."

"I'm fourteen!" She replied, indignant.

"Too young."

"Whatever. We're leaving in 15 minutes, with or without you."

"Well God forbid the Golden Corral gets swallowed up before we get there," I sarcastically replied.

"Whatever," she said, rolling her eyes. She walked off, mumbling that she couldn't wait until I left for school so she could have the house to herself and…

Sometimes I imagined myself running up behind her and strangling her, and for about half a second-something to which I owe the leftover traces of the dream-I almost felt like I could, but that passed. I sat up in bed, running my fingers through my tangled hair and then rubbing the sleep from my eyes.

When I was younger and I had those dreams, I'd wake up and try to get out of the bed. Sometimes I'd tumble to the floor before I realized that I couldn't move my legs. I'd always cry after reality set in. Eventually, I came to terms with it and learned to put my stock in other things, like my films. But the last time I was truly upset about it was after the ReWalk that was supposed to be a Christmas miracle broke the next day. Even then, I wasn't so much sad for myself, but to see the hope it gave my parents snatched away so quickly was difficult.

Mom has always blamed herself for what happened, and though she knows that I don't blame her, I learned a long time ago to let her carry whatever pain she was bent on carrying. She and Sam are alike in that way, I suppose, but when I try to talk to him about it, he changes the subject. I can't really blame him, though, because everything is still so fresh. Mom, on the other hand, with years of coping under her belt, has made enough peace to set her eyes on Brooklyn, and it's been a long time since I've seen her so excited. I suppose that I have Joanna and the half hour tirade she went on about how I deserved to live my life to thank for helping our parents to see the light.

Joanna was becoming quite the savior these days and even had a golden touch with Sam's little sister. Stacey had taken the move the hardest having been the one child Sam's mom hadn't tried to defile, and it was lost on her why they couldn't go home. Joanna was a godsend on those nights when she struggled and could take her from full-blown hysteria to sleeping angel in minutes.

"You're not still sleeping, right?"

Mom was now on my case, calling from down the hall.

"I'm up!" I yelled back. "What the fuck?" That I whispered.

I couldn't blame them for rushing me, though, and to be honest, I appreciated it. It was better than being treated like an invalid, like my losing the ability to walk meant that I was broken, too. Yes, the accident had forced me to change my way of doing things, but if it changed who I was, it only made me more determined to live my life the way I wanted and deserved to live it. And that meant leaving home.

Sugar, who was determined to be by my side but hadn't yet heard back from NYU, had plans to bribe them if she couldn't get in on merit alone. I told her not to worry, but, in truth, it was getting late. However, having seen her dad work magic to turn other tides in their favor, I believed her declarations of bribery.

I pulled myself into my chair and wheeled myself down the hall and to the bathroom. They could get me with my breath smelling like shit or they could wait another five minutes. I was certain they'd rather wait.

Stevie and Stacey: Remember You

And I need to save you, but who's going to save me?

"I wish that Mommy would come back so that she could read the story," Stacey said. "She does voices and it's better."

Stacey sat on one side of me with her arms crossed, sulking. Her lip was quivering, and she kept blinking and pushing her messy hair out of her face, trying not to let her tears fall. Stevie glared at her from my other side and shook his head.

"Well I like Sam's better," he said, and she scowled at his attack.

I paused my rendition of The Little Prince to frown at her. "You know that we can't be with her right now," I said. "But you know she's thinking about you. They both are."

"I want Mommy," she said, feverishly wiping at her cheeks where her tears had betrayed her and fallen. "I want to go home!"

Stevie rolled his eyes. "Shut up," he whispered.

I tapped him on the shoulder and shook my head. He crossed his arms, pouting, and stared away as I talked to Stacey. "We can't go home, Stacey. You know that."

She'd stopped listening. As soon as I said that, she clamped her small hands to her ears and let her tears fall. "I hate it here!" She said through sniffles. "I want to go home!"

"Stacey, I-"

"No!" She screamed, cutting me off. "I want Mommy!"

Stevie was shaking his head, mumbling angrily to himself. The room was seconds away from chaos, and I honestly couldn't say how the hell it had gotten to this point.

I tried again, reaching for her. "Calm down-"

"Stop it, Sam!" Her voice was piercing, and she jumped off the bed and ran to a corner of the room. I knew better than to encroach upon her space, and she began to throw a tantrum.

"Shut up!" Stevie finally yelled, and I whipped my head to face him. He was red with anger and his entire body shook. "She hates us, and I hope we never see her again!"

Stacey's screams melted into sobs, and she rushed from the room, banging on Joanna's door until it opened and she poured herself into Joanna's arms. I watched them from the doorway of the guest room at a complete loss for words, and Joanna shot me a look of reassurance. "I got her," she mouthed, pulling Stacey into her room and closing the door behind her.

Stevie was still sitting on the bed when I turned back into the room, but his arms were wrapped tightly around his legs, and he was shaking and blinking fast to keep the tears welling in his big eyes from falling.

"I don't want to read anymore," he said quietly when I sat on the bed.

"We don't have to," I replied, putting the book on the nightstand. "You want to go to sleep?"

He shook his head and finally wiped his eyes. "Can we watch Adventure Time?"

Halfway through the second episode, he was yawning, and he leaned into me. I petted his hair and watched the Ice King clamber onto the top of a fridge to assuage his guilt for pushing Marceline.

"Thank you for protecting me, Sam," Stevie said suddenly, yawning again.

"What was that, buddy?" I asked.

"Stacey's mad, but you brought us here because you love us. Thank you."

For the second time tonight, I was at a loss for words and stared at the television, my own vision becoming blurry as his breathing evened out and Marceline crooned:

"Marceline, is it just you and me in the wreckage of the world?

That must be so confusing for a little girl.

And I know you're going to need me here with you.

But I'm losing myself and I'm afraid you're going to lose me, too…"

I went into the kitchen when the episode was over so that Stevie could sleep. My thoughts felt so loud that I was certain he'd be able to hear them in his dreams. Mr. Abrams sat at the counter reading a book before bed. He didn't acknowledge me when I sat down, but he closed his book soon after and offered me tea, getting up to refill his cup.

"It's Sleepytime," he explained, shaking the box at me.

"I'd prefer coffee, if I get to choose."

He smirked. "You don't. You have school tomorrow and you need to sleep."

I shook my head. "I can't."

He sighed and leaned on the counter. "She'll be fine, Sam," he assured me. "I checked on her, and she's already out like a light."

"I don't know what to say to her anymore," I admitted. "I don't know how to calm her down when she gets like this, and it's happening more and more frequently."

"That's not your fault. I understand how hard it must be to see her so upset, but you've done everything right. She can't understand it now, but this is the best thing you could've done for her. You can't forget that."

"Is it?" I asked, refusing to meet his eyes.

"Yes," he replied without hesitation.

"I mean, Mom never touched her, and now she thinks I'm the reason she can't be with them." I swallowed a lump in my throat. "And Stevie thanked me even though she abused him for months and I did nothing to help him."

"Stevie thanked you because you deserved it. Because you were moved to action the minute you knew something was wrong." His face was full of concern. "You can't change what happened, Sam, and you can't keep blaming yourself for what she did and for what you didn't know."

"I know," I agreed, but there was no conviction in my voice.

"Sam, none of this is your fault."

"I know."

"Look at me, son." He was asking, not demanding, but I felt the need then to lock eyes with him. "It's not your fault."

He came around the counter and embraced me, and I fought him for a moment, until I couldn't, until I was beginning to finally let it all go.

"Fuck them, okay?" He said, hugging me. "And forgive yourself."

Mercedes: Cool

We have changed, but we're still the same.

"You still like Cinnamon Apple Spice, right?"

"It's still my favorite," I replied, taking the warm cup in my hands. "You didn't have to go out of your way, though, Shane."

He smiled and dropped into a chair across from me, sipping black coffee from a giant mug. "Well I want you to be comfortable while you're here," he said, and I just shook my head.

I'd commented on his lack of tea when he offered me coffee a few days ago, and after quipping that maybe I should consider moving to England instead, he'd subsequently stocked up while I was gallivanting around town and taking in everything I'd missed. He'd presented me with so many choices the next morning, I couldn't help but laugh and ask him to decide.

It felt so good to be in Shane's company again, and though I was full of nerves the entire ride to LA, everything fell right back into its old rhythm the moment I saw him waiting for me in the arrivals gate. He hugged me like he'd only seen me yesterday instead of more than a year ago, and none of the vast emptiness our breakup had left us with was present. He was downright eager to take me out and help me catch up with everyone and everything I'd left behind, and after only a few days back, I was beginning to remember why this place was so good for me.

"So you're going up to UCLA today?" He asked, and I nodded.

"Seeing if there's still a place for me there."

"You shouldn't worry about that," he shrugged, and his eyes seemed to bore into me. "They would be crazy not to take you back."

"Really?"

"Definitely. Just talk to them with the same passion you get when you start singing. I don't know how anybody resists you then."

I blushed and looked down at my lap, unsure whether or not I wanted that to mean more than what it did. Shane had a new girlfriend now, and I was glad, but we'd gone to karaoke the other night, and I was brave enough to sing "Hello." I was hoping to use it as a way to apologize, but ever since then, there'd been renewed and lingering tension. He'd make small comments or touch me in a way that made me question whether or not he wanted to rekindle what we had. Perhaps it was just because we were so comfortable around each other and that I missed this type of intimacy that I was so conflicted now. But I knew that at the end of the day everything would remain the same.

"Thanks for encouraging me," I said and took an extra large gulp of tea.

My vacation was only a few more short days, and I was dreading the end already. I'd bought my ticket the day after I visited my mother and broke down in her arms, and when I told her I was going, she thanked God and immediately called Marcus. I didn't bother telling my dad; he would say the same thing whether he found out before or after, and at least if it was after I'd be better equipped to stand my ground. I'd already met up with several friends I'd been longing to see and visited some of my favorite haunts. Today was a full day of meetings with UCLA to figure out a plan. If they agreed to take me back and I realized it wasn't what I wanted, I could always say no, but I had spent too long without even giving myself the option.

"What time's your meeting?" He asked.

"11:30 with Dean Olian."

"Still sticking with business?" He asked, one brow raised in question.

"Well, it's what I was doing before I left." I shrugged. "I'm good at it."

"I suppose." He said the words slowly then sighed.

"What?"

He gave me a crooked smile and raised his hands in defense. "Nothing...I just thought with you coming back you might have grown a pair."

"Oh please, Shane." I rolled my eyes. "Give me some credit."

"I do," he insisted. "I just...I don't know. I thought that maybe you'd go for music this time around. I mean, you're not just good at it; you make me fall in love with you every time you sing." He watched me carefully. "But what do I know. It was just a thought." I could feel the blood creeping into my cheeks again, but I refused to be shy this time, and Shane was the one to break eye contact. "You should probably get ready," he finally said. "LA traffic, you know."

"Yeah, yeah."

I pushed up from the couch intending to wash my cup, but he stopped me.

"I'll take care of it," he offered.

I placed my hand on his shoulder and gave it a squeeze before heading to the bathroom and taking the coldest shower that I could stand.

l*********************l

"Wow. You look...great!" He beamed. "If your credentials don't impress the dean, then that definitely will."

"Uh, thanks," I said, trying to be cool. "I, uh, got it from that little thrift store we passed the first day. It's not too much?"

He shook his head. "It's perfect."

"It" was an above-the-knee A-line royal purple dress covered in lace with a cute cutaway collar and long lace sleeves. I'd been looking for about a half hour before finding it tucked away in the $5 bin (where clothes go to die), and I knew that the people of LA were either stupid or blind to have let this sit for so long. It didn't escape me that the dress was purple. Of course it was, and the fact that I found it on my first day back was telling.

"I think this will work for dinner tonight as well," I agreed.

He nodded. "When Le'Shera sees it, she'll be jealous that she didn't find it first. She goes to that store all the time."

"Is it even in her size?"

He shook his head. "Doesn't matter. She'd make it work. She's brilliant like that."

There were stars in his eyes as he thought of his girlfriend, and I couldn't help but think about how I kept getting shades of that look when he looked at me. I pursed my lips then and asked the question that had plagued me since Shane and I began talking again two weeks ago. It seemed even more important to ask now, since things felt like they might be changing between us, and I wasn't sure if it was a good thing.

"She is okay with me staying with you, right? And us talking again?"

"Of course," he said confidently. "She trusts me."

I released a breath, and the tension I'd been holding in went with it.

And then he added: "She's not stupid, though, and she knows that I'll always carry a torch for you. I'd be a fool to lie about it, but I think I'd be an even bigger fool to sacrifice what I have for a flight risk."

He was searching for a guarantee that I could not give to him, and though it stung for him to call me noncommittal, I couldn't disagree with him.

"I'm glad that you have her, Shane," I finally said. "You are probably the sweetest man I know, and you deserve to feel happy and secure in your relationship. I couldn't do that for you, but I'm glad you found someone who can." I grabbed his hand and stroked soothing circles into the back of it with my thumb. "You were the first man besides my brother to ever only touch me out of love, and I will forever remain grateful to you for that. I will always love you for that." He gave me a sad smile, and I lowered my eyes. "Going back to that hell was the hardest decision I ever made, and knowing that I hurt you haunted me. But to see you now, so happy again, even though it's not with me...I would never try to take that from you."

He squeezed my hand, I met his eyes, and we watched each other in silence for a moment, allowing our past-all the joys and hurt-to find a place in our present where it all felt perfect.

"Well I'm just going to grab my wallet and keys, and then we can go," he said before releasing my hand and walking towards his bedroom. He stopped before getting there, though, and turned back.

"Thank you for that," he said and gave me another smile.

"You deserved real closure," I said.

He nodded and disappeared into his room. I let out another breath and stared at the ceiling until the tears that were threatening to escape had crawled their way back in. And I wasn't upset because I wanted him back or anything like that, but I was sad for that which was lost and that I knew I could never have with Shane again.

"You ready?" He asked, appearing suddenly, and I forced a smile.

"Yeah."

Mom and Dad: Prisoners

If Hans Christian Andersen could've had his way with me then none of this shit would've ever gone down.

I'm used to this by now: sign in, deposit belongings in a room that will be locked behind me, follow the herd down the hallways to the common room, where the residents will enter from a separate door. Within moments we meet in all our awkward embraces and hellos. A smile plays on Mary's face when she spots me, but I know better than to hug her. She does, however, allow me to deliver a brief kiss to the forehead lest I might decide she's no longer worth it in the 24 hours until my next opportunity to see her. Visiting hours are from 6 to 8pm on weekdays and 2 to 8pm on weekends. I see her every time I can.

We settle into chairs, trying to knit together a conversation from stray and tangled comments. What she ate for lunch. The change in the weather. The latest antics of the characters in her favorite television show. All normal conversation for the psych ward, where we are all in collusion, pretending that to be there is utterly normal. Mary's hair is greasy, and she's been wearing the same black corduroys for days. Yet she still can, at this point, pass for average. She's getting worse, though, and as I glance around in the in-betweens of our conversation, I can't help but wonder if they are all this much at risk, ready to drop off the edges of their fragile little worlds.

She's been here for 36 days already, and it's been 864 hours since this became our normal. 51,840 minutes since I learned about the wolf in sheep's clothes. 3,110,400 seconds that I've battled with morality and still haven't come up with a proper answer. But I'm here, supporting the wife that I vowed to love for better or for worse. And this is the worse. It has to be because I feel like I don't know the person sitting beside me, but she has Mary's face and Mary's smile. She isn't my Mary, though. She is a stranger.

She has the idea that she is in because she told the police she was suicidal; I thought it was because she was confronted with what she had done to our children and then threatened suicide when she was arrested. Mary sincerely believes her own story. This is not the first time the phrase "distorted thinking" has appeared in my head. It takes me the first week to realize that, to her way of thinking, there was a real connection between being arrested and suicide because her mind works like lightning and moves from thought to thought without weighing any of them. Suddenly, without knowing how or why, she is in fight or flight, cannot evaluate clearly what is a threat and what is not, and then all is lost. Or she believes it is.

The other families are playing Scrabble or cards, foosball or talking in soft voices over meals they have brought in and have had a staff member check. For what? I'm never quite certain. The room hums with the steady sound of people trying to relate to one another. Once in awhile during a visit a resident will suddenly raise a voice in anger or pain, and a staff member will intervene with a gentle directive for the resident to leave the common room. It is jarring when a visit ends abruptly—a raised voice, a threatening tone, pathologies playing out in the genteel atmosphere of the visitors' hours.

Sometimes I look around me and spot my wish-list husband-wife duo. They're playing Boggle and laughing, whispering jokes and secrets to one another. The husband rubs the wife's back and embraces her in a long, loving hug. Affection is slowly slipping away from my wife; she no longer likes being touched. Sometimes I can administer a hug gently, as long as I ask, but they are rarely, if ever, exchanged.

When I visited the first time, the weekend psychiatrist asked a battery of questions. "Has she been diagnosed before?" "No," I tell her. "She's here to be assessed, isn't she? So they can learn why she's been raping our children." This last part does not come easily to me, but I decided that I would tell the people at the hospital the truth even if it tasted like bile in my mouth. She glares at me and makes notes. I wonder if she thinks that this is my fault, if I somehow should have known and deserve to be locked up, too. If she is thinking this she's right.

I cycle through a list of diagnoses that might give me answers: Depression, Generalized Anxiety Disorder, Frotteuristic Disorder, Pedophilic Disorder (specify if: limited to incest). I save that one for last; no one really wants to say that label. The professionals, and we are ensconced in a team of good ones, are not necessarily eager to diagnose. They know the stigma that will come once a label is firmly affixed, but this is what they have to do. Me, I love labels at this point: they inform, guide, direct. It's just hard to utter them for fear of people's reactions.

"She's struggling a bit at the moment," I practice telling the people in our lives, minimizing her problem for my own sanity. "But she's a survivor." That is the lie. Our children are survivors and she is the one who took away their innocence. And this is her path, her story, her life, and her illness is not my doing. And still I am defensive.

In this I am confronted with questions I may never know how to answer. Where is she? She was a stunningly gorgeous and artistic woman with the ability to walk into a room and suss out every minor social nuance occurring. We met on a dance floor where she was tearing it up and every man held their breath to be noticed by her. To my delight, she pointed me out and said that I was her next partner. We became inseparable, and she taught me the mysteries of the world. I thought that she was happy. She adjusted easily to everything that life threw her way, even the things that I expected to break her completely. Perhaps I was too optimistic. I suppose I blame myself for how she was stunted; I killed her light with my ambition until her demons resurfaced and swallowed her. There is static in her head; her emotional life takes up most of the grey matter. Where did she go?

Seeing a couple with children out of the corner of her eye, she smiles and tentatively asks about ours. I have to dull the sharp pang of anger that boils up and shut her down gently. She can't ask about them, not yet, even though I know that she may only have nine days left here. Having no contact with them myself has made me bitter, and though Doug and Nancy have kept me informed, attempting to relay a secondhand account is an extra reminder that our family is no longer whole. In a day or two, I'll know if they can live with me again, but I don't want to tell her this and give her false hope that things will ever be the same again.

How did this happen? I want to know.

Three weeks into her stay, she admitted she had been a victim of abuse herself. A dead older brother had stolen her innocence, had been the root cause of it all. Having died before she could come to terms with what had happened, he'd left a void that ached for relief. She took our children into that void, and though I pitied the childhood she'd lost, I could not forgive her for the present carnage. I didn't know if or when I would.

She hugs me then, without warning, and I am shocked but gradually place my arms around her. She strokes my hair, breathes into my neck, and encourages me to hug her deeper, longer. For a moment it feels like we're somewhere else, and I allow myself to get lost in this temporary delusion.

"I'm sorry," she finally whispers into my ear. This is the first real acknowledgement she's made. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry…"

The whispers turn into a mantra that she repeats until visiting hours are over and a staff member calmly separates us. My shirt is wet from her tears, and she's shaking so badly they have to help her exit the room. My face contorts for a moment, my body jerking forward slightly, but I hold it together. I believe her, my God do I believe her, but it's not enough.

Quinn: Timshel

But I can't move the mountains for you.

It always happened out of nowhere, and then my body was itching for relief, aching to be anywhere else and to do anything to forget. This time belonged to the blonde-haired toddler in the park. I could hear her giggling from the second she got out of the car, and I tried to avert my eyes, but my body doesn't always do what I tell it to. If it did, I wouldn't be walking so fast to places I know I shouldn't go. But every laugh was a dagger in me, and I needed relief.

She sprinted to the swings and demanded to be pushed. "Higher, Mommy!" she cried and higher still. And when she could nearly touch the sky, her acclamation switched to a repetition of "I love this day!" until every word I read was a variation of the phrase.

The mother was young, perhaps only a few years older than me, and I could not help the envy suddenly coursing through my veins. I had not seen my baby since the day she was born, and that pair, with their matching blonde curls, could've been Beth and me in a different world. How was it that life was kind to her and that I was chosen to be an example? I'd have been a wonderful mother, as loving and kind as my parents had been to me. Beth would have grown up surrounded by love, but little did I know that someone as sweet and innocent as she would be the final nail in the coffin. I don't blame her for how everything turned out; I could never, but I wonder how things might have been if my father loved me then as he claims to love me now.

I had an opportunity once, a little over a year ago, to see her. Her adoptive mother, Shelby, wrote me a letter and asked to meet up. I was in, at least I thought at the time, the heaviest of my drug use, and I was too afraid that I would screw things up. I never wrote back. She sent two more letters letting me know that the option would always be open, but I've always been too chickenshit to respond. Beth deserves the mother that would have loved her all those years ago, not the person that I've become.

My hands shook as I texted Job, my dealer, and waited for the bus. Santana would be angry if she could see me now, seeking out the darkness she tried to save me from, but she'd try to play someone who understood how hard to was to change. However, she didn't know what it was like to so desperately want to feel different and at the same time not care to change. And nothing she could do or say would fill that void as well as what I was heading towards. It wasn't Conor. At least I had that.

It's difficult to admit that you're no longer sober. It's harder, still, to stay sober once you know what it's like. The ability to escape your life is a gift from God, if only temporarily; no one could tell me that it isn't. And there isn't as much shame these days. Job is one of the most nonjudgmental people I've ever met, and he sticks firmly to Biggie's Ten Commandments. He treats my addiction like an illness, recognizing it's not something I can always control. I trust him, and it's hard to trust people like him. We meet at the mall because it's less conspicuous this way. Doing things out in the open is easier than you can imagine, and soon I'm on another bus to another safe place where there is no judgment. I'm allowed to stay for as long as I need.

I fall asleep, and I dream of her. I always dream of her. She looks like the person that I used to be, but she has Puck's eyes. We're at the park, on the brightest day I've ever known, and she runs up to the swings, demanding to be pushed. I oblige because I could never deny her anything.

"Higher, Mommy!" She squeals with delight, and I indulge her.

The swing goes higher and higher still until she's melting into the sky. It's so bright that I can only squint as I push her into the blinding light. She comes back down slower every time until it feels like an eternity between my releasing her and her return, but I can still see hear her laughter. It echoes back down one last time as I release her, and she is gone.

Sam: Nothing Gets Crossed Out

I almost forgot who I was but came to my senses.

"I don't know how to do this." I admitted, clearing my throat. "To, to talk to you, I mean, but you probably know that by now because it's been so long since we have."

I picked at some of the grass beside me and, realizing where I was and what that could mean, thought better of it and stopped. I instead leaned against the smooth granite and allowed my body to slump.

"It's just, Artie's dad made me come-not that I didn't want to, I did. I just, I don't know." A lump was forming in my throat again, and I coughed a few times to try and clear it. It was determined to stay. "You were always better at dealing with the shit. I know that now."

I allowed my head to fall back and closed my eyes against the warm breeze that had picked up. "I don't know how you did it all, like some ever-filling vessel that could catch all the pain you wanted to heal. I mean, I can't even force my brain to read a sentence properly, but you fought both your demons and mine and I don't even know how many other people's. You always had time to be the hero, and all I ever wanted was to be that strong…" I squeezed my eyes against the threat of sadness. "Sawyer, I…" I breathed in deeply and slowly to regulate my emotions, focusing on the cool granite of Sawyer's tombstone as it pressed against my back instead of...other things.

I looked across the way at Sarah, who had insisted on bringing me when she learned I was coming. She was sitting in the car, studying for an exam, but I knew that she'd be immediately available if I needed her. She had told me to speak from the heart and everything that needed to be said would come. But I was at a loss for words, and the utterances of my soul weren't enough to express it all. I needed to start from the beginning.

"I wanted to be like you more than anyone else in the entire world. You were just so fucking cool." I laughed a bit. "But I don't think I ever told you that. I showed you all the time by annoying the hell out of you, but you took it in stride and were always so patient with me. I hung onto your heels like you might one day float away because you were obviously destined for great things. And when you did go, I'd have traded infinite stars just to get you back."

Everything was quiet, as if it were lying in wait for me to continue.

"I envied you, too, you know?" I said. "I mean you had everything: both Georgia's and Sarah's love, our parents' adoration, and you were smart without having to try. There were so many days when I felt I'd never measure up, and it felt like I still had to fight to feel seen even after you died." I shook my head and sighed. "But it was never a competition to you, and I'm sorry I didn't recognize that earlier. I was your brother and that meant you would do everything to ensure I wasn't left behind. You made me feel seen. I wish you'd have told me that you were struggling or that you'd have let me tell someone about that day with Mom, but she forced you to keep a horrible secret. She was supposed to be the one person we could trust, but she used your love against you. I am so sorry, Sawyer."

I wiped at my face with the back of my hand.

"I'm starting to get how scared you must've been and how big of a sacrifice you made to go to college knowing that she was capable of such monstrous things. Because, for the first time in my life, I'm just like you, and I'm standing at a similar crossroads. I know this is a decision you always wanted me to avoid; you gave her your body and your freedom to ensure it, but the world is fucked up like that sometimes and oftentimes the battles choose us. I think you secretly knew that, and I'm sorry that I couldn't have gained your selflessness instead of your burden. You spent so much of your life protecting other people that you needed to do something for yourself. You needed to find yourself and feel safe, and I can't blame you for leaving. I'm so sorry for the nine-year-old me that didn't understand and made you to feel like you'd abandoned him."

I ran my fingers through the grass and focused on a hawk perched in a tree in the distance. "I need your help now to make the right decision. I have done so many things selfishly and to leave without a guarantee that I've done right by them would just add to that list. I'm scared of choosing wrong."

I remembered then Sawyer in his dorm room, crouching down to speak to me. The pain in his eyes confirmed how difficult it was to leave home, and I finally understood. "I bet you felt the same way. You never knew if it was the right thing to do, but you trusted in the sacrifice you'd made for so many years. And even though you didn't go far to ensure our continued safety, you took a chance anyways. You told me that the day you left for school; I just wasn't listening, but I am now.

"Still, I wish you were here to tell me what I should do, but even if you were you'd make me grapple." I smiled. "Like when you forced me to try on my homework even when it sucked. I guess that's good for me, figuring things out on my own. I haven't done enough of that, and I promise you that I will try."

I pushed myself up from the ground and faced his tombstone, brushing off a bit of dust that had gathered on the top. "We're moving back in with Dad next week. I don't even know how to feel about that because he should have known what was happening with you, and this could've been over long before she got to Stevie. It might have even saved you." I shifted around to make myself more comfortable. "Stevie wants to stay at Artie's house, but the state sees no reason to keep him from Dad. Mom's locked up and they found no real fault in him, but he's got a lot to prove now. We both do."

I sighed deeply. "I told him that I would protect him, and I plan to do everything I can to ensure that happens, whether I stay or move a thousand miles away. The same way you did." I rested my hand on top of the stone. "I won't push you away anymore," I assured him. "And I'll come back to visit you soon, after I've figured this out, okay? Thanks for always being there for me."

Sarah was leaning against the driver's side door when I returned, and she offered me a smile and a hug when I was close enough to receive them. "Okay?" She asked.

I nodded. "Yeah, I think so."

"Good," she said, clasping her hands. "Let's go to Barista Parlour, my treat."

AN: This chapter is titled New Slang or Daughters based on the songs by The Shins and John Mayer, respectively.

Pop culture referenced in this chapter includes: Blackbird by The Beatles, Remember You by Adventure Time, Cool by Gwen Stefani, Hello by Adele, Prisoners by Regina Spektor, Timshel by Mumford and Sons, and Nothing Gets Crossed Out by Bright Eyes.

So this was fun, right? Right? *looks at you with crazy eyes* It's gonna take me forever to finish this story, isn't it?

I suppose it's a good time to tell you that I wrote stories all the time when I was younger. I could bang out a ficlet in a couple of hours and wrote a few short stories. The short story that this is based on took me about five days to write. Every time I attempted to write a novel, however, the story always seemed to get lost in my ambition and would eventually die. I currently have several creative projects that I've begun and have let fall to the wayside. For whatever reason, though, I haven't let this go. Take that as you will as you continue to read or not.

I swear it gets happier after this...for most of them.