I stare out the window. Dad's on the phone with Doctor Flynn in the hall. This morning I convinced mom to go home, take a shower and get some proper food. She finally gave in and left with the promise of coming back tomorrow. My fingers keep circulating on my stomach. It's not that skinny… is it? Not skinny enough to be coursed by an eating disorder anyway. I'm positive on that. They're just messing with you, fatty, the little girl frowns. I stare at the needle in my arm. It's connected to a bag with white fluid. I know it keeps filling me with floating food – making me fat. You've got to get out of here! I know, I answer the little girl and close my eyes. But how?

"Pheebs?" dads voice reach me and I look at him, standing at the end of my bed.

"I just talked to Flynn. If everything go as planned you can come home in a week. But only if you see him for a two hour session every second day." I just nod and look away. He's disappointed. Of all the things I've done, this is the worst. I'm a Grey. I have to be perfect – and I failed. The needle in my arm itches. I hate it with my entire heart. It really takes all my strength not to pull it out of me. Why fight it?

"I'm so sorry, Phoebe. I know some of this is my fault… I know it's all my fault," he says. I don't answer. I disagree, but I know I have to restart the big challenge of pushing him away.

"Stop being silly, Christian. That doesn't help anyone," someone says from the door. The beautiful Doctor Grace Grey enters the room and looks at me with a warm smile that reminds me of my childhood – I can almost smell the chocolate cakes and the yellow flowers, which grow in my grandparents' garden.

"Hi Grandma," I whisper – I hate that she sees me like this.

"Hi love," she replies and kisses my forehead gently – for some reason it doesn't bother me.

"Mom," dad says with a cold tone, but still filled with love. She smiles at him.

"Can I talk to you on the hallway?" dad follows and to my luck they forget to close the door properly – apparently they don't realize I hear everything they say.

"Christian, I told you it wouldn't help her that you blame yourself," Grandma sighs.

"I had to apologize!"

"Baby, you have nothing to say sorry for. Yes, you have a thing about food, but don't you see that this is so much more than that?"

"Then what is it?! I would love to know, mother!" dad sounds so frustrated. And again it's my fault. It must be a pain in the ass to have such a messed up daughter.

"Everything! Being a teenager nowadays is a though one. There's pressure from all sides – lots of children breaks under those terms."

"But I'm her father! I'm supposed to shelter her! And I… I couldn't protect her from this…"

"You can't protect someone from themselves! Christian, this is something inside of her," I know Grandma tries to be patient, but dads self-loathing is hard to fight – I've seen my mom trying to do that my entire life.

"But… I failed! I'm supposed to make sure nothing happens to her. That's my job as a parent!"

"You always tries to control everything," Grandma sighs.

"Yes. I do. That way I can make sure that no one I care about gets hurt. I know it's a bad feature, but it's a need, mom," dad sounds like he's doing business. I don't get why she even bother – I've had that discussion with him a thousand times. He will never lose his grip. The end.

"I know, baby. And Phoebe will need that more than anything after this. She will need something to control her ways – she completely lost herself, and she has to have someone who can make sure she gets on right track… even though she doesn't want to. I just need you to stop blaming yourself. And try to accept her feelings… please," Grandma pleads.

"Accept her feelings? I do!" dad objects.

"Do you? Phoebe grew up with you observing her every move, making sure she wouldn't get hurt. I love you, baby, but you can't blame the girl that she feels like she's getting suffocated. You have to… compromise. Try to give her some control of her own life."

"In this condition? Mom, she's barely capable of making sure she gets something to eat."

"Of course not now. I just told you she needs something to hold on to. But she won't be sick forever, Christian. And when she gets healthy again, you have to promise me to let her make her own decisions… and mistakes." You go Grandma! I mentally cheer at her. Maybe she can knock some sense into his head. Dad sighs and there's a long break.

"It's hard… to see your baby girl getting her heart broken and you can't do anything about it," he says almost so low I can't hear.

"I know. But it's life. And she has to experience that at some point – even though no one deserves to go trough what she did that night. Have you even talked to her about that guy?"

"No… I don't think I can without losing control…"

"I know you can, honey. You can do it for her. Just let her explain and… be supportive. She's had a very traumatic experience."

"All I want to do is go… I don't know, kill him or something. I'm so angry, mom. Just the thought of someone doing such a thing to my daughter… I can't even… I mean, it took all my strength to stop Taylor from kicking his ass – and really wanted to let him do it."

"I know. I understand that you're furious. But think about how Phoebe's feeling – she must be so scared. She needs her father," Grandma might be the smartest woman I know.

"Yeah… I know. But I promise you, his ass will go to jail."

"Of course," she mumbles. I think they might hug. Anyway, there's a long break. Then they enter my room. Dad tries to smile at me, looking like nothings wrong.

"How are you feeling, honey?" Grandma asks. I don't know what to answer.

"Full," I finally mumble, looking at the needle in my arm.

"Okay… are you still very tired?" she continues, probably not happy with my answer – it was the same as saying: "terrible. I'm getting fucking fat by the minute."

"A little," I sigh. She nods and gives my knee a squeeze.

"Okay. Get some rest, okay? I'll look in tomorrow. You got an appointment with the hospital psychologist, right?" she asks. I nod uncomfortable. I can't imagine how that will turn out.

"Okay. She's really nice and competent, I promise you. You'll like her. See you tomorrow, love." Grandma leaves, turning in the door to give me her kind smile. Dad obviously doesn't know what to do about himself. Then he sits in the chair next to me.

"So…" he tries to start a conversation – being with him has never been this awkward before.

"I heard it all," I interrupt. He looks confused.

"What?"

"You and Grandma. On the hall. I heard it all," I explain. He hesitates.

"I see," he mumbles.

"I'm scared, dad," I whisper, "I don't understand. I don't… feel sick. But everyone keeps telling me that I am. But I'm not… I'm not." I try to make him understand. He nods.

"You know what separates eating disorders from other mental diseases?" he asks. I shake my head – what is he trying to say?

"It's the only mental illness that makes you think it's your friend – and it makes you think it tries to help you." The little girl rolls her eyes. I can't take my eyes from her. Dad looks at me for a little while.

"Has your… condition made you see something unusual? It's completely normal that an eating disorder manifests itself in some way." I stare at her – and know I've reached a crossroad. Telling everyone about the little girl, my secret companion would change everything. I take a deep breath.

"I guess I'm not sick then… I haven't seen anything strange," I say and the little girl nods. She approves my choice of keeping her a secret.

"Right," dad frowns, " the doctors has told us to be patient, but seriously Phoebe, can't you see it? You've turned into a skeleton! I mean… really. You're so terribly skinny and it breaks my heart to see you like this," he struggles with the words – very unusual.

"So you put a needle in my arm and try to make me fat?" I hiss and regret the moment the words have left my mouth. A Christian Grey mood swing runs over his face, and then he shakes his head.

"Fine… are you tired?" dad asks. He looks pretty tired himself. I know he will be up all night while I sleep, working.

"A little… but I can't sleep in this bed. I don't know why," I sigh.

"Do you want me to ask the nurse to give you some sleeping medication?" I shake my head – no way. The kind of sleep those pills gives is like having a pillow over your head. I hate it.

"You have to sleep at some point, baby," he sighs and is about to grab my hand. Then he stops in the middle of the movement and freezes. Oh, for Christ sake! I decide to finish it and let my hand fall into his. It's not that bad. Actually the warmth of his skin is kind of nice – but only kind of.

"I know… but every time I close my eyes I see… him." Dads' eyes turn darker. I shouldn't have said that. I really shouldn't.

"I want you to promise me something," he begins and I frown, "I want you to promise me to talk to the psychologist about it tomorrow. Not because I don't want to talk about it with you, I want to if you like. But I think it might be easier to talk to a stranger about it first. But of course, if you want to talk about it now, then…" he lets the rest of the sentence hang in the air.

"I don't want to relive it. Not by talking to you or anyone else. I just want to forget it, that's all," I say.

"You have to deal with it sometime, and the faster the better."

"No," I can't help sounding like a kid.

"Yes, Phoebe."

"No!" I refuse and realize that I cry, "no, no, no, no." In the corner of my mind I wonder if this is how an anxiety attack feels. I can't breathe, I can't think, but somewhere a girl kicks and screams and cries and pulls out the needle in her arm – and I'm pretty sure that girl is me.

"Phoebe!" dad yells and tries to hold me down – that just makes it worse. I can clearly remember how hands tore my clothes and held me against the ground while he hurt me. Nurses and a doctor run into the room and someone injects something in my arm.

"Shh… Phoebe, relax," a women in white clothes I've never met before says in my ear.

"Dad!" I cry and try to fight them – the little part of me that's still rational tells the screaming part to calm the fuck down. Not working, "daddy, help me! Dad!" Then I'm in his arms. He pulls me to his lab and holds me close. I cling to him, sobbing and crying.

"Make them stop… get them away from me… get him away…" I whisper against his neck, already feeling groggy. He rocks me from side to side and I slowly calm down. Air fills my lungs and I stop crying – but I don't let go of him. I just can't. Nice job, fatty. You think he'll ever let you go now?

"Get the fuck out of here!" I scream at the little girl – aloud. Shit. Did I just do that? The doctor and the nurses and dad stare at me for a while. I hide my face by dads shoulder.

"Mr. Grey, you have to put her down," a nurse says.

"Can't you see she's losing it? I'm not putting her down now," he says, wearing his cold and commanding voice. The nurse can't do anything but let him have his way.

"How about you both lay down? Then we can finish and you can stay with her," she suggests. Dad nods and lifts me to the bed.

"No," I whisper as he puts me down – he can't leave me.

"Shh," he mumbles and lies next to me, still holding me in his arms. I'm so tired. I'm so very tired. I barely feel them putting the needle back into my arm.

"Don't let him take me, daddy," I whisper. Shit, what am I saying?

"I won't. I'll never let him hurt you ever again. I promise you that. I promise, Phoebe." I nod and creep closer to him. He tightens his grip around me and kisses me on the top of my head.

"Now sleep, princess. Sleep," he says in my ear and I close my eyes, "he won't get to you. I'll protect you." For the first time since the prom night I don't see Jake Berry the moment it gets dark around me. It's also the first time since the whole Newton thing I let someone hold me this close – voluntarily anyway.

"I love you, Phoebe. Okay?"

"Okay…"

.

Break again... not much to say but sorry. I don't have a whole lot of time for writing at the moment. Please, please, please review. I love to read them!

Em .x