Survive.

"Snakes."



"Girls."



"Uh...spiders."



God! I thought. Could this get ANY more LAME?



"Yvette? It's your turn." Ms.Lilly said coolly, glancing quickly in my direction, then away. She'd look near me, above me, or next to me, but never directly at me. You know how some people get that sixth sense about a person? Well, her sixth sense was telling her to stay FAR away from me, even if she WAS my counselor and WAS supposed to be helping me. She always acted like she had a stick up her ass. Hence, my nickname for her: Ms.Stick

"What are you most afraid of?" She asked me the ridiculous question she'd been asking every person seated in the idiotic group. I waited a few seconds, staring straight at her with my arms crossed, slouched almost with my back to the seat of the stupid plastic chair I'd been in for the past half hour.


"I'm afraid of turning into the rest of the LOSERS in this bullshit class." I finally said, my voice steady. Now, that kind of remark would have elicited a chorus of "Oh my god" and "Did she just say that?" from any normal group, but, by then, people in THAT group were used to those kind of responses from me. Ms.Stick Just gave a half frown in my direction like she always did and moved on to Derek Lovett.



"And you, Derek?" she asked, a slight smile playing at the edges of her lips. "What are you afraid of?"



I was getting pretty damn tired of that question.



"Well, I don't know 'bout y'all, but Yvette's pretty scary." He answered, leaning back in his chair glancing over at me, a coy grin teasing around his mouth. Of course, everyone laughed. Everyone always laughed with Derek. To be honest, I really didn't know how someone as perfect as Derek Lovett could have gotten himself into a mental institution in the first place. My guess was that he was there for the sole purpose of making everyone else feel miserable about their puny existence.



"Now, Derek," Ms.Stick chided with a chuckle. "Let's not be rude."

My eyes flickered as I turned menacingly on Derek.



"You know what?" I half growled, leaning closer to him. Ms.Stick sighed and stood up. Derek just smiled like a Ken doll. By then, Ms.Stick had her hand around my arm, trying to pull me away from him. I yanked my arm from her grasp.



"Don't TOUCH ME!" I seethed standing up quickly, knocking my chair backwards. She looked warily toward the door as the two security guards required in any room I was occupying headed our way. I called them Dumb and Dumber.



"Come on, Yvette, you're okay." said Dumb, while Dumber put his hand on my shoulder, trying to sit me back in my chair.



"Get your hands OFF ME!" I screamed, smacking Dumber's hand off my shoulder. Everybody just sat where they were. This was a rather normal occurrence for them to witness whenever I was around. Dumb put his hands up in a defensive position.



"Let's go, Yvette. You can go back to your room, now." said Dumber, pointing toward the door. I turned to flash a look at Derek one more time, then turned and walked out of the room and down the concrete hallway to my room. Dumb and Dumber stayed directly behind me the entire time. Once we got to my room, Dumb told me to calm down, then locked the door behind me. I stood still for a few seconds, my whole body shaking with rage.



"Ffffuuuuuuccckkk!!!" I screamed. I rushed forward and smacked the wall with the palm of my hand, then turned and kicked the leg of my hospital-style bed repeatedly until I was out of breath. I leaned my back against the wall and bent over to catch my breath. That was all I usually did when I was pissed. That was all I really could do. Once I had calmed down, I plopped myself onto my lumpy bed. It was the only bed in the room. My cell was one of the few in the building that only fit one person, and there was a reason I was the one inhabiting it. They'd started me off in a two person room when I'd first been admitted, but I ended up beating the shit out of my roommate when I found out she used my brush, so they transferred me. I preferred being alone anyways. I layed staring at the ceiling with my hands connected across my stomach for what seemed like hours until Asshole knocked at my door. He was the guy who came by every few hours alerting everyone what was going on.



"Dinner-time" he said through the door and I heard the lock on the outside click. I didn't want to eat. I didn't want to move. But, my growling stomach forced me into submission and a few minutes later, I was in line at the disgusting cafeteria waiting to be served the nauseating food offered there every night.



  Once I got through the line, I sat down in my assigned seat. We all had assigned seat. My guess was that the idiots who ran the God-forsaken place figured that we'd have a hard time making friends, considering how mentally deranged we were. So they decided to make it "easier" by pairing each of us with someone who was just about the same type of trainwreck we were. Just as they thought an assigned yard-time friend would be 'easier" for us, too.



  Yard-time was an hour a day when we were allowed to run freely around the 25X30 foot fenced in dirt yard out back of the institution every day except Sunday. Our times to go out were divided between Group A and Group B- half the occupants of the asylum in A, the other half in B. Group A had yard-time first, from noon to one'o'clock while Group B had Arts and Crafts, then vice-versa the next hour. Everyday, the same mundane routine. It got really old, REALLY fast. I'd been there only four weeks and I already despised the consistency of it all. Life was supposed to be lived unexpectedly, not having scheduled times to take a shit.

I was assigned the seat between the two fattest people in the whole institute. At least, that's what it seemed like to me. The whale to my right was also my yard-time buddy. Her name was Christina, and despite being two hundred pounds overweight, she was an okay person to be forced together with. She nudged me with her elbow as she shoved half a steak (or whatever it was) into her mouth.



"Hey, Yvette, I heard you got lock-in again today because you hit someone in group." she said around the mouthful of food.



Disgusting.



I looked away. "Swallow the damn food, then talk to me." I said through clenched teeth. She always did gross stuff like that. Like, spitting in front of someone and starting to laugh like she'd never seen anything funnier in her life. I heard a gulp, then she repeated what she'd said before.



"Is it true?" she added.



"I didn't hit anybody."



"But you got lock-in?"



"Yeah." I replied simply.



"Girl, you got some major anger problems." she huffed. I was the oldest one there at nineteen-years-old, but that didn't make a damn difference to her.



"And you got some serious weight problems," I paused and stared at her, "We done?" I asked, slightly pissed off, mostly annoyed. She didn't look away or flinch like most people would. She never did, and in a way, I respected how she stood her ground. Then again, she didn't have to worry about someone trying to win a fight with her, what with the sumo wrestler attached to her mid section.



"Yeah, well my problem ain't getting' me locked up e'ryday, now is it?" she said in the same tone of voice I'd just used. I cringed and opened my mouth to whip out a hasty reply, but before I could lash back with about thirty fat people-based joked, Asshole interrupted.



"Ok everyone. Attention! Listen up! I've got some news. Listen!" He yelled, pausing dramatically for everyone to "settle down". He was and idiot. No one had really been talking, and if they had, they'd stopped when they'd first heard him talking. I stared at Christina for a few more seconds, then turned to see what sort of ridiculousness was about to be announced. "Okay, I'm sure everyone remembers Lane Drimmer?" He asked, looking around as if expecting someone to raise their hand. Of course they all remembered Lane. Everyone knew his story. He'd been in the institution for a year and a half and had tried to kill himself three times during his stay. There was silence for a few more seconds as Asshole looked around the room. "Well," he continued slowly, looking down at his feet, then back up, "We were informed this morning that Lane committed suicide in his home last night." There was a collective gasp from the room. Christina started crying behind me, which started a chain reaction of sobbing messes around the cafeteria. My reaction was a dull stare down at my feet. Lane was away from the pain. Why was everyone sad about that? "We know that many of you were friends with Lane, and we are so very sorry for your loss. During Arts and Crafts tomorrow, Mrs.Monroe will have an extra table set up where any of you who would like to send your condolences to Lane's family may do so. Again, we are very sorry." He finished, then turned around and left. At that point, most people were standing up to leave the cafeteria to return to their rooms to cry and talk to their roommates about how great a guy Lane was and how much they'd miss him. No one had known Lane more than I had. Most didn't take the time to even notice him.



"I'm so sorry, Yvette." sniffled Christina, patting my shoulder.



"For what?" I asked, my voice steady and unintrigued as always. Christina just sighed and heaved herself away from the table. "It's okay to have a heart every now and then." she said as she was walking away. I turned back to my food which looked even more unappealing than it had before. There were still a few other people remaining in the cafeteria.



Heartless bastards.



I stood up and left, leaving my tray on the table. When I got back to my room, Jeanne, one of the girls from Group A was sitting on my bed. I'd never spoken a word to her before, nor had she said anything to me.



"Hey...Yvette, right?" she asked, her voice wavering. Her eyes were rimmed in red.



"Uh, yeah?"



"I just...I wanted to tell you that I'm sorry. I know you and Lane were close." she said, her voice crackling toward the end.



"Thanks." I said simply.



"Oh...okay." She stood up and looked straight into my eyes. "If you ever need someone to talk to, I'm here. My name's Jeanne." She said, holding out her hand. I shook it, then walked past her to lay down on my bed, signaling her it was time for her to get lost. She took the hint and walked out my door, closing it behind her.



  Lights-out was at 8:30. Dinner was at 7:00. This meant that everynight, while everyone else in the institution was hanging out in eachother's rooms having a merry old time, I was lying in bed for an hour staring at the ceiling, waiting for Asshole to walk by and knock on my door to tell me it was time for bed. I usually got a shower at 8AM while everyone else was at breakfast (I never ate breakfast), but I decided to get one right then. I felt jittery...uneasy. Not a good feeling. I walked down the hall to the communal bathroom. It had seven showers, seven bathroom stalls, seven sinks, and usually about twelve girls crammed into it. That night, there were more than usual. All together, there were twenty-three girls and nineteen boys occupying the asylum at that time. There were at least twenty girls in the bathroom that night by my guess. Without even entering, I turned around and walked about halfway down the hall before sitting down and leaning my back against the wall.



  Before he'd left, Lane would usually sit with me there and talk to me about his problems until curfew. When I'd first been admitted, I would always sit in the hallway by myself. After a few days, Lane started coming to sit next to me. He would just sit there. By the fourth or fifth day of my being there, he finally started saying "Hi." to me. I would just nod at first, then started saying "Hey" back. Sometime around the third week I was there, a Tuesday night, everyone was awoken by someone from the boy's dorms screaming and crying at three'o'clock in the morning. I found out from Christina the next day that it had been Lane. That night in the hall, I asked him about it. I was never one to beat around the bush.



"I have dreams sometimes." he'd answered. 



"Oh."



"Yeah," He paused, as if contemplating whether he wanted to tell me something or not. "When I was younger, my older brother drowned. I was the only one there with him, but I was only six, and I didn't know what to do. He was only thirteen when he died. My mom, she took it real hard. My dad just left...I Guess he couldn't handle being around my mom crying all the time. She hated me. And I mean, REALLY hated me. She'd ignore me completely until she got drunk...then she'd get angry. Really angry...and she'd blame everything that was going wrong on me. When she lost her job, it was my fault. My brother dying and my father leaving? That was my fault, too according to her. She started getting into drugs, like crack and stuff when I was twelve...I'm surprised she didn't get into it before then, really." He laughed humorlessly, then continued. I kept my head down, just listening. "She'd get really crazy when she was high. One night, she threw one of the kitchen drawers at me. My dad sent her just enough money to get by every month. She never attempted to get another job. She'd beat me unconscious, but I'd go to school anyways the next day, just to get away from her. My own mother!" He slapped the floor with his hand which made me jump. I glanced over at him. His brows were furrowed in anger. He sighed. "Anyways, when I was fourteen, she killed herself. Threw herself off a goddamn building one night while she was high." He forced out another fake laugh. "And the really fucked up thing was, I didn't give a shit. I was happy she was dead." He stopped talking. For a good two minutes we just sat there in silence, the sound of people laughing and talking from inside the rooms were the only thing to be heard. But, even more powerful than the last sentence Lane had spoken was the pain he felt. The way each word he spoke resonated with grief and fear. He was alone. More alone than I ever would be. "That's why I'm here. Because I'm an emotionally fucked up human being after all that. That, and the fact that the people I lived with afterward got tired of me trying to kill myself everytime I was alone." He finished.



  I didn't know if he was waiting for me to reply or not, but I figured that was what I was supposed to do. 



"Damn." was all I could say. I kept my head down, but I could feel his eyes on me.



"But, anyways, to answer your question, I was screaming last night because I had a bad dream." He said. By then, I'd all but forgotten I'd even asked him.



"That's a good reason to scream." I said with as much sincerity as I could muster. In response, he started laughing his ass off. Not fake laughing, but howling, tears-in-his-eyes, gut-busting laughing. I just stared at him as his rolled over on his side, holding his stomach while he laughed. I couldn't remember the last time I'd laughed, but suddenly, I was sitting in a hallway laughing uncontrollably next to a raving lunatic. People were peeking their heads out of their doors, trying to see what kind of insanity was taking place in the hallway. Some started laughing and returned to their rooms, others just shook their head, thinking they'd finally witnessed a mental breakdown. We laughed until Dumb, Dumber, and Asshole were summoned to see what was wrong with us. Or , rather, what was more wrong with us. They took us back to our rooms, but I'm sure we both laughed for a good while after our doors were closed behind us and our lights were turned off.



  He'd been released the following Saturday morning. And only five days later, I was sitting in an empty hallway with my head down and a knot in my throat, being hit hard and fast by the fact that Lane Drimmer was dead. I would never see him again. My eyes flooded with unexpected tears and I rushed quickly to my room, trying desperately to keep them from falling. I grabbed the rail of my bed and breathed in ragged breaths of air. I bent my forehead down to touch the cold metal between my hands. I tightened my grip around the rail, anger coursing through me like a rush of ice water raging through my veins. I ripped my hands off of the rail, straightening up to face the wall. My eyes narrowed to slits as I attacked the concrete in front of me with a vengeance I'd never experienced before.



It's not FAIR!



I didn't know if I'd screamed it out loud or in my head.



  My knuckles were wet with blood, my knees were beginning to buckle when I heard my door fly open and felt hands grabbing me from all different directions. I squeezed my eyes shut and kept throwing wild punches at nothing. Voices were speaking all around me, but I couldn't process their meanings. I felt a pinch in my arm, then everything went black.



  The blinding light from fluorescent bulbs lined along the ceiling was the first sight my eyes were greeted with when I woke up. I squeezed my eyes shut to block out the light, then opened them slightly. The lights glinted off the water in my eyes, causing a foggy film to appear in front of my vision. As I blinked rapidly, the ceiling and individual light rods came into focus. I turned my head to the left and immediately wished I could pass back out. It was purgatory. No, worse than purgatory. It was the "Silent Room": the place the mentally insane were sent when they went menatally insanER; the place I swore I'd never wake up in when I'd first become acquainted with it during the tour of the facility just before my admittance. Yet, there I was, cuffed by my wrists and ankles to the gurney-type bed. A whimper came from somewhere in the room, and it took me a second to realize it had escaped from my lips.



Pull it together. All they want is for you to have another spazz.



  I closed my eyes, breathed in and exhaled heavily, then re-opened my eyes. There was a camera in the left corner of the room facing right at me. I felt like flicking it off, knowing that there were two or more people devotedly watching my every move at that very moment.

"I'm awake now, assholes, you can come let me OUT." I yanked my hands up, causing the chains on the cuffs to jangle loudly. My voice was hoarse, but loud enough to portray my anger. A minute or two later, I heard the door above my head click, then open. I didn't bother looking. I knew it was Miss.



  She was the guidance counselor/ "life saver" of the institute. I simply called her Miss because there was nothing that stood out to me about her. At all. She was just bland. Mousy brown hair always pulled back in a bun; a face that seemed old, but young at the same time; average build and height. There was just nothing to base a name on.



"Hello, Yvette. How are you feeling." came the familiar voice as a face came into view in my peripheral vision. I waited until she'd pulled the plastic chair from the wall and sat down next to the bed, setting her briefcase on the floor.With all the sarcasm I could muster, I replied:



"Well, Miss, I feel pretty good. Kinda like those dogs you see on animal shows whose owners locked them up and abandoned them."



"That doesn't sound too good to me," she replied simply. "You do understand WHY you're here, don't you? Tell me what happened." she said, leaning a little closer as if she was actually interested. I sighed with frustration.



"I'll talk to you once you un-chain me." I rolled my eyes to look at her, then away. she lifted her hand toward the camera and flick two fingers in a "come here" motion. The room went silent for a few seconds until the door opened and Miss told someone about my head to unlock me. Asshole came around into my view, looked at me, shook his head, then grabbed my hand and unlocked the cuff. He shuffled around the my other side and unleashed my other hand.



"Her feet, too?" he asked.



"Yes. She won't do anything, Rick, don't worry." In general, hated when people would talk about me, but it especially irked me when I was in the room while they were doing it. Asshole unlocked my feet cuffs and I immediately swung my feet around to the side of the bed and sat up. My vision blurred and a bout of nausea hit me, then passed. I wobbled a little.



"Are you alright?" asked Miss. I nodded.



"Thank you, Rick, you may leave." she said. Asshole glanced hesitantly at me, then left.



"Now, you're able to move about. Can you answer my previous question about what happened to cause such an outlash from you?" Miss asked, crossing her legs.



"I just flipped. It happens." I answered simply. I didn't talk to people like her, or anyone really.



"Well, I've been informed that you were friends with Lane Drimmer. Can you tell me what happened to Lane?"



"He did what he had to do." I felt numb. The feeling came when I knew I needed to not feel what was coming.



"What was that?" she persisted.



"He killed himself." I looked over at her, my frustration with her stupid questions quite evident on my face.



"How did that make you feel, Yvette?" She brought her fingers to her chin.



"Hey, it's his life. It's none of my business how he decides to use it." I said, a little more harshly than I'd intended. There was a minute-long pause before Miss finally spoke.



"Lane left something for you, Yvette." she said softly. My heart-beat quickened. I looked over at her warily.



"What is this, some sort of psychology shit?"



"He killed himself in the bedroom of his grandparent's house whom he was staying with. He left only two things behind as explanations. One, a note saying 'bye', and another an envelope with your name written on it. No one has opened the letter, no one has read it." She reached down and pulled her briefcase into her lap. I watched as she opened it and pulled out a manila envelope.



"This is the 'goodbye' note," she opened the folder and took out a folded piece of lined paper with the word 'bye' scribbled in shaky letter. I stayed still as she held it out to me. I didn't want to touch it. I didn't even want to look at it. Her eyes were intent on me, I could feel them. After a few seconds of holding the paper out, she set it down on her lap, then pulled out a smaller envelope from the folder and set it on the bed next me.



"You're free to go, Yvette," she glanced at her watch, "It's a little after ten o'clock. Mr.Rick will escort you back to your room."



As if on cue, Asshole walked in and held the door open for Miss to walk out. I waited a few seconds, unsure of my ability to walk at the moment. After an impatient cough from Asshole, I took the letter from it's place next to me and held it in trembling fingers. I felt weak as I stepped slowly from the bed. My legs seemed bound to give out any moment. Just making it to the door was difficult. It felt like a thousand pound weight was pressing against my chest. After I made it out the door, Asshole turned of the lights and closed the door behind us, then walked around to the front of me and lead me down the hallway toward the girl's corridor. Every step felt like pulling my foot from quicksand. I was a good distance behind Asshole by the time we came to the intersection where the boy's and girl's hallways divided. My legs just could not keep pace with him. I glanced down at the envelope squeezed in my grasp.



"Come on!" I looked up. Asshole was a quarter of the way down the hall already, whereas I'd just turned the corner. My eyes narrowed at him, but no witty comeback came to my sluggishly processing mind. I kept my slow pace up as he leaned against the wall, impatiently drumming his fingers against his thigh. Once I'd caught up, we walked passed two more doors and I found myself standing in front of the door of my room.



"Night." mutter Asshole and turned to walk back the way we'd came. I watched him for a second, then turned back to my door. I didn't want to enter the dismal dump I claimed as my territory. I didn't want to sleep. I didn't want to have that letter burning a figurative hole in my hand. I didn't want Lane to be dead. I didn't want to be standing there with a million thoughts running through my mind, staring blankly at a door. My hand seemed to reach up of it's own accord and turn the knob, opening the gateway to hell: solitude.



  I stepped in stiffly, letting the door shut behind me as I made my way to the bed. The springs creaked as I heaved my aching body down onto the mattress and rolled over to face the wall. It was dark. Lights-out had occurred nearly two hours before. The letter remained in my hand, clutched to my chest. I wanted to read it. Lane had left it for ME. I hauled myself back off the bed and walked dully out my door and down the hall to the bathrooms. No one was in there at that time of night, of course. I entered the room, my footsteps echoing off the tile-covered walls and floors. I smoothed and folded the corner of the letter over and over again as I made my way to the showers. After slipping behind one of the curtains and moving softly to the corner of the stall, I stopped to listen. Listening for any sign of life other than myself in the restroom. I needed to be alone.

 

  Once I'd assured myself I was the sole occupant of the lavatory, I slowly unclenched my hand from the letter, and smoothed it softly over my knee. The showers were shadowy, but there was enough light to read my name scribbled on the envelope. I took a deep, shaky breath in. My heart beat hastened as I slid my thumb nail under the flap of the letter and ran it shakily around to the other side. I closed my eyes, holding the flap closed, trying desperately to breath normally. It took what seemed like an hour to finally summon the courage to open the cover and remove the folded school paper from inside. My fingers trembled furiously as I layed the envelope to the side and slowly unfolded the paper. At the top in dark letters were the words "I'm sorry, Yvette." My eyes watered and I looked up, blinking rapidly to clear my vision. A couple minutes and a few deep breaths later, I continued reading.

         

I know this isn't the most conventional way to say bye. You're probably pissed. Or maybe you don't give a shit. But hey, this is the least I can do. I don't WANT to live anymore, Yvette. There's so much pain. You're so much better at dealing with it than I am. When I used to sit and talk with you, I'd get this feeling like I could actually make it. Like I could BE something other than a fucked up loser. But, I'm here alone right now, and I really can't be anything other than a loser. I lost everything. So, what exactly am I living for? Nothing. The only thing I'm doing by living is hurting myself. So here's where I stop feeling the pain. In planning this, the only thing that kept popping into my mind was you. I didn't know how I was going to leave you. But, I realized something. You are so strong, Yvette. You're goanna read this letter, shake your head at how weak I am, then carry on with your non-caring life. I ENVY you. I wish I could do what you do. I wish I could just NOT FEEL. And, it probably doesn't matter, and you'll probably just laugh, but I love you, Yvette. There it is. Writing my explanation to you is the last thing on my bucket list. Crazy right? I got everything done on my list by the time I'm eighteen. Hey, do me a favor though? Work on NOT blocking everyone out? It's the least you can do for a dead man.

Lane.

  By the last line, I could hardly see anymore. Tears were flooding my eyes and rushing down my cheeks. My body was shaking, my lungs felt as if huge iron hands was squeezing the air from them. I gasped wildly for air, choking on my sobs as they forced their way from my mouth. The sound of my cries echoed loudly through the tiled room. I reached up and yanked the water knob down. Freezing water hammered down on me as I tried uselessly to desist my convulsive crying. The stream of water beating down did little to cover the noise. 



God, Lane, why?



    I smashed the side of my fist against the wall of the shower. Pain raged up my arm, and I wanted it to stay. I wanted to feel. For so long, I'd used the numbing mechanism of indifference as a defence against anything and everything that would otherwise hurt me . For years, I'd just gone cold to anyone who tried to help me, because, to them, help always seemed to required talking about all the things that hurt me.

I slammed my fist against the wall again.

Again.

Again.

Each hit sent slices of pain through my entire arm, spreading even into my shoulder after a while. My sobs had faded. I was focused solely on the pain, then. The physical pain that came with each blow to that blood covered section of the wall. My wrist ached. I hit the wall harder. The freezing water still pounding down on me mixed with the blood that had trailed from my hand to my elbow, and dripped onto the linoleum beneathe me. I watched it all in solemnity- with utter consentration. I took it all in. The sound of my fist rythmatically hitting  the lenoleum surface next to me; my blood running in long droplets down it; the bloody water dripping from my elbow.



Then, I stopped.



  With my fist pressed to the wall, and arm tensed against the blow, I simply stopped at no will of my own. I stared at my fist. My mind wasn't telling me what emotion to feel. I was blank. Then, without consent from my brain, my body moved. My unhurt right hand reached up and turned the knob on the shower wall off, ceasing all sound in the bathroom but for my heavy breathing. It felt as if I were watching someone else move through their own eyes. Blood was spatteredin little droplets all around the shower. I looked over at my hand, which was now laying in a puddle of blood next to me. The wrist and pinky looked wrong. Almost mangled, even. At that moment, I heard the door open, and feet padding slowly across the floor toward the showers. I saw someones bare feet walking slowly passed each shower, then stopping front of mine.



"Who's in there?" whispered a familiar voice. I couldn't place it with the face of any of the girls in the institute, but I knew it was one of them. "Hello?" she whispered. I couldn't speak."Listen, um, I sleep in the room right outside of here, and I keep hearing something thud. And, don't be embarassed, but I heard you crying. It's Ok, though," she added hastily, "we all do it. My roomate slept through it, and I'm sure most of the other girls did, too, since no one went to get Mr.Rick or anything. But, I mean, do you need me to go get him?" she asked, worry obvious in her voice. I could see her shadow just outside the curtain.



"Jeanne?" I said, hoarsely.



"Yes, it's me?" she answered hesitantly. "Now, who are you?"



I glanced down at my bloody hand again, and shame, an emotion I'd long since refused to have, flooded through me. Pulling my throbbing hand onto my lap, I winced, then answered.

"It's Yvette. I'm hurt." Jeanne gasped and flung the shower curtain open.



"Omigod, Yvette! What happened?" Her eyebrows were furrowed into a tight knot in the center. She knelt down in front of me, searching me over. Her eyes rested on my hand. Her hand flew to her mouth. "Yvette!"



She jumped up, and ran from the shower. I just sat there alone, beginning to feel again. I tried desperately to shove it all away, but every emotion seemed to engulf me at once. I squeezed my eyes shut and shook my head violently, trying to get out of my own head as I had been just a few minutes before.



I was scared.



For the first time in a long time, I was feeling again, and suddenly, I couldn't breath.