forum A Thousand Cranes // Rated PG-15 // Eris

Started November 30, 2018 by Deleted user

tune

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I've eaten the oatmeal and by God, it's the best food I have had in years. Emmy kept her promise and I was left alone, giving me the opportunity to eat in peace, which was the first time since I got here, come to think of it. I also rinsed the fluid food gunk away with the milk. Equally delicious as the oatmeal.

The food has cleared my mind somewhat and I have had some time to think. I need to get my guard back up. People have been reading me a little too well lately and it’s starting to really mess me up. Contrary to popular belief, I actually like my quiet little world… I think. Mentally going through all the times, I slipped up, one thought sticks out like a splinter in my consciousness.

I've not taken my meds, although both my throat and my head have started to hurt more. I have written down my question to ask Emmy when she comes back, and now I am manning up to show it to her.

Together.

She asked me, pleaded with me to work with them. This scares the shit out of me. Never before have I been asked what I wanted. Never before have I been asked if I was okay with what was happening. Everything has always been decided for me. Here, I have met nothing but kindness. Not threats, no tension in the atmosphere. Of course, it's tense because I am new here and nobody knows me, but it's not tense because there is the probability of violence. I have not seen anything yet that could possibly point that way. Not once.

Maybe that's why it's so hard to keep my guard up. I still don't know where I stand and that's draining me. The constant threat used to keep me on my toes and fueled my wariness. Here, there is nothing. I have not even been warned of any household rules yet.
I have no idea what they expect of me.

I have no purpose. I just am. I’ve never had this freedom before, never this wide expanse of unknown laid before me. I was always whatever Peter or Marie or William wanted me to be. A quiet little thing. A plaything. Something they could show off to the world around them as proof that they were truly wonderful people, but as soon as those doors shut, I was a burden to be dealt with, not cared for. I shudder involuntarily.

Below me, I hear the James’ easy tones of conversation as they watch tv, or rather play some sort of game on the big screen in the living room. Cheers and playful smack talk drift up to my room in waves. I have closed the door, wanting to be alone.

I honestly, wonder if they realize how something as simple as spending time together as a family unit, is so foreign to me. I wouldn’t have known what to do if they had invited me to play. Other than saying no, but that is beside the point. I wouldn’t know how to laugh, cheer, focus, or damn even play. Those concepts have never been shared with me. Never been taught to me. Suddenly, I am so envious that my stomach clenches painfully. No. I have done nothing to earn such a life. I am nothing. Just a waste of space currently inhabiting their spare room. It’s a wonder why they are so friendly to me.

I don’t know how long I’ve been staring out the window, but my unease has made me restless. I disengage myself from the mountain of pillows, carefully stepping through the room as if they could hear me walking over their enjoyment.

Frowning at my bitterness, I snap the rubber band at my wrist in punishment. People with such love in their hearts deserve to have a wonderful life. I should not inhabit any hatred for that. I shove all that emotion away. Nasty Cassia back in the box.

I come to the closet, kneeling down to open my suitcase. The glossy black case for my violin shines a bit in the light coming from the door. My fingers ache to play, to push all this raging emotion inside of me out through the strings. I can hear the music within my head and I sag down to the floor, by body releasing all that tension that was holding me up.

The case opens with a jiggly snap and once more I am staring down at my stolen instrument. It’s so lovely, the brown warm and soft against my fingertips. Gently, I pluck a few strings, humming out a tune to match it. What would the James’ do if I just started playing? Would it bother them? I never dared play at William’s home. Never even dared to bring the lovely instrument home in fear that he would once more destroy something that meant the world to me. My fingers pause on the strings, as if making their own decision.

I lift the violin from its case and carefully bring it up to my shoulder. My neck aches hoarsely as I bend into position, but it feels so natural, so right, that I do not even grimace. I think I’m smiling. It feels like I am. That thought brings my right hand up to start plunking the strings softly once more. Another tune being hummed from my ruined throat. The small comfort makes my heart swell. It truly feels good to do something I know I enjoy. Something I miss.

Something like courage makes me reach for the bow, my fingers shaking the tiniest bit as I lift it into place. I take a deep breath–

A soft knock on my door, startling me a little, followed by Iona’s voice. "Hi Cassia, can I come in? Can you make a sound if I can?"

Damn! Do I want to talk to her?

I don't dare to leave her out, though, so I shove my instrument back into its hiding place and dart to open the door. I step back immediately after my breath coming a little fast and my eyes wide.

Iona trails into the room. "Hi," she breathes, smiling widely, oblivious to my sneaking. Not that I really had to sneak I guess… Force of habit.

I sit down on the window seat again, against the window to face her, pulling my legs up and wrapping my arms around them. Iona sits down at the foot of the bed. I'm happy the bed is so big, come to think of it and far from what has become my little niche at the window. But I'm not really afraid of her, I think. She couldn't really hurt me, physically, if she tried, I think. I don't know if she's going to play mind games, but she really doesn't struck me as the type of person who would.

I mean, I know there must be kind people out there in the world.

I just haven't met them yet, really.

Then again, who would be kind to me?

"How are you feeling?" Her words pull me out of my thoughts and again she strikes me as genuinely kind and sweet.

Maybe…

To answer her, I nod, I am better. I almost want to tell her that I got a bit of extra comfort from my violin, but don't think I want to indulge in our contact too much. When she learns more about me, she'll want nothing to do with me.

"I have so many things to ask you," she smiles shyly. "But I don't want to upset you." Her eyes are like a puppy's as she pleads me with her gaze to understand her. "I just want to get to know you. I think you are a very nice girl. Just—Just a lot of bad things have happened to you. We don’t have to talk about that!" Iona exclaims, surprising the both of us at her reaction to an expression I had made apparently. “But I do still think you are sweet.”

I scoff and roll my eyes a little at this. I am a lot, but nice, I am not. Or, that's what I have been told all my life.

"Why not? I mean, you've been through a lot, but I think that underneath all the stress, you are nice, and sweet, and gentle."

How she makes me comfortable to interact, I don't know, but my face seems to loosen a bit and I cock my eyebrow at her assumption. Silly girl. She should know better. Maybe you should tell her about it, my mind whispers, and I'm not even sure if this is my rationale or my evil side speaking now.

Iona laughs at my reaction, throwing her head back as the bell like chimes tinkle through the room. "You obviously disagree." A little mischievous glint enters her eyes and I’m suddenly apprehensive. “No worries. I’ll get you to see it one day.”

"Iona? Did you have my books still?" That's Declan’s voice, trailing through the hallway, followed by his footsteps. A door opens down the hall. "Where are you?"

"I'm here. Cassia’s room," Iona says just loud enough to be heard. How easily she says that. As if I have always been here. Cassia’s room. I look around the room, while Iona is distracted, noting how it still really looked like a hotel instead of a bedroom for a seventeen-year-old. Oddly, I had the urge to decorate even thought I don’t really know a thing about style. Or having style for that matter. Does ‘introverted slug’ count as a style?

Declan stops in the doorway of the room — my room — and smiles carefully when he sees me. Lola is hanging off his arm, looking quite annoyed that they stopped to say hi. "Hi Cassia. How are you?"

I just look at him, almost frozen. Is he angry? Annoyed? Dangerous? His eyes tell me differently, but I'm not sure. A million emotions could pass through those icy blues and I wouldn’t be able to tell the difference. It seems that every time we have seen each other, it has been awkward to the extreme.

What do I do? I'm afraid of him, right? Right?

No?

Huh.

The silence extends and I finally look away, wrapping my arms a little tighter around me. I don't know what to do. Why am I unable to answer him?

"So, Iona, do you have them?" His voice is awkward, hesitating. Somehow, even though I turned my face away, I can still tell that his eyes are on me.

Iona jumps up, startling me a little. My head whips back up to see her movements, see what she will do. I panic that this is the moment that she will catch me by surprise. "Of course! Wait, I'll get them for you." She brushes out of the room, placing a hand lightly on his arm as she passes him. Lola leans up to whisper something in Declan’s ear, smiling to herself, but he looks faintly annoyed by whatever she said.

They are such a contradiction. Jackie told me they are twins, but not only their gender is opposite. Iona is bubbly, happy, whereas I've seen Declan only as pensive, withdrawn even. Iona always seems to sparkle with a strong inner confidence, where as Declan seems to smolder from the inside, like a volcano ready to erupt, but peacefully stays contained. So similar in strength, but so different in demeanor.

Declan turns to leave as well but hesitates and goes back to face me again. "I'm sorry for anything I have done to upset you," he says after a long moment of silence. "Please know that it was never my intention to do so."

We look at each other and I can see the sincerity in his eyes as I can hear it in his voice. He really seems upset over what he has done.

How can that be?

It's unbelievable that everybody in this house seems to be apologizing to me, instead of the other way around. I suddenly realize how much everybody must have gone out of their way to make me comfortable. Everybody has been so forthcoming. Even Lola, in her way, by not messing with me, maybe.
How to tell Declan that I don't blame him? I thought he would be upset with me, but it seems it isn't so. I can't seem to look away as I look into his eyes. My hands tighten against my legs once more.

"Here," Iona comes dancing back, and Declan breaks my gaze to look at her. Did I notice reluctance there? He takes the books from his sister. "Thanks. I'll be up studying." Then, with a nod at Iona and a half-smile at me, he leaves. Lola in tow, whining about studying instead of—I choose not to hear the last part as a little blush colors my cheeks.

"Well done," Iona winks as she walks back into the room, obviously joking but being dead serious all the same. "No panic attack this time?"

I can't help but let out a silent laugh at that, lips curling up and air escaping. I apparently have a sick sense of humor. No, apparently, I didn't. And it wasn't because I was too scared to move. The realization, and the laugh, feel exceptionally liberating. With the escaping air, some anxiety evaporates. I divert my eyes however, suddenly shy with being this much at ease.

Iona giggles and sits back on the bed again. "You are okay with this, by the way, aren't you?" she asks randomly, gesturing to show what she means. I nod at her. She's closer than I have allowed anyone in a long time, but she's just not threatening. I know I must be careful, though. Iona is unaware of my confusing internal monologues. Her whole face lights up at my nod and she asks, "So, want to hear about school?"

Before I even have the chance to feel anxious about attending school once more, Iona launches into a full-blown history of Willow Hills High school, well a recent history that is. The past four years to be specific. Six months until she and Declan graduate and she cannot wait. She tells me everything about the school, about the ridiculously tiny student body and about the teachers. The students know virtually everybody by name, and a lot of the teachers can be addressed by their first name as well. She has a lot of classes with either Declan or Josh, but whereas she has more creative subjects, Declan focuses a bit more on challenging classes such as math and biology and Josh on abstract courses, such as languages. Declan plays in the football team, just as I had guessed, and Iona is the technician of the bunch.

“Handy with a screwdriver and a needle.” She winks as she playfully brags. “Although, Declan would be just as good at it if he were patient. He builds computers and fixes stuff for his friends all the time.”

Somehow, it's wonderful to hear these little things about the family. Iona makes me get to know them without making it obvious or belittling. She just talks and talks and is clearly enjoying it. And…so am I.

She says they don't always spend lunch time together, as Declan is kidnapped a lot by Lola — Iona says the time like it's something foul — Iona, Josh, Declan and Lola usually sit with their other friends, and she tells me their names although they mean nothing to me. Brent, Ty, Micha, Tori, and Shawn. Immediately, I forget all their names and relationships to each other. I’ve always been terrible at it. Iona forgives me, telling me I’ll learn it all for myself.

I revel as I listen. Not really at what she tells me, though — I'm not much of a group person. But to me it's a miracle really, to be interacting with someone for so long, and actually enjoying it. After a while though, my head starts swimming and I feel my concentration wavering. It feels alien to realize that I don't want this to stop. Iona has been with me for hours and my body has gradually relaxed in her presence. She's just so… disarming, maybe.

Emmy interrupts us from downstairs, calling everyone to dinner.

Oh. What do I do? I can't eat with them, but maybe I can sit with them? Then again, I am truly tired now and I'm not even sure how long I can stay awake anymore. But I should eat and have something for my headache. And my throat.

Iona smiles at me and asks me the question I am pondering over. “Care for a bite?” Before I can answer, however, I hear Emmy coming up the stairs. She enters my room again with a tray of food. "Dinner in bed, my lady?"

A small smile forms on my lips and Emmy mirrors it, but tenfold. She exchanges glances with her niece and as Iona leaves the room with a pleasant "I’m starved! See you in a bit Cassia." Emmy sets the tray down. "Your regulars — sorry about that — and some mashed potatoes. You don't have to come down tonight if you don't want to but know that you are very welcome to do so. Josh, Declan, Lola and Iona will probably be studying tonight, so it should be quiet. Nick and I would be more than happy to have you join us for a movie or a game. We have all the ‘good stuff’” She air quotes, looking unconvinced. “At least that’s what the boys tell me about that mountain of gaming dohickies under my television.” She laughs at her own joke and I find that my smile has grown. Emmy shrugs. “Can I do anything else for you?"

I'm dizzy after her speech and I need a moment to process everything she just said. Then I shake my head carefully.

"Have a nice dinner. I hope you don't feel ignored or excluded, but since you rather not eat with others…" her voice trails off.

No, I don't feel ignored. I feel pampered and I don't deserve that, at all. I shake my head to assure her that I certainly do not feel ignored. Actually, a little less attention would be nice, even. She has done her utter best to be forthcoming, the entire family has, and I am not used to it at all. They are wonderful people. There is no denying it.

So why do I still feel awful?

Emmy leaves the room and I eat the best mashed potatoes I have had in my entire life. It even soothes my annoyance with the fluid food a little. Although I still wait for almost two hours after dinner to bring my dishes down, luxuriating in the feeling of a full stomach and a dull headache, instead of a sharp throbbing one. Somehow it feels unreal to be relaxing so soon, but it seems my body is acting by its own will. I'm still on guard, but the lack of constant threat in this house is liberating. When I compare this to the first time I entered William’s house, the differences are striking. I can tell that the atmosphere in this house is genuinely calm.

Finally, I pick up the tray and go downstairs, the phone with my question in the pocket of my sweater.

Maybe I should have changed into different clothes. I'm rumpled to the extreme. Then again, I don't really care about appearance and if I am changing at all, it will be into soft pajamas and after a hot shower. I'm confident I will be okay enough to do both things later tonight.

I come down and find only Nick and Emmy in the living room. I acknowledge their gaze as I walk to the kitchen with my tray and clean up my dishes. Emmy starts getting up, but from the corner of my eye I see Nick holding her down gently. "Let her do this," he whispers, and I'm not sure if he really meant it only for his wife to hear.

Looking up at Emmy when I finish, I hold up the tray with a questioning gaze. "On top of the fridge," she smiles at me, and I stand on my tiptoes — holding on to the fridge for dear life momentarily as a rush of dizziness washes over me — and place the tray on the fridge. I never really noticed how small I was. Damn.

Mission accomplished anyway.

"Come sit with us," Emmy asks gently as she stands up. "Do you want to drink anything? Some tea, maybe? Or hot milk?"

I hold up two fingers without thinking, unconsciously using the sign language of sorts Jackie and I developed on-the-go to communicate a little. I lower my hand immediately, quite shocked myself at what I just did. Emmy’s face still splits into the widest smile I have ever seen, but she doesn't say anything and scurries into the kitchen to get to work.

Turning back to Nick, he holds out his arm in an inviting gesture. Hmm. I'm not sure if I'm ready and willing to socialize. On the other hand, if I keep refraining from everything, I'll never learn who these people are and what my life here is going to be like.

Plus, I want to ask them something, and I might as well get it over with.

Gingerly, I walk around the couch and stand at a safe distance before Nick. When he invites me to sit, I sit down on the edge of the big chair I have used the night before, which effectively is the seat furthest away from him.

He looks at me inquiringly. "How are you feeling?"

Mentally, I do my checklist. I'm pretty okay, come to think of it. Much better than I am used to that’s for sure. Nick gauges my reaction and seems to be deliberating what he is going to say next.

"Here's the thing," he starts, and I tense up. I think I'm not going to like what he is going to say. Not at all. "Your throat and neck need to be checked, and I noticed additional bruising on your hands as well as the small cuts from last night. I know how apprehensive you are about that prospect, but your healing process has to be monitored. I am of course a fully qualified doctor and I can examine you here. I can understand however if you are uncomfortable with this. In that case, we can take you to the hospital tomorrow and provide a female doctor for you. This brings along the discomfort of being among other humans, where as I know you’d rather stay here with us woodland elves…"

I hear his attempt at humor, but I don't reply as I let the rest of his words sink in. Being examined is such a stress, it was already back in Los Angeles. I had a female doctor there who was kind enough, but I only let her look at me once. I don't like probing hands. And certainly not on me.

What do I do?

Emmy interrupts us by bringing in a tray, with three steaming cups.

"Think about it, Cassia. Although I must say I'd really like to check your hands, out of both a doctor's and a father's… ahem… uh– Uncle’s concern." I look up at his words, surprised. Emmy smiles to herself as she places the mugs on the coffee table. She brings the tray back to the kitchen and comes back out with a jar of honey. "For your throat?" she asks, holding the honey up, and I nod.

I really am being pampered. Maybe I should ask my question now. Or should I wait for the hot liquids to cool? Ah, stupid girl, you should have thought of that. I grit my teeth and wait for the drinks to cool, watching TV with Nick and Emmy but not really registering what's on the news. The flashing images irritate my tired eyes, but I try to ignore it. I am happy that the questions seem to be over, at least for now. I have not answered Nick’s question about the examination, but I'll just 'forget' it for the moment. I really wouldn't know what's the best way to deal with it. It seems my wounds have to be checked, but do I want a stranger to do it or exactly the opposite?

"I am so happy that you decided to join us tonight," Emmy sighs suddenly, and she holds my gaze when I look at her. "That really means a lot to me."

Oh, wow.

"Could you try to drink anything? We could leave you if you want to."

It's starting to get ridiculous, the lengths they go to accommodate me. I fear vaguely that this courtesy will only last so long and that they will start demanding things in exchange. Then again, they really don't come across as people who would do such things. However, I have been here for barely two days and it's not like I have spent a lot of time with them.

I set my jaw and tell myself to just get over my own ridiculous behavior. Deliberately, I pick up my mug and drink. Delicious. And it wasn't even that hard. An easy warmth spreads through my belly as the milk settles in my stomach. I wish I could sleep again, but I have one more thing to do today. Before I can do anything, however, Nick repeats his earlier question and asks me if he can check me. Shit. He hasn't forgotten.

I look at him and the worry must show in my eyes. I'd rather not. He nods in understanding, but I can tell he's a little frustrated. By asking me a series of 'yes' or 'no' questions, he tries to determine how I feel.

"Thank you," he says solemnly when we are done. This leaves me baffled. Nick chuckles softly at my surprise but doesn't say anything more.

Sometimes I really wonder what they think of me. But for now, I have one more thing to do. Picking the phone out of my pocket, I see Emmy’s face brighten hopefully.

She really should stop doing that. Gah, it's not like it's that special that I write something down. Or say something. For goodness sake.

Swallowing with anticipation, I stand up, toying with the phone. Both Nick and Emmy look up at me expectantly, and the latter nods encouragingly. "You can ask us anything, sweetheart."

Steeling my resolve, I take one last look at the phone notes. In a swift movement, I place it on the table and stand back. Even from this distance, I can still read the words, albeit upside down. But instead of letting them read it, a flex my fingers and deliberately sign my inquiry.

What do you expect of me?

I look at them, too anxious to feel anything or to settle for a facial expression. Emmy reads, frowns, and then laughs. An open, disarming laugh. Nick smiles too, but less exuberantly. He has no idea what I said.

Well, at least they are not mad, right?

Nick and Emmy exchange looks, and Emmy speaks briefly in that beautiful language that they both seem to know. Again, it makes me thing of wide-open hills and roaring fires. Nick gets up and leaves down the hall towards his office. I look after him in utter alarm. Wait. Where is he going? What is he going to get? Fuck. Fuck.

"Calm down, Cassia, nothing's wrong," Emmy says, but I am not so sure about that. I don't know her definition of 'wrong'. I hope it's not the same as Peter’s.

Nick appears swiftly again, with what looks like a piece of paper. Relief washes through me when I see that he's not holding a belt. Or a baseball bat. Or duct tape.

"This is a contract," Nick says, and all my alarm bells go off again. Involuntarily, I take a step backwards. A contract? Saying what? What am I supposed to sign? What do they want? Horrible, horrible visions fly through my head. My heart rate is increasing and my breathing speeding up. Oh, shit, I don't want to get into a panic attack again. Calm down, Cassia. Just chill out. Goddamn. "It's a non-violence act, if you will," Nick goes on, ignoring my distress. "Emmy and I will both sign this promise that we will never hurt you, never use any type of violence against you."

I forget to breathe entirely as I take in his words.

"You can hold us to this. Maybe it's easier for you to believe that we will not hurt or abuse you if it's put in print."

What's the catch? What's the fucking catch? There’s got to be one. There has to be.

"In exchange we will only ask one thing. That you try to communicate with us. It's okay if you don't want to, and it's okay when you feel like you can't. There will be no consequences if you don't want to speak or sign or write, whatever it may be. This bargain is unconditional. But maybe you will try it. You don't have to sign as yet. We sign this now, and as soon as you feel ready to meet your end of the agreement, you can put your autograph on it. How's that?"

I am so stunned I can't even think, really. Registering a burning sensation in my lungs, I start breathing again raggedly, wringing my hands in an attempt to take in what just happened.

Holy crap, do they really mean this?

"Of course, you have to agree with the terms first and comment on them. Do you want to read the contract now or later in your room?"

Hesitantly I hold up two fingers. Second option. I am much too stunned to read this in front of them. For them to even consider writing all this down for me….A physical promise…

A contract. Huh.

"Excellent," Nick says happily. "I am so pleased that you are willing to consider our proposal. That's what we expect of you, Cassia, to answer your question more pointedly. To try and work with us to make you happy here. I'm not sure if that is what you meant with your question, but that's what we expect from you. Nothing more, nothing less. We just want you to be happy."

They both beam at me and I can't help the grimace of disbelief that must flash across my face. Emmy laughs and invites me to sit down again. "Start to believe it," she says when I do indeed sit back down in the big chair. "You are going to like it here."

Nick and Emmy signed the contract before I took it with me, assuring me that if I wanted to change the terms, they would agree. But they wanted to show me that they would sign first. They wanted to keep their part of the bargain, unconditionally. Begin to establish that ‘trust’, as it were. It’s hard to admit even to myself that I do not really know what that means. Trust.

The terms were explicit, but clear. They promised no violence, no beatings, no mental games or abuse. No sexual acts in whatever conceivable way. The last section I could barely read because my hands were shaking so hard. Apparently, my file is extraordinarily explicit in the details involving my life. As much I do not want the James’ to know of my reasons for running from William…They know.

I feel the blood leave my face and dared to take a peek at them. Calm. Relaxed. Hopefully. No judgment whatsoever. By some miracle, this comforted me the tiniest bit.

The contract was bleak, and confronting. Clear as day. I had nothing to add. I honestly, do not think they realize how much I needed something like this. A physical, tangible promise. Hell, I hadn’t even known I needed it until it was in my very hands.

Emmy notices how red my eyes are from crying when I give her the paper on Monday morning, after the others have gone to school. Without me, thank god. My own copy is up in my room, in my suitcase. I have signed my part of the deal as well. My signature a bit wobbly, but the strokes spelling out Cassia Sinclair are strong and sure. I had been so overwhelmed by the relief that spread through my body each time I reread the paper that it had taken me a few times to put the pen to paper. Now it seems, I have finally accepted this house as my new home.

Daunting to say the least. My stomach knots.

"I am so proud of you," Emmy says. "You are doing so well; do you know that?"

Her words sound foggy in my ears. Proud? Of me?

"I'll put this in the safe. Come with me, we can make it official together."

It's almost like a ceremony as we walk down the art gilded hall and into Nick’s office. Emmy removes on of her paintings from the wall and opens the safe that is hidden behind it. She turns and smiles at me. "It has been a rough start. Let this signal the real beginning of your stay here." Her voice is honey and dripping with over the top extravagance. My lips twitch into a smile. One can appreciate silliness.

I nod, and she winks. "I don't think you were expecting this when you arrived Saturday."

At this, I laugh, for real. A pained little wheeze of air, but a laugh nonetheless. I can't help it. She's so right. I didn't know what to expect and there was a lot I was prepared for, but it certainly wasn't this.

It feels strange to laugh like this. I haven't done it for so long, it feels peculiar indeed. Light, as if I could float up into the clouds now.

Emmy laughs with me and seems to understand why I am laughing myself. "I hope we will live up to your expectations."

Again, she baffles me with her words. Shouldn't it be the other way around? Jezz woman, know your lines, you’re throwing me off mine.

I follow her to the kitchen again, where she starts to make coffee. "So, what do you want to do today?" she asks without looking up.

I don't know, really. I should be in school along with Iona and Declan. Jackie had shown me the registration papers for school, I was due to start today, but when I poked my head out of my room curiously early this morning as everyone was bustling around, Emmy simply stated she wanted me to get more acclimated with being in my new home, rather than bother with school. “You can start when you are ready. What’s more important is your relaxation in your mind. Not to mention school is such a bore.” Honestly, she has ‘cool mom’ down to a T.

I'm dreadfully tired still, and my hands and throat hurt. I didn’t sleep all that well last night. It was horrifying to lie in the strange bed and my anxious thoughts made it hard to relax enough to fall asleep. When I finally passed out, I kept waking up from disturbing, chaotic dreams, not knowing where I was until I sat up and looked around. I went out of bed a couple of times to check if the door was still locked, and my body woke me a few times more because why not?

"Something relaxing I think. A lazy day for sure," Emmy says as she pours the steaming black liquid into two cups. "Black, I take it?"

She never asked me this before, but the way I stare longingly at the mug before her is too obvious to ignore, and I nod. Black, and strong. Please.
Emmy sits at the kitchen table and gestures for me to follow. I do, albeit hesitantly, and sit diagonally from her. I still don't understand how everything works here. It's just so… at ease. Casual. When I arrived at William’s, it was clear from the first day which household chores would be my responsibility. Both William and Marie were very clear in what they expected of me. Not to mention extraordinarily clear when I did something they didn't like. They were relatively nice at first, although far from ‘caring’. No constant threats, just clear rules. Before the end of the second day, they smacked me for the first time. Funny, I don't even remember why that was.

Returning to the present, I look at the worn wood of the table before me. It really is a pretty table. I hold my hands in my lap and only realize I'm wringing them when the tiny wounds and bruises start to hurt.

Emmy tries to catch my attention with her gaze before she speaks again. "You can do anything you want. You can even go back to bed if you feel like it. You look tired." She frowns a little when she says this, obviously worried. "Did you not sleep well?"

No, not really. I shake my head minutely. I don't want Emmy to know these things about me. The constant worrying as to be draining for her. If only I was better at this… I’m trying so hard to be good.

"That's a shame. I hope you will be able to sleep soundly here, soon." The worry in her eyes unsettles me. I’ve grown so used to her sunshine smiles already it seems.

I swallow, frowning, and look at the coffee before me. As Emmy looks away, purposefully, I take my chance. Very carefully, I take a sip of the coffee. Delicious. Earthy and thick on my tongue. I savor it for as long as I can. I can’t remember the last cup I had. This is a real treat. When I swallow, it seems to burn right through my throat though and it hurts like hell.

Ouch.

Emmy doesn't ask any further questions about my aversion to resting but does continue her conversation. "You can go into the library, I'm confident we'll have books to your liking. You know you are free to go anywhere, right? You do not need to hover."

I keep my focus on the mug of coffee in front of me. I can't seem to stop wringing my hands. I'm not comfortable with Emmy’s questions. Why does she ask so much? What if she remembers a list of chores for me to do and she cannot find me within this behemoth house? Won’t she become upset? Not really waiting for an answer, she catches me off guard with her next request. "Tell me what you want, Cassia. Please." She leans forward across the table, her hand stretched out towards me a little.

I look up at her, eyes big with dread at the prospect of having to communicate these things that make me vulnerable. Besides, I wouldn't even know what I want, except perhaps lie down and forget the world around me. Why doesn't she give me anything to do? Surely, in a house this big work is never done? Ack. I guess I never realized how much questions stress me out. No one has ever paid this much attention to what I want before, or what thoughts are bopping around in my head. I honestly, have no inkling of how to convey any of this.

Emmy gently taps the backs of her hands, obviously trying to get me to sign and communicate this mess in my head. "Please, talk to me."
Oh, no, I'd really rather not do this. I just don't want this. Or maybe I can't, even. Making words makes me nauseous. I start to stand from the table, desperate to get away from here. Fuck the consequences.

William never made me talk. He tried once… I wince, a shiver making its way from the base of my spine all the way to the crown of my head. Ugh.
"No, please don't go, Cassia," Emmy says quickly, interrupting that dangerous train of thoughts. "I didn't want to push you, I just want to make you comfortable. Please," she pleads. "I don't want to force you into something you don't want to do. Making sure that you know this is your home is part of my job. Forgive me for being a little pushy."

Her eyes are sincere, or so it seems. Is she really serious? I think…I think she is. More than think actually, I’m convinced she is. After a long moment of hesitation, I sit back down again. The world is still easier to handle when I'm sitting down. It's a lot less wobbly, at least.

"I just thought that if you told me what you wanted to do, I could maybe help you with that," Emmy explains. She looks almost bashful, as if she is embarrassed over admitting that she wants to spend time with me. This has never happened to me before, but a little shimmer of pleasure snakes through my chest. I guess it’s nice to be cherished….at least a little.

She tumbles over her words to clarify herself, to justify her behavior. This is so strange, it's like all the roles are reversed here. In the world I know, I have always been the one to explain my behavior, going to great lengths to please others and not set them off. Here, it's like everybody is walking on tiptoes to make sure I'm comfortable. Which makes me exceptionally uncomfortable, to put it lightly. God, what a puzzle to work through.

We sit quiet for a long moment, looking at each other. I can see nothing but kindness radiating off the woman before me, and it still confuses the hell out of me. Why is she so kind? Is it even normal for people to be this kind?

That thought unsettles me so much have to blink and look away.

I'm uncomfortable here, sitting with Emmy at this table. I know I've done it before, but now she is expecting something of me and I don't know if I can give it to her. I don't even know what I want. Looking back up at Emmy, I can see her hopeful eyes.

My loathing for communicating must show on my face when I unearth my hands from the sleeves of my sweater. I grit my teeth against the effort of saying something. Aching fingers aside.

Tell me what I can do for you. Please.

"What? Why? You're acclimating, Cassia. You need to rest and be at ease. Besides, I am in charge of this household and I have decided that none of my children, none of them, are forced to help out." Her indignation is clear in her voice as well as on her face. Although, her expression changes as she thinks for a moment and continues to speak in a completely different tone. "I know you don't want to talk about this, Cassia, but please hear me out. I have read your file and I know what you have been through. I can't even begin to imagine what your life before must have been like. But I want you to know that you will not meet any violence here, nor will you be treated as anything less than a beautiful human being. You are not a slave. We didn't sign that contract for nothing. And we certainly don't expect you to do anything here. What you can do for me, is try to relax a little and in time, you can start healing."

My head whips up — and my balance topples over — at that last comment. Healing? What's there to heal? Just when I started to believe that maybe all this will be easy to navigate, the next horror crashes down on me. Heal me.

Oh, my God, I should have known this.

Take in the broken girl and fix her. Surely, they'll get a kick out of that. All the hoity toity country club members will love that story.

But I am not broken.

I am malformed.

Thus, I cannot be healed.

There is nothing to heal.

I have deserved anything and everything that I have had coming my way.

I can't do this. Tears well up and leave my eyes before I can stop them and just to further my humiliation, I sniffle. I don’t know what’s wrong. What is so wrong with me that I can’t just—just be normal? Why am I like this?

"Cassia, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to upset you."

Her sincerity makes me pause and look up at her. Standing up has reawakened my headache and a nasty head rush washes over me. I grip the back of the chair for support as I wait for the worst of the throbbing to stop. My lack of sleep is starting to catch up with me. Silently I wish for at least one thing to go right one of these days.

"Cassia, please sit down and help me understand why you are upset." The sternness in her voice makes me look back at her. This is not up for negotiation. This is something I can work with.

"I want to get to know you, sweetheart. You live with us now and we have to do it together. I don't expect you to sit down and tell me everything, but clearly my words upset you and that hurts me." Emmy looks down into her mug as she speaks, almost as if it is easier to admit her pain when she is not looking at anyone. Well, that makes two of us.

I blink in utter confusion. Why does she want to know me? To use that knowledge against me? And how can my mood hurt her?

"Won't you sit down?" Looking back up at me now with a soft smile warming her blue eyes.

I shake my head minutely, slowly. I’m honestly not sure why, maybe because she gave me the option? I’m exploring the little bit of freedom that I have been given.

"But will you stay with me for now?"

This time, I nod. She asks so kindly and she looks hurt, indeed. I want to know how I can make that better. I'm still gripping the back of the chair for support and the sharp edges of the wood cut into my hand. The pain is a nice distraction from the turmoil in my mind.

Emmy nods, relieved, and thinks for a long moment before she speaks. "We have signed that contract and we mean what is on it, Cassia, although I fear only time will teach you that violence has no place in this house. Of any kind. I like to think we are a family that is practically perfect in every way and that means respecting each other down to our very cores." She waits for a moment, to see how I take this in. I'm waiting to see where she is going with this. "We have also specified what we expect from you, and just by standing here and hearing me out, you are already fulfilling that expectation and more. Don't think I don't know what an effort it takes you to do this, I can see the tension in your hands."

We both look down at my hands, where the knuckles are white from the force I grip the back of the chair with. Quickly, I stuff both my hands back into my sweater sleeves. Out of sight, out of mind.

"I want to ask you something,” Emmy begins carefully, but still full of confidence. Immediately wary, I press my lips into a thin line and wait, breath held. She waits a moment, as if she's not sure if she should ask her question, looking at me curiously. "What do you expect of us?"

I let out my breath in a gust, tendrils of hair blowing away from my face with the escaping air.

What do I expect of them?

I don't know.

No, I do. But those expectations embody something like 'hope' and I'm not ready for that. After even three days, I would be devastated if things turned bad.

Emmy sees I'm at a loss, but for once she doesn't push me. "I'll tell you what," she says simply. "Think about this and write it down. You can show it to me or Nick when you are ready."

She gets up and places her empty coffee mug in the dishwasher. I barely touched my coffee at all. Dammit, it was really good too. Now it sits cold on the table. "You can talk to us about everything and anything, sweetie," Emmy says when she turns back to me.

I know she means it to be reassuring, but her words freak me out a little. All these pet names, I’m not sure what to think. Well no, that’s a lie, my inner most secret self is pleased beyond measure. I do like being called something that is obviously so caring. It makes me feel…grounded. Before I can start to worry about what she actually said, Emmy changes tack. "I will lay out some clothes for you later, as well as extra pajamas. Don't feel guilty about staying in bed, because frankly I don't think Nick would even approve you being up now. You must feel horrible."

My eyes widen when I hear the words ‘Nick’,' 'wouldn't' and 'approve.' I look around me anxiously immediately, to see if he is home.

"No, Cassia," Emmy says hastily. "As a doctor, he wouldn't approve. You need to rest in order to let your body heal. As a father, he just wants you to do what feels right for you right now."

While I'm momentarily frozen, trying to make sense of her words, she speaks again. "Go back to bed. I can see the effort it takes you to keep standing up straight." Her words are soft, and her smile is kind, and when she gestures her hand to tell me I can indeed leave, I do.

I'm conflicted, of course, but that bed in the guest room is calling my name. Loudly.

I make it to the guest room — my room — unharmed and unfollowed. Locking the door behind me, just in case, I pull out Jackie’s quilt and sink down in a corner of the room. I'm shaken. I don't know what to make of Emmy’s kindness. Does she really mean it? Will she always stay like this?

I want to believe her. But what do I expect of her? Of Nick? Breathing in the fast fading scent of the quilt, I think back on what happened downstairs.
It's obvious that Emmy wants to communicate with me, and they have said they want me to cooperate in that. But it's so hard to do so. Every word is a struggle and if it were up to me, I'd just never use words at all. I never felt the need to, either. Jackie was so easy on that, with purely yes or no questions or a range of options I could hold up the right number of fingers to. William never really addressed me at all, at least not with questions. And Peter… Peter would always make clear what he wanted. Eventually. He rarely used words for that. He taught me it was better to be quiet.

To be silent.

I don't know if I will be able to meet the James’ expectations. I don't know if I can. Will they send me back when I keep my distance? If I keep messing up like I've done until now? Will they change their minds, get tired of me?

If they send me back, I will just run. I'd rather live on the street or in a shelter than to go back to William. However horrible I am, however much I've done wrong, I do not want to go back there. I know I am useless, worthless, wanton even. Whatever happened to me, has been my own fault. I've been told so many, many times. I don't see any other explanation because there isn't one. It's all me.

Right? R—I don’t know anymore. I’m so confused.

Ah, shit, this is useless. I feel so useless here. My heart gives a mighty twinge and I place my hand over it as if it could quell the pain. I wish there was something I could do. Ironing the shirts felt good, until I messed that up, of course. I wish I could make myself useful here. There has to be some purpose that I could take up. Anything. I could do anything. Hell, I'll even polish Emmy’s silverware for her. Maybe I should offer doing that. It's a task people generally tend to dislike.

I'm incompetent here, being in bed. Lazing about as if I expected this kind of royal treatment. Then again, Nick wouldn't approve if he saw I was out, Emmy said. Will she tell him? What will happen then? Will there be consequences? What does 'do not approve' mean in this household?
I try to divert my thoughts to prevent a panic attack, and my thoughts drift to how Emmy addressed my past. She mustn't talk about my past. I don't know what she was getting at and I don't want to know. My reaction made that clear enough. What has happened, has happened and it was my own fault. I deserved it all. I don't want to talk about it. I feel horrible even thinking about it. The beatings, I could take. Physical pain almost always subsides after a certain amount of time. Bruises heal, as do broken bones. I’m fine now. Fine.

I finger the scar that adorns the palm of my right hand. This is the only scar that my birth mother has inflicted on me. I had been trying to tell her for the second, and last time what Peter did to me when she wasn’t home, how he tormented me at night with crude whispers through my door. The poker had been lying in the burning hearth and was white hot when she pulled it out and hit me with it. "Don't you ever talk about that!" A scream in my face accompanied with a slap to my mouth. I held out my hand to fend off the attack but was faced with a debilitating blow. The burning was excruciating, I remember the pain shooting straight up into my arm. I didn't know what to do with the wound, my mother never took me to the hospital, never really even acknowledged that she had hurt me, and it never healed well. I still can't stretch out my hand fully, but I'm so used to it now I rarely notice the constriction, only when it hinders my ability to play my violin really. The palm of my hand is mostly numb, the scar is barely visible anymore.

I sigh, considering snapping the rubber band on my left wrist. The pain, when it comes, is sharp and punishing. It doesn't distract me from my memories. I force my thoughts to the present again. Physical pain goes away and as such is bearable. It's not likeable, or desirable, but if it has to happen, I know that I will get through. Shivering, I wrap myself into a tighter ball within Jackie’s quilt.

It's the emotional pain maybe that hurts, that tears at my insides and rips my soul to pieces. Peter came to my room telling me that I should be grateful, for his discipline, for his lessons. He just taught me to be a good daughter, and all he did to me, I had brought onto myself. I remember wishing he would be more direct, instead of playing his games with me. With him, I never knew what would happen.

When I was placed with William and Marie, I didn't expect my life to be much different. I already knew I was a horrible person. Insufferable to be around. Incurable. Rotten. William told me that I already knew how it felt and that he knew what my stepfather had seen in me. I never understood what he meant. He told me I taunted him just by being around. Both men convinced they had acted for 'my own good'. The humiliation of what they both did to me, what they made me do, shattered me. It still does. I feel the heat in my cheeks as memories flood me. God, I'm so ashamed. I must be a horrible person indeed to have deserved all this.

I learned to ask as little attention as possible, to act like I wasn't there. I made myself as small as I could, and I faded into almost nothing. I went quiet. Words never brought the relief they promised. They only brought hurt. The incident with the poker was the last time I uttered a sound. A scream. I never spoke again after that. Never cried out anymore. It was better that way. It still is. So why all the James family keep asking me questions and seem to be working their asses of to get my attention, is beyond me. I don't need it, I don't deserve it. Once Iona and Declan learn of my past, they won't want anything to do with me. That would be the best scenario, considering what they could do if they wanted to make my life miserable.

Best to keep my distance. I've learned now what happens when I let my guard down.

Heal me. I wonder what Emmy thinks there is to heal. Every punishment I have received, I have deserved. As such, I can't be broken. I've been malformed in the first place.

That means I will never be good enough to deserve love.

The thought hits me like a ton of bricks and it feels like the air is blown out of my chest.

I will never be loved. The crack in my heart deepens and I pull myself even tighter into a ball, as if holding myself together under this blanket, in the bed, will keep me from shattering completely into a million pieces so tiny that there is no hope of repair.

Better learn to live with it.

But Emmy is so kind to me… Her words and eyes and gentle smiles tug at the pit of my stomach. I don't know this feeling and I'm uneasy with it. The realization that I want her to be so kind with me is not uneasy, it's horrifying.

Wanting things only ever ends up in disappointment.

Shit, I really have to steel my guard here. I don't know what Emmy is doing to me, but she's skilled at what she does. I don't know what I must do with this. How to fight it. What am I fighting, exactly? Am I even fighting something?

So, I sit in the corner of the room, huddled in the quilt that represents Jackie, and I worry. And I worry about the things I worry about, because all this is very, very new to me. It scares me out of my wits, frankly. When I moved here, I knew my entire world was going to be put upside down. I was prepared for an awful lot, but definitely not this.

It's like I am still in that current, floating in unpredictable waters, and my feet have not yet found any purchase on the ground. I'm afraid that once I do, it'll turn out to be a swamp and I will get sucked in until I am swallowed whole by some terrible beast bearing the face of my past.
No, best to keep floating and to try to keep my breathing under control, and my head above the water. That I can do. For now, at least. That’s a tiny portion of resolve to steal me from further manipulation. I doubt it will hold, but it’s the thought that counts.

I wait until I am shaking with hunger and pain before I go downstairs again. I truly hope I will not run into Nick, as it seems I can never know when the man is around, but I need food and medication. Surely, as a doctor he could never deny me that?

Emmy isn't in the living room or in the kitchen. Excellent, that means she can't ask me any more questions and I can move around in relative peace. I eat and have meds, undisturbed. Miracles happen, apparently. Turning to the dishwasher to clear away my stuff, I finally notice the note on the counter.

Cassia, I'm so happy that you stayed with me in the kitchen.
I hope you have rested some.
Please don't feel obliged to do anything. You need to rest in order for your body to heal.
Pick out a movie if you want to. Come find me if you need me.
Love, Emmy.

The irony is not lost on me.

Following her advice, I pick out a movie from the vast collection they have in the living room. Harry Potter. I smile a bit. Small comforts. Back up in the room, it takes a couple of minutes to figure out how the television system works. Then, finally, I get the movie to play and I crawl on the bed to watch. I'm sleeping even before Harry has received his first Hogwarts letter.

I open my eyes by voices that resound through the house. Josh’s booming baritone voice becomes louder and louder as I can hear him walking heavily up the stairs, followed by a second, lighter pair of feet.

My door is closed and locked, that's why I manage to keep lying down, but barely. More shuffling feet, and voices that complain of the amount of homework that needs to be done.

I look at the television, that's back to replaying the animated menu again and again. I've been sleeping for almost four hours, I think. And Emmy has let me.

Or maybe she's tried to wake me, and I just didn't hear her.

Oops.

Perhaps I should go down, to check if everything is still all right. I don't want to upset Emmy, but I feel like I need to do something, then again I don't want to upset Nick either and he doesn't want me out of bed.

Shit.

I'm groggy, and rumpled, and altogether in a bad mood, maybe. I wait a little longer, waiting until I am sure the hallway is empty, before I suck up the courage to go down and face the rest of the household. Gritting my teeth, I put the movie back into the case and go downstairs.

Emmy is nowhere to be seen, again. The entire floor appears to be empty. I walk into the living room and place the movie back into the exact same spot I retrieved it earlier. Turning back, I think I might use this opportunity to get some food again. I'm hungry as hell, which is new to me.

I stop dead in my tracks when I see that I am not alone in the room. Declan is on the couch, huddled in a corner, eyes closed. His long legs are stretched out over the seat and his head is resting to the side, against the back of the couch. He's not moving and with a shock I realize that he must be sleeping. He looks so relaxed; his eyes are closed and his face looks serene with arms that are loosely wrapped around his midsection and his legs are crossed at the ankles.

Slowly, silently, I let myself sink down in the big winged chair I have used every time I was in this room. I watch Declan as he sleeps. He's so quiet, I can't even hear him breathe. I have no clue why I am mesmerized by this sight so much, but the vision of him here, apparently relaxed enough to fall asleep on the couch in the middle of the day, means something very important to me.

Because people don't tend fall asleep when they don't feel safe.

The fact that he apparently feels safe enough to sleep, stuns me into a frozen state.

Does this mean that he's not afraid of getting punished for slacking during the day?

I look around, listening all the while to the distant sounds around me that tell me there are indeed others in the house. They are just not here. I look back to Declan slowly, as if I move too fast it will all be revealed to be a farce. This is what Emmy was talking about wasn’t it? Feeling safe and comforted enough to rest… to trust that I will not be hurt. That it is okay to be vulnerable to all of the new people around me because they would not lift a finger to manipulate or cross me. It is okay to feel at home. To have this place as my home. To trust these people as my new family.

My fingers tighten into fists within my sweater. I want this so badly I could scream. A safety so sincere and true that it’s not even really a worry that crosses my mind anymore. My heart cracks. I want it. I do.

Declan moves a little and wraps his arms tighter around himself. I freeze, afraid that he will wake and see me sitting here. But he doesn't open his eyes and he is still again. Is he cold, maybe? I know I am cold, and as he is not moving at all, maybe he is a little chilly.

I look at the afghan that lies folded on the loveseat.

Do I dare do this? I deliberate for a long moment. Will he appreciate it if I cover him? Will he hate me for it? Will Emmy berate me for it?
Looking closer I see there are dark shadows under his eyes. He must have been sleeping poorly over the last couple of days. I snort silently. That's not even surprising, I think nobody has slept well over the last couple of days. I know I haven't. Not really.

Declan moves again and now I'm very sure that he is cold. People should never be cold. It's the one thing I truly hate to be. I can handle pain, or hunger, or any type of hurt, but I hate to be cold.

That does it for me. I pick up the Afghan as silently as I can muster and gently drape it over him, very careful to remain out of arms' reach should he wake. I can't even believe I am doing this! My heart crashes in my chest and I'm having trouble to keep my breathing at least a little bit calm. Why am I feeling so caring all of a sudden? Then again, I covered William with a blanket often enough when he passed out on the couch. Not that I wanted him to keep warm, but because I didn't want him to wake up from the cold and visit my room in anger before he went to his own bed.

But with Declan, I just don't want him to be cold. Plus, he helped me- or tried to- the other night, I do remember that, so it's normal to do something in return, right?

Right?

Declan seems to notice the blanket, because he huddles in a little deeper and sighs softly.

Afraid that he will wake, I take a step back. Best to leave him now. I know I would panic if I was sleeping and somebody was watching me. Blanket or no.

I leave for the kitchen and start for the fridge. I have to breathe deep a couple of times to get my heartbeat under control again. I hope Declan never finds out I placed the blanket over him, and I hope he won't be angry when he does. It's a bit too late to take the afghan away now, too. Retrieving my food, I try to focus on other things to distract myself.

It's a wonder really, how soon I have rolled into my own rhythm in this house. I had a clear rhythm at William’s of course, eating whenever I could and forming my schedule around his. I often considered myself lucky that he had some important job at the courts, which kept him away from home a lot. He often had big dinners in the weekends, which meant more quiet time for me. I never minded.

At Jackie’s, I did as I pleased too, eating when I wanted and sleeping when I wanted. She always left me to do my own thing and although she told me I didn't need to, I think she didn't really mind that I cleaned her entire house while she was out working.

Here, it seems as if I automatically get to avoid the family as much as possible. It saves me so much stress, especially when I think back to Saturday. I've been here for Three days and I have seen so little of the rest of the family. My injuries are a wonderful excuse to keep away though, and I'm hoping that by the time this will be over, they know it's better to avoid me. I'll make it easy for them to act as if I'm not there.

It's better that way.

Voices from the hallway upstairs, coming down.

Oh, shit, didn't I just think how easy it was to avoid them?

Emmy comes first, followed by Josh and Iona. All three faces light up when they see me. Nobody seems to notice how I am gripping the breakfast bar for support.

Ah, wrong. Emmy does. Of course. "Did you sleep?" She asks kindly. Behind her, Josh trails into the living room and turns on the TV.

Oh, no, Declan is sleeping in there! When he wakes up, he will find out I must have put the blanket over him. Shit! That fact scares me so much I simply flop down to the floor, so I can hide in the corner between the breakfast bar and the kitchen counter.

Josh takes Declan by surprise to wake him up — loudly. The latter curses up a storm and it sounds faintly muffled, as if Josh plopped his entire form onto the sleeping Declan. Hearing the surprised and angry reactions of the others, I would not be the only one whose heart skipped a beat in fright.

I cover my head and peek with wide eyes into the living room after the sudden commotion. I'm not really scared that something will happen to me, but sudden sounds render me motionless like I am now. Fight or flight, with only flight as an option. Skittish like a newborn deer.
Will Declan be upset over the afghan?

I shouldn't have done this. I just shouldn't. What was I thinking? Kindness is not my forte. Never again. Any urge to do something like that again I will squash like–

"Shit, Josh! Couldn't just let me sleep, could you?" Declan’s angry tone and then a whack! As something meets flesh, hard. I wince.

"Your legs are taking up much needed space, man. If you want to sleep, you should go to bed. Or did Lola keep you awake all night?" Josh adds in a suggesting tone. There’s a considerably softer wumph! and Declan curses again. Perhaps Josh threw a pillow back in retaliation?

Declan mumbles something in response but I am distracted from that answer because someone is saying my name very close to me.
"Cassia?" It's Iona and she sounds worried.

Carefully, I focus my gaze on her. She's kneeling in front of me, but at a safe distance away. Yet all I can see are those huge blue eyes. Like someone plucked the California summer sky and placed them in her face. For some reason that thought makes my shoulders slacken a bit. Emmy stands back a little, a mixture of worry and annoyance on her face.

Oh, shit, is she annoyed with me? My eyes go bigger still in apprehension.

"Did Josh scare you with his yell?" She asks, turning her face back to the living room as she arched a golden brow. I keep looking at Emmy. I can't move and although I'd rather not answer this question, I think my reaction is self-explanatory.

Iona stays in her kneeling position, but she leans backwards and calls around the breakfast bar, "Josh, you prick, you scared the shit out of Cassia. Seriously, you really don't have a brain, do you?"

"Aw, shit—I’m sorry!" His words are short, but sincere. I hear some further cursing, much quieter and turned inward. Declan calls him an idiot.
"Iona, mind your tongue, please. Be nicer to the boy we’re all learning," Emmy admonishes. Then she looks into the direction of the living room. "Josh, we've spoken time and again about your loudness. I would appreciate it if you kept Cassia’s presence in mind as well. Now come over here and apologize properly, please." She doesn’t sound angry, or even annoyed anymore, to my disbelief. She actually sounds just as playful as Iona did when she called her own boyfriend a ‘prick’. Like they’ve all done this before. A million times even.

I hear Josh’s footsteps as he approaches the kitchen.

Wait, is he coming here? What…No. No. No.

"Where is she?" Softly, and a little concerned. Jezz, maybe I am a newborn animal.

Iona nods in my direction and Josh appears around the breakfast bar.

Oh lord, he's like ten feet tall from where I am sitting. My eyes widen as panic threatens to set in, but he starts talking gently before I even have a chance to consider it. "Sorry again, Cassia! Didn't mean to scare you." He smiles down at me from about a mile away and I just look up at him, frozen, eyes fixed in their wide stance.

Maybe I should blink soon but that part seems to be malfunctioning at the moment.

Josh waits a moment, but he soon learns I'm not going to react and with another wide smile he disappears back to the living room again. I follow him with my eyes until he vanishes from sight and then Emmy catches my gaze, smiling once more. "Thank you, Josh. Cassia, my dear, let's get you up. There's really no reason to be scared. He didn't mean any harm."

"No, he's just loud by default, the big oaf," Iona clarifies, grinning at some inside joke. "Come, it must be cold on the floor."

It is, come to think of it. I lift myself up into a standing position again, holding on to the breakfast bar until I look around and make sure everything is in the all clear. Then I look back at Emmy. I need to know why she was annoyed.

She’s ready with her questions though, asking me as she walks around the kitchen to peek into the fridge then back at me. "Did you eat anything?"

I nod.

"Good. I'm glad to see that you're starting to eat more. How is the bruising? Is it getting better?" Her eyes flick down to my hands, tightly wound in my sweater, and make a point to not look at my neck. Iona glances at me curiously, but says nothing.

I nod again, still waiting. Anxiety is still wound tightly in my stomach. I was less nervous around William, come to think of it.

"Good. Listen, I don't know if you're up to it, but I wanted to make some soup for dinner tonight and I was wondering if you wanted to help me?" While Emmy speaks, Iona shrugs once and disappears into the living room. Much quitter chaos ensues as the three teenagers begin arguing over the remote. "I'll tell everyone the kitchen is off limits, so it would be just us. I know you want to help me out, and I know you like to cook. What do you think?"

She sounds hopeful and although I dread the prospect of cooking with her around, I like the idea of being able to do something and that something being cooking is a hopeful thought indeed. It is certainly safe to say that it is one of my favorite things to do. I gently release the hold I have on my sweater, so I can roll up my sleeves a bit.

But what will Nick do when he gets home?

Emmy sees my hesitation. "What has you worried?"

Puffing out my cheeks I flex my fingers once and then again. Talking is such a drag.

Will Nick be mad, since he doesn’t approve of me being out of bed?

I'd give my right arm to not have to ask these questions that make me so vulnerable. I'm literally shaking with the weakness I feel. But this is what Emmy wants me to work towards. So—so I think I will.

Emmy however smiles at me. "You've slept through the day, it's good for you to be up for a while. So, will you help me? Nick most certainly will approve."
Will I do it? It will feel good to be doing something again and if Nick will approve, it means I can appease him too. My shoulders come down as I relax a bit and let the right side of my mouth twitch up into a smile. I nod and Emmy’s face lights up.

"You couldn't have made me happier," she breathes, and then she is suddenly all business getting the utensils and ingredients out. She buzzes around me and gives me a clear set of directions as she does so. I feel myself relax further. Finally, a purpose, even if it is something as simple as cooking for everyone. Like a grumpy warden, Emmy calls out to the others in the living room that they should not come into the kitchen, and then we set to work.

(Gah my heart)

_{If there's anything ya'll want more of let me know. I'm running with that slow burn plot but things are about to heat up.}

_{More happiness for Cassia. Also I do like Cassia and Iona's relationship and I would like to see that a little more}

_{Oh yes. I love them too. It's coming! No worries. There are ups and downs but mostly ups. I promise.}

I've never been more exhausted from such a simple thing as cooking. Emmy noticed how tired I was after just cleaning and cutting the vegetables — which I did sitting at the kitchen table to suppress the exhaustion a bit — and sent me to my bed with a resoluteness that surprised me. But I am grateful for it. Finally, some clarity. Finally, some clear orders that I know what to do with. My shoulders ached with relief from being tensed so much.

It did feel very unnatural to leave the kitchen without setting the table. To leave things unfinished. But Emmy wouldn't have it. So, when she was distracted, I did it anyway, with quick practiced efficiency. I’ve disappeared up the stairs before she can notice. Just call me sneaky.

I'm too tired to really worry about the fact that she sent me to my room. I know I’m not being punished, but I just can’t shake that anxiety still. I don't know what will happen next. And I don't want to know.

Or maybe I do.

It's been three days and I'm still waiting.

Waiting for that other shoe to drop.

I sit on the bed with my back against the headboard. I'm very tired and wish I could go to sleep, but I'm too wound up for that. I don't trust this situation. Not at all. Although, I don’t really know why anymore. I must be just a distrustful person. Rotten against everything to my core.

How is it that I am so tired? I want to be annoyed with myself, because I slept all damn day but I can’t find the energy. I sigh and plop over to my side, curling up into my usual sleeping position. Yes, much more comfy.

The door to my room is opened just a crack, because Emmy told me she'd bring me some food as soon as she was done cooking. Through that crack, soft sounds from a chattering James clan drift into the room—my room.

It's almost comforting to listen to. Soft banter, clinking silverware, the occasional laugh. It lulls me, the ambiance of comfort. A dream within a dream…

Footsteps on the stairs alert me that someone is coming and soon enough, Emmy steps into my room with a tray again. On automatic pilot, my body sits up bringing my knees up to my chin and my arms wrapping themselves around them. I don't stand up. I learned it's better to keep as still as possible. Emmy walks around my bed and puts the tray on the desk. I follow her with my gaze and feel utterly useless and even more horrible that she serves me like this. This treatment is driving me nuts. I’m no princess, no guest in this home, I’m a burden–

"Please try to eat something. You made it yourself, you know," She smiles at me, placing her hands on her hips. She keeps looking at me expectantly, but I don't know what it is she wants. "Maybe you can try to eat at the desk. Hot soup is not really something you want to spill."

Ah. I nod once, to let her know I have understood her request. I will do that as soon as I'm alone again. My comfort is finite and it’s currently running dangerously low. I look at Emmy and the tension is steadily building in the room. Or, maybe it's not tension. It's… awkwardness? Why have I never noticed how awkward I am? Lack of human contact I suppose.

Emmy nods into the direction of the laptop, that is still sitting on the desk, untouched. "You probably knew this already, but this laptop is yours now. Don't hesitate to use it."

I actually didn’t know that, but it does make me both uncomfortable and curious. I really, really hope they didn’t go out of their way to buy me an expensive laptop. Like the phone it is also an Apple product. Shiny and new. Good Lord.

"Would you like me to stay here and keep you company?" There is a tinge of awkwardness in her voice as well. She is unsure of how to react to me in my natural state of ‘bump on a long’. Why is she asking this? I'd rather she didn't, but could this be a trick question? I shake my head carefully. I'm really rather alone.

Emmy nods in return, sighing softly. "Use your phone if you need me, okay? I'll come check on you later." I can't help but think that she is getting tired of me. It won't be long before they realize they have made a mistake by letting me live here. I wouldn't want to live with me, either, if we are being painfully honest. I’m just…well me.

I nod again.

I'm getting pretty sick of nodding. Of answering questions, in general, but alas this is the life I have chosen.

I follow Emmy with my eyes as she leaves the room, leaving the door ajar a little behind her. The sounds of the happy family filter upwards yet again as she rejoins the fray. I get up and stand behind the door, half hidden by the wood, listening to them. How do I get that life?

I bite my lip as I push my forehead against the door, count to ten, then lock the door and eat the soup at the desk after carefully putting the laptop out of the spill zone.

That life is not in the cards for me.

It's delicious, of course, just like the soup.

_{(Time Skip)}

Checking my watch, I see it's three am. Another night of spotty sleep it seems. I was able to close my eyes after finishing dinner, but was awakened by dreams that had me contemplating sleeping in the tub again. I sighed, gently pushing the air out of my lungs until they felt empty. I’ve been trying to pluck up the courage to take my dirty dishes downstairs for the past hour, but I’m worried about a repeat of Saturday night. I gnaw my lip. I should be in the clear now. The house has been quiet for hours, so I decide to just try it and go downstairs. After all, this time I am pretty sure that all the James’ are in bed, so nobody will be coming home in the middle of the night.

Right? I nod to myself. Right. Obviously.

Still, I get dressed in my second pair of clothes and pull my only sweater over my head. I wonder how I am going to solve this problem. I really should have some more clothes. Pursing my lips in displeasure, I brush the thought away. No thank you.

I make my way downstairs carefully through the twilit house. The sky is clear — for the first time since I've been here I should think — and moonlight fills the house with a bluish glow through the countless windows. It looks beautiful and for a moment I stand in the foyer, bathed in this pure light, blinking owlishly as I smile. It truly is wonderful. If I could paint like Emmy I would try to catch this light. It’s gentle and quiet nature helps my taunt muscles relax. I’m alone. I’m fine.

Walking softly in my socks, I make my way to the kitchen. Only when I come around the corner, can I see that there is a small light on.

There is someone in there.

Crap.

I turn immediately to leave again, but a voice stops me.

"Hey, don't go."

Double crap.

My heart is crashing in my throat when I turn slowly and meet Declan’s eyes.

"Don't go," he says again. "Don't be scared," he adds in a whisper. He leans up a little bit from the breakfast nook where he had been sitting, a book thumping to the floor. I startle at the unexpected noise, but remain in the doorway, holding my tray, wondering what I should do. Declan rakes a hand through his hair, tugging it a little so that it turns into a halo of ink around his head. It seems he is thinking.

"I can leave," he starts, but I shake my head. It's his kitchen, he shouldn't move for me. Just when I decide it's better to turn and leave, he speaks again. "I couldn't sleep," he says apologetically, then looks back at me with a small smile. "I guess that makes two of us."

My heart is still beating fast. Unable to stop my hands from shaking, I carefully slide past into the kitchen and place the dishes in the sink. My back is to him and that makes me incredibly nervous. So nervous I cannot wash the dishes. I turn back to face him, without looking and lean my back against the counter. My body is getting angry with me. I am again tensed up and my sore muscles protest. What do I do?

"Do you want anything to drink? I can make you some tea, or some hot milk maybe?" He had picked up the book while I was faced away and was placing on the table as he spoke. My curiosity gets the better of me for a moment, so I take a peek. My eyebrows flick up. A History of Roman Emperors. Wow. I wonder if he got it from the library, that way I can snag it when he’s done.

Wait—What did he ask? Drink right. Oh, the prospect of hot milk is tempting indeed. But will he expect anything back for that?

Why is everything in this household so damn difficult?

When I don't react, frozen in insecurity, Declan sighs and looks at the glass of water that's before him on the breakfast bar. "I'm sorry, I don't know how to talk with you."

Just talk, Declan. I'm listening.

"Anyway, thanks for the quilt earlier today." He gently touches the rim of the glass with a finger. A blush creeping up his neck. At this, I almost stagger. He noticed that? And… he's not angry about it?

Declan looks up at me and must see my surprise. "You did put the blanket over me, right?"

I nod, forced into honesty. I couldn't lie to save my life.

"Well, thank you for that. I was tired. Rough nights, you know? Now I'm up because I slept through the afternoon, but I guess it’s okay now." Again, he seems to be talking more to himself than to me, his gaze focused on his glass again. Voice as quiet as the moonlight that comes through the windows.
I should move. I need meds and to wash my dishes. If Declan has a problem with that, he'll let me know.

Going over to the cabinet, I get my medication. I look at the fridge where the carton of milk sits waiting for me, but I don't want the hassle of heating milk with someone else in the room. With a soft sigh, I opt for water. That’s easy and fast.

"Would you like some hot milk?" He asks again. I start and look around at him. "I can make it for you, if you want." His face is gentle, his gaze is just as intense as it is whenever he looks at me. What is ailing him? "It's really not a big deal," he says, getting up. "I was going to make some myself. Will that make it easier for you?"

I stand back and let him pass, sliding to the other side of the breakfast bar. I watch him as he gets the milk from the fridge and produces a pan from the drawer underneath the cooking island.

Declan holds up the milk for me. "Want?" The blush is in his cheeks now, but he meets my gaze gently and with a firm resolve. He's disarming. That's the word. He seems very honest in his awkwardness and there is nothing that indicates a hidden agenda. He doesn't look like he is scheming or planning to get at me.

And I do believe I have developed a radar for that over the course of my life.

Finally, I nod. I would like the milk and if he is going to make some for himself too, then I am not asking for too much trouble, am I?

He measures the milk into the pan before he places it on the gas. "Now, let's see how this works," he murmurs to himself, as he looks at the buttons on the stove. When he looks up at me again, his face lights up with a crooked smile. "I can burn water, you know, so this is a risky endeavor for me."

I can't suppress my own smile at that as I see him struggling with the buttons. Finally, Declan looks up at me, looking… shy? "Do you know how this thing works?" I nod at him, still amused and amazed by his helplessness. Didn’t Iona say he was good with machines? I've never seen anyone admit so easily that he couldn't do something. Usually I was blamed for anything and everything that went wrong."Can you help me out?" Declan asks hesitantly. "It's stupid, considering I offered to make you the milk, and I could have just used the microwave, but it tastes better when you heat it on the stove, and…"

As he is babbling, I make my way around the cooking island slowly. He steps back when I approach, leaving me my space. He's behind me now however, which makes me uncomfortable. I try to watch him from my peripheral vision as I light the gas in a matter of seconds, swirling the milk in the pan, by tilting the handle. From the top drawer I pick out something to stir with. So easy to be at ease in a kitchen…

"Oh, you're supposed to press them?" He asks, utterly surprised. "God, I feel like an imbecile."

I look up at him, shaking my head before I can stop myself. Of course, he's not an imbecile. It's very degrading of him to think that of himself. He doesn’t seem to be a man that would know his way around a kitchen, much less cooking in one. If what Iona said was true, he just doesn’t have the patience. I won’t hold it against him. It’s definitely an acquired taste.

"I can take over, maybe?" He asks hesitantly. His hand twitches as if he was going to reach for the spoon I am still holding, but thought better of it at the last second. "I offered to make you some, after all."

I think of all the James in this house, Declan confuses me the most.

"Here, let me do this. You need to take your meds, I think?" he adds, nodding at the package that is still on the counter.

Yeah, but I'd rather not do it with him around. I can take them later. I don't even know how I am supposed to drink this milk if he insists in staying around. Then again, I have done it before several times already, with Emmy. Maybe…maybe I can. Indicating that he should keep on stirring slowly, I step back from the stove. He takes over, not moving his eyes from the pan. It's almost as if he is willing the milk to heat with his gaze.

But as he is not looking away, I can maybe try to take my meds indeed. Opening the package, Declan doesn't look up at the sound. Nice! I grab a tiny cup of water and resettle myself at the counter.

The drinking goes slowly because it's horrible. I can keep saying it because the awfulness of these pills amazes me every single time again. Declan stays focused on the pan, but he doesn't seem to notice that the milk is starting to boil. He obviously has never done this before else he would know that at the first signs of boiling, you have to think fast. Should I clear my throat for him to know it’s ready? But that would mean making a sound. I chew my lip, final pills forgotten on the counter top. Oh man…

He still doesn't react, and I shoot forward, reaching between his body and the stove to shut down the gas. The milk, that had reached the brim of the pan, settles down again. I step back immediately, looking down, apologizing for approaching him so closely. I hope he understands that it would have become a real mess if that milk had boiled over. I was only trying to help.

When I look up through my lashes, prepared for him to lash out at me, I see that he is looking at me, dazed. "Thanks. I hadn’t even noticed…"

I only then realize I have been holding my breath. My head is throbbing in time with my heart and I try to calm myself down. I let out my breathe, amazed that it’s not as shaky as it could have been.

Oh, my. Nothing happened. He's not angry. It's okay.

I'm okay. Huh.

Filling the mugs, he puts them both on the breakfast bar. "Honey?"

What? My head whips up at his words and he chuckles. "In the milk, silly."

Oh, of course.

My breath escapes in a mixture of a laugh and a gasp. Oh crap, why am I blushing? I look away, hoping it will not be noticed in the dim light in the kitchen. My cheeks burn steadily. I may have to ask Emmy to stop calling me by pet names, lest I get confused again. My hands are fidgeting frantically, nervously, betraying my unease. I rewrap them in my sweater.

A light scraping sound makes me look up from my mortification and I see how Declan is moving one of the stools to the other side of the bar. He gestures for me to sit down and walks around again, taking his own place. When I don't react, he looks up at me. "You know, I get it that you are scared, but I really won't do anything to you. Why don't you try it and see that I'm right?"

His words catch me off guard. Still, I don't want to sit so close to him. I make a little face that I hope he sees as apologetic as I walk over to the bar and lean against the counter out of arm's reach. Declan looks at me with a look in his eyes I can't discern, and he continues to look at me over the rim of his mug as he takes a sip of his milk.

Picking up my milk too, I let the mug warm my hands through my sweater. I seem to be cold always lately, and ever since I got to Rochester it has become significantly worse.

"So, do you like it here so far?" His voice cracks and he clears his throat a bit to be able to speak over a whisper.

Is he seriously asking this? How am I supposed to answer that? I don't know anything yet about this family. I don't know what my life will look like here. I don't think I can have an opinion about this yet. Plus, what will happen if I say either yes or no?

"See, that's what I mean," he says so softly I can barely hear him. "Why don't you answer questions?" It sounds like a plea.

I frown a little and sigh, although I am not sure whether he was addressing me or not. Obviously, I can't answer 'why'-questions without writing something down, and I can't tell Declan how I don't know what the consequences of my answers will be. It's like when you are arrested: Everything you say can and will be used against you. Huh. I guess it’s not that hard to explain.

We stay quiet for a moment and I get the feeling that although Declan is very awkward around me, he doesn't mind sitting in silence. I wonder how talkative he is himself, usually.

"So, how are your hands?" he suddenly asks. "Getting better?"

I nod in affirmation, wondering where he wants to go with this. Conversations with people always put me on edge. I shouldn't have come down here. Regret knots my stomach.

"Good," he says, chuckling deeply. "Next time I’d leave broken glass alone."

Noted, but I smile a bit to show him I know he’s making a joke.

"When are you planning to go to school with us? Are you planning to go to school with us?"

Taking a sip of my milk, I think for a moment. I don't know really. Emmy and Nick told me that I'd have to get better first. I haven't been to school in weeks and although I do like it, I'm not looking forward to going to a new school with hundreds of new faces, questions, suspicions. I guess in time though that I will have to go.

To answer Declan’s question, I shake my head and shrug a little. I hope he understands that I don't know for sure.

"Yeah, I guess you have to get better first," he says, again more to himself than to me. He finishes his milk, putting the mug back on the breakfast bar with a thud. "I have to try and get some sleep, maybe," he says apologetically. "My alarm goes off in less than three hours." He rubs his face with both hands, then lets them travel to his hair again as he looks back at me. "But I guess that's not really your concern." He gives me a small smile, almost tentatively. "Are you coming to bed, too? Or will you be okay here?"

I indicate I want to stay downstairs, hoping he will not mind. Declan nods and bids me goodnight voice still as gentle as the moonlight, then leaves the kitchen.

The silence, when he is gone, feels empty. The moonlight cold. Something about him is just so warm. I can’t tell what it is.

I’m sure I don’t ever want to know.

I’m sure.

I still can't sleep. I've given up hope about an hour ago and now I walk around the room slowly, trying to get the stiffness out of my body. My back is very sore and it's bothering me, and both are new sensations to me. I have not moved around enough. I have not been outside this house even since I ran on Saturday, which is a pretty disturbing thought, actually. I suddenly feel caged and claustrophobic. Coming to the window again, I pop it open, the fresh air cooling my sudden sweats.

Slowly moving my shoulders and swinging my arms, I try to get the blood to flow a little again. Jackie’s quilt, which I have wrapped around me, flutters slowly with my movements.

The scent is gone.

I knew it would evaporate, but I never thought it would leave so soon. Had I known this, I might have tried to memorize the scent. I was too late. Wrapping the blanket around me like a cloak, I walk around. I sit on the bed, then walk a little. I sit on the chair, then walk a little.

I try not to think.

I don't succeed. In the early morning, the skin on my wrist is burning from the many times I have snapped the rubber band against it.
Finally, when it's really no use to go to sleep anymore, I give in to the temptation and boot the laptop that has been waiting patiently on the desk. The boot up sound is familiar and it takes my mind off things wonderfully as I try to figure out how it all works. It's very intuitive, I discover, and it doesn't take me very long to find how to browse the web for some news and to check my email. Praise the Apple Gods.

I have unread messages from Jackie, but I don't read them yet. I don't want to know what they say. I don't want her to ask if I like it here. I don't want her to ask if I am okay.

Because I don't think I am. Not really.

I sigh. I don't know. The fact that I am still not sleeping because I am wound too tight with anxiety might be a sign. That’s a fact if I’ve ever heard one. The warm milk didn't help. The conversation with Declan didn't either. Two lies. It did help, but as soon as he was gone, everything else came rushing back in and now I feel worse.

Somehow I can't help but think back to Iona’s words yesterday: 'No panic attack?' What does this mean? It feels like a bad thing to let my guard down. Then again, nothing happened. Declan really was kind to me. He made me the milk — at least, he tried to. He didn't say nasty things. He could have easily gotten his way with me if he had wanted to. We were alone in the kitchen and I could not fight him if I wanted to, or even if I tried. I think he is much stronger than he looks. He held me with ease on Saturday. I remember how it felt and if I am being completely honest with myself, my deepest self that is, it was nice to be held so gently.

Anxiety explodes in me when I think about that. Nope nope nope. No, I promised myself I was not going to think. But turning off my brain seems to get harder and harder these days. The universe has decided that I have to pay attention now, be out in the open, and I can’t help but think that this family is the reason why.

I listen as the family wakes up, concentrating on the sounds. Very faintly, I can hear different alarms go off throughout the house. Then the familiar sounds of a family grumbling about the new day. Emmy walks down our hall, knocking first on Iona’s then Declan’s door, telling them briskly not to ignore their alarms and get up. She’s met with two equally load groans. Chuckling she says she’ll make breakfast worth their while. A tired cheer sounds. Her footsteps vanish down the steps.

She skipped my door. I guess that means no school again. I slowly sit back at my desk, unsure of how to proceed. I’m tired, but I certainly know that I can perform at school in this state. I’ve down it numerous times before. Chewing on my lip, I wonder how to tell Emmy that I’m okay with starting school, even though the prospect makes me scowl.

When I have seen enough cars leave, I open the door resolutely and go downstairs. This stay-at-home nonsense must stop, I am perfectly capable to functioning like a proper teenager. When I get to the bottom of the stairs I yawn so hard my jaw cracks. See? Responsible teen.

As expected, the breakfast remains are still on the table. With renewed determination and — finally — a sense of purpose, I clean it all up. By the time Emmy finds me in the kitchen, impeccably dressed and stunningly beautiful, she looks aghast. "You did this?"

Yes. I sign it. No nodding today.

"You know you don't have to do this, Cassia," Emmy continues. It's not a question. It's a statement.

But I want to. Maybe I should tell her. My fingers tingle. Expressing something I want is difficult. This may be the first time in my life I do so, at least no other time comes to mind at the moment.

Yes. I nod along with my hands as if my extra motion is enough to convey my desire. Emmy opens her mouth to respond but boldly I interrupt. My one worded answers are not enough it seems.

I want to do this.

Emmy’s eyes flick to my hands then back to my face. "Why?" A beat. "You don't have to make yourself useful. You don't have to worry about that here," she adds in a softer voice. "We want you to relax here." She stops and thinks for a moment, her brows creasing in soft distress. "Cassia, we invited you to come and live with us unconditionally. You don't have to do anything to pay for your stay, or to make up for being with us. You are welcome here. We expect you to take it easy and we certainly expect you to not do household activities here. You don't have to be afraid that we will send you away "

Huh.

But what should I do then? My hands hang in the air for a moment, as we stare at each other. I really do not understand. Seeing my confusion, Emmy clarifies. "I don't know if this will work, but from now on, you are not allowed to do household activities. Is that clear?"

What?! What does she mean by this? What do I do? This is the exact opposite of how I thought this would play out. But—But why?

"Is that clear, Cassia?"

Meeting her determined gaze, I nod once, wide-eyed, hands completely forgotten. Oh my.

"Good. Thank you very much for clearing the table, that was very kind of you. But don't do it again. You are making me feel useless," she says with a wink, and she possibly confuses me further.

I stand at the breakfast bar still, and gently rewrap my hands in my sleeves. Well, there went that idea. I look to the ceiling, hoping maybe a ‘how to be apart of a proper family’ manual was written up there. No luck.

"Feeling a bit better?"

Very much so, despite my lack of sleep. Maybe it is because of my lack of sleep that I feel so bold and active. I sigh quietly into my chest. I do wish however that the stiffness in my muscles would go away. I nod at Emmy to answer her question, and she smiles back at me.

"That's good to hear. We have things to do today. But first, have you seen Declan down here?"

I haven't. I easily come to the conclusion that he overslept. He will be late for school and it will be my fault. I kept him up in the kitchen last night.

Shit.

Wait — things to do today?

Emmy, in the meantime, has reached the stairs grumbling to herself about the laziness of boys. "Declan James!" She calls up, making me flinch. "Get down here or you'll be even later!"

Oh, no. Will he be in trouble for this?

Turning back to me, Emmy tuts, hands on her hips and shakes her head in exasperation. It would take the Devil himself to yank that boy out of bed. "Would you like some oatmeal, sweetie?"

Oh. Oh, yes, please. But will she become angry with me when she finds out that I am the one at fault for Declan’s oversleeping? I mean, he already was in the kitchen when I got down there, but still…

Apparently seeing the longing in my gaze, Emmy smiles again and turns to prepare the meal. She starts talking as she is concentrating on her work, leaving me to listen to her and take my meds.

Or, so I thought.

"We will only do this if you agree to come with, so remember that you do have a say in this. But I want to take you to the hospital today, to get your neck and throat checked. It will be the last time," she finishes, looking up at me for a moment.

I stand frozen, the glass with my meds still in midair. W—what?

"I understand you don't like the prospect of this, but your health is very important. Don't you want to know if your voice is healing?"

Is she serious? What do I care about my voice?

Seeing my face, she chuckles softly. "Maybe not yet," she murmurs, looking back at the pan in which she is heating the milk. I’m still staring at her, trying to figure out if my new found boldness will assist me in telling her that there is no way that I am going to the hospital. I lower the glass prepared to tell her exactly that…maybe.

Soft shuffling sounds behind me tell me that Declan is stepping into the kitchen. His hair is a complete mess and he looks altogether rumpled. And moody. He is wearing the sweater I borrowed on Saturday. The blue looks really nice against his tan skin.

Could he be moody because I kept him up last night? I look at him tensely, closely following his every moment to see any signs of impending danger. "Morning," Emmy greets him, but Declan doesn't even look up. He gets a mug from the cabinet and picks up the coffee pot in one smooth, practiced movement, pouring the dark liquid without even looking. Instead he looks drowsily up at me, offering a lopsided grin. My mouth ticks up in response, before my gaze flashes back to his aunt.

Emmy is not angry, it seems. She's not happy, but she's not angry.

"Do I smell oatmeal?" He asks leaning back against the counter, blowing the steam off his coffee before he takes a sip. He is standing in the exact same place I was last night. And he doesn't seem to be angry with me. I would have known that by now, wouldn't I?

"You do," Emmy answers as she places a bowl before me on the breakfast bar, followed by a bowl of brown sugar and dried fruit. She looks at me, then points at the oatmeal. "Sit. Eat. You can do it."

What has happened that she is suddenly so very clear with me? It's liberating.

And a bit scary.

And confusing.

Not that I can eat, but still. I do sit though, staring at the oatmeal. My stomach growls quietly. Dammit all to hell. It looks so good.

"Can I have some?" Declan mumbles into his coffee cup, already knowing the answer.

"You have to go to school, Dec. Your sister already left, and you will miss too many classes if you leave any later."

Rubbing his face, he sighs. "I'm sorry. I slept horribly."

Emmy turns from the stove and looks at her nephew. Somehow I already get the sense that she knows why, but still asks, "How come?"

He shrugs, one hand tugging at his hair as he takes another sip from his coffee.

"You know you can talk to me," Emmy points out. Oddly, this is all very similar to the conversations she has with me. I wonder if they forgot that I’m here. I wouldn’t be surprised, since I’m so quiet, I could easily disappear into the background.

"I know. I just don't want to talk about it," Declan replies. "So, can I have the oatmeal?"

"No. I did not heat enough milk and you have to go to school. Now." She shoos him out of the kitchen with a stern pat on his bicep.

"Yeah, yeah. I’m going." Looking over at me, he salutes, then leaves the kitchen. "Adios."

When he is gone, Emmy looks back at me. "That boy. At least when he was a little one, he would pretend to be sick, so he wouldn’t have to go to school. Now he just strolls down the stairs without a care in the world!” She shakes her head chuckling a bit under her breath. “You look tired, too. How did you sleep?"

Not at all, actually, and I'm starting to feel it. I shove that away and blink wearily. Shrugging, not being able to lie but not wanting to tell the truth either, I stir the oatmeal slowly, waiting for my chance to eat.

Emmy sighs softly, thinking for a moment. "We have to be at the hospital at two, if you agree to come. It will be a female doctor. If it gets too much for you, you can let me know and it will stop. But your progress has to be monitored, so I… want you to come with me."

My head whips up at her words. A command. Oh. I know how to handle that. Okay. Hospital at two. Got it. Dread pools in the pit of my stomach, replacing any hunger that I once had.

Emmy looks at me closely. "But it's all up to you Cassia. You are the one in control here."

What? But you-? I. Am. So. Confused.

The sound of a slamming door distracts me and scares me shitless at the same time. Cringing, I look warily into the direction where the sound came from. Slamming doors are never a good sign. Ever. My stomach does flips now and I wonder how I am ever going to eat in this house with so much stimulus around me.

Declan stomps back into the kitchen and where I only just thought he looked moody, now he is positively livid.

I tense up, closely watching his every movement and trying desperately to keep my breathing under control. I don't like angry people. Do I make a run for it?

Emmy looks at him, not in the least put out by his angry appearance and waits for him to speak.
"Car won't start," Declan spits out.

Emmy sighs. This seems to be a frequent conversation. I can tell by the way she looks, resigned and a bit peeved. "Well, that's not good. Do you know what's wrong with it, this time?"

"It's something a mechanic needs to fix. I don’t have the tools I need here. Nor the time. Fuck," he mutters as an afterthought, pacing through the kitchen. Passing behind me several times, spiking my already high anxiety each time. But he doesn’t last out, just walks, deep in thought.

"Language."

Declan ignores his aunt pausing briefly. "Can I take your car then?"

Emmy starts, looking up at him. "No, I need it myself. I guess I will have to drop you off." She turns to me. "What do we do? Do you want to come along?" She hesitates. "You haven't even had breakfast yet. This is a dilemma. Are you okay being alone here for about an hour?"

Are you kidding me? Yes, I am okay with this!

I nod, carefully trying to hide my excitement.

Emmy frowns a little and for a moment I'm expecting her to leave me with a list of chores to do while she is away. William used to do that all the time, and often it was a list I would never be able to finish before he got back. When she starts to speak however, it's not what I expected. "I'm not comfortable with this." She looks a little distressed.

"Auntie, I think Cassia is perfectly capable of handling an hour by herself. If anything, I think she might enjoy it. We’ve all been hovering! Give her room to breathe. Damn.” Declan mutters, looking exasperated. I look at him, stunned. How in the world would he know that? He winks at me.

I look away quickly, not knowing what to do. I bring my covered hand up to my mouth and cough silently into it, just for something to do.

Emmy looks at Declan, then at me. She is clearly lost. She has not seen the wink. Apparently, Declan and I are secret conspirators now. Whatever that means. I’m not sure what he thinks I might do with an hours’ worth of freedom. Obviously, I’m not like normal teenagers. "Are you sure?" She asks me.

I nod.

"I don't like this at all," Emmy mutters, lost in thought. "But then again…" She looks at me, the worry clear in her eyes. She on the other hand thinks I may stumble to my death, while she’s away. Or bolt. Maybe even both. "Do you have your phone with you?"

I point to the ceiling. It's upstairs.

"If you need me, just call, okay? I'll be back as soon as I can."

"Yes, Auntie," Declan answers for me behind her in a playful tone. He lightens up the atmosphere a bit and Emmy sighs a laugh. "I just don't want you to feel left alone here."

I shake my head. I don't mind to be alone. I really don't.

"Okay. Well, we have to go now or you'll miss second period even," she says to her nephew as she bustles past him. Then she looks back at me again. "Are you sure you don't want to come? Then you could see the school."

I shake my head again. Please leave me here. Please.

"Auntie, let's go," Declan interrupts.

"Yes, yes." Emmy sighs. "I'll be back within the hour," she reassures me. The look on her face is pained when she turns to leave.
And then finally, finally, they are gone and I am alone in the house.

I stand for a moment in the kitchen, listening to the vague sounds of the house and of a car leaving the driveway. When I can't hear them anymore, I attack my — now lukewarm — oatmeal. Adding copious amounts of brown sugar and dried fruit pieces. Glorious. Eating when entirely alone is such a treat for me, I can't believe this is really happening.

Peter used to play games with me. He would take my food away after mere minutes, or he would deprive me of food for days. He would press my face into it until I thought I would pass out for lack of air. He would put hot sauces of varying degrees on my dinner and make me eat it until I cried out from the heat and pain. He used to keep me on my toes always. Not that I didn't deserve it. But it was stressful.

Now I really rather eat when I am alone. When I know I won't be interrupted.

The one thing he never disturbed me with, was cooking. William always left me alone while I was cooking as well. I still wonder why, but I think it was just because they couldn't even get water to boil by themselves. They needed me to get a meal on the table.

And as I am Pavlov's dog personified, I can now cook easily, but not eat in company.

Done eating, I stand up, stretching my sore muscles. Still stiff from my lack of sleep and the vigil I kept up all night in my desk chair. Clearing away my bowl, I decide to use the opportunity of being alone by getting to know the house.

I walk around slowly, listening to the sounds and really taking in my surroundings for the first time. The James have a truly beautiful home. Everything is decorated in easy, earthly colors and although I know that the furniture must be expensive, it doesn't look ostentatious. Even in the vast living room there is unmistakable homey feeling.

Wandering further through the house, I come across the library again. They have told me on my first day here I was welcome to go here any time and read. Would they keep that promise? I consider trying to read something now, but reconsider swiftly. When I was working on the laptop this morning I learned that concentrating on tiny letters is not something my head agrees with as yet. It will have to wait.

I walk past Declan’s baby grand. I have not heard him play and I wonder if he is any good. It would be a shame of such an expensive piano if its owner could only play 'Mary had a little lamb'.

Then again, that's more than I'll ever be able to, so who am I to judge? Quite suddenly my tiny ego perks up at screams at me that even though I may not be at all good at the piano, I am talented in the violin. In fact…

I dash up the stairs, stiff body protesting, but I cannot deny the sudden urge I have to play. I haven’t really had the freedom to do so since I left William’s and stole the violin from my school. I still feel guilty about that and I pause briefly in taking out the instrument to stew in that feeling. But the urge to play and my excitement is too much to bare and within a few moments I am situated back by the baby grand.

Taking a deep breath, I smile, big and wide to my invisible audience. Then I bow, might as well give in to the entire fantasy, right? Since I know that it will never become a reality. A dream better left to the secrets of midnight. I’ll never be good enough for a big beautiful stage. But for now, I don’t know when I will get this opportunity again so might as well take it. Little joys. Still smiling softly, I get into position and I nod to my would-be piano player to begin.

The music trickles softly from the piano in my mind, a lulling start, soft like a lullaby, waiting for my violin to take the lead. A beat, then the notes burst from me. My fingers ache, but its pleasant now that the world around me is familiar. Nocturne no. 20 eases its way into the room, each note glistening and hanging in the air like a sparkling jewel. My body sways, relaxing, pulling in that deep emotion from the song and releasing it out into the air. Each push and pull casting out more of my worries, doubts, fears.

Before long, I’m crying. Sobbing. But my fingers and bow remain true. All the pent-up emotion with me is flowing out and I’m left with nothing but my shell. The song taking everything until I am left even more exhausted than I was before. But that tiny sliver of hope in my chest has grown, each beat of my heart in time with the notes, making it bigger and brighter. It forces me to let go, drop each little wall that I had been building to keep out my new caretakers. Because they do care, they aren’t going to lead me astray. That part of me that has always hoped is screaming it to the rest of me. I only have to listen. Listen and let go…

The song comes to a soft end, but I’m still crying. Great heaving sobs. I’m not sure why this is happening, maybe this quiet disassociate that I have been having has finally come to its end. I’ve finally woken up from a nightmare to find myself surrounded by a world so unfamiliar that I had nothing to do but push it away. The house needed a little music to wake me up, to bring me here, to the present. I can’t tell if I am relieved or not. Or how I’m going to deal with the giant mess of hopeful emotions that are parading around within me now.

It’s time for a nap.

I take my violin back up to the room, carefully taking a moment to clean it of tears before putting it back in its hidden case. Already, I miss it. I wonder if Emmy would let me practice, not that I would with everyone else here listening, but still. I’d like to play again. The desire, the need, is more real than I seem to be at the moment.

I sigh, exiting the closet. I look around, suddenly displeased with the way the room looks so sterile and unlived in. I hate it, I realize. I want to be surrounded by good things, and good things means this family. Storming out, a small part of me actually wants to go shopping with Emmy now. I shudder. Hard pass.

Back into the living room, I sit down on the couch for the first time. It's a very comfortable couch. Plushy and made of a soft grey suede. No wonder Declan fell asleep in it. I cuddle up in the corner with one of the heavy blankets Iona adores and finally feel how the stressed muscles in my back relax a little.

(HOLY FUCK ITS BACK)
(IT'S BACKKKKKKKKKK)

(Your only fan. Looooooool. You do not have enough faith in your talent compadre.)