I head nearly sent Garrett home when I saw the front door to my house ajar. The plan had been to drop me off after the long, grueling day I'd had so I could grab a few changes of clothes and talk to my dad before he came to pick me up, but all lights in the house were out-and the deadbolt on the door looked as if it'd been busted.

"Damn." Garrett mumbled as he fell into step beside me, locking the car. I followed his gaze and saw what my eyes hadn't wandered toward upon first glance. The front windows had both been shattered, glass scattered across the ground below, beckoning Garett and I forward. "Ev, maybe we should call the police."

I held up a hand and started forward, but because of his blessing of long legs, he was in front of me in two quick strides but halted to a stop again as soon as he stepped on to the bottom porch step.

I joined him, then quickly looked away when I saw what had been spelled out in dark, crimson red paint across the front porch.

ROT IN HELL

"Everly, let's call the cops." Garrett tried again, looking to me then back at the door. "There could still be someone in there."

I didn't respond, but stepped up on to the porch, over the paint, and nudged the door open wider with my shoe. I felt Garrett at my tail again, and though it didn't help the situation, he was muttering incoherently under his breath about my sanity.

Having lived in this house for months, I crossed the living room in the dark to the lamp, but jumped back as soon as I'd switched it on, letting out a horrified cry.

The entire living room had been destroyed. Razor blades or knives had been taken to the couches and recliner, stuffing pouring out from them. But on top of the destruction was the same crimson paint that'd been on the patio, splashed across the floor, shattered TV screen, demolished couches, and smeared across the photos of Clark my mother had left up.

Knowing he' dstop me if I returned to stand by him at the front door, I started down the hallway to my bedroom. There's nothing left of it, and I'm suddenly glad that I had grabbed all Miles' things a month ago. My computer desk had been broken in half, all the old makeup and art supplies a mess all over the paint-stained carpet. My bed, pillows, and floor were just as red, with the same slashes as the couches on them. I spun on my heel, pushing past Garrett, and stepped into the Master bedroom.

The remainder of the paint seemed to have been used in the room. The entire bed was red, as if someone had bled to death on it. Shredded and destroyed were the linen curtains, comforter, mattress, and all my mother and father's clothes. It wasn't until Garrett let out a quiet whistle that I saw what it was that he was staring at in horror.

In big, bold, messy handwritten letters on the bedroom wall over the bed was,

WE NEED CHANGE. YOU ARE PART OF THE PROBLEM

Below it was all my father's magazines of bullets scattered across the bed, his guns lay in an X in front of the open bathroom door. Peering inside, I found the red finger painted on the mirror.

YOU WILL ALL GO TO HELL

I winced seeing the words, but dodged Garrett's outstretched hand, backing away toward the door quickly.

"Everly!"

I had never been a runner. I'd played Volleyball for my first two years of high school but had nearly failed P.E freshman year because I despised the very thought of it. But right now, that was all I wanted to do. Run. Run until my body gave out and I couldn't think about anything anymore.

I wanted to run from the vandalized house. I wanted to run from Garrett and his bullshit reassurances. I wanted to run from the voices and memories.

But I didn't get far.

Garrett had me by the time I reached the end of the neighborhood, catching me from behind and restraining me as he had in the classroom a couple weeks ago. Only this time when I tried to kick free, he lifted me off the ground entirely until he had me pushed up against the wall, both arms locked on either side of my body, trapping me. He was trying to catch his breath, his body tensed and alert, ready for me to try and run again.

"Stop." he said breathlessly. "You're going to hurt yourself running like that, Ev. Your stitches—"

"I can't possibly hurt more than I do right now." I answered breathlessly, "You don't and won't ever understand, Garrett."

He bowed his head and exhales. "You're right, I won't. But what I do understand is trying to run from your problems. I tried, I still try, and Ev, it doesn't do shit but hurt you and those you care about more. Running is a quick fix, it feels good in the moment, but the second you stop to take a breath you'll realize it's even harder to breathe than before."

"I can't do this." I threw my hands up over my face. "Garrett this morning I. . . I felt it. Like I was there again. I felt as if he were dying in my arms all over until you said something."

"Everly—"

"I can't keep pretending like it's going to be okay. I can't, Garrett. Because it's not. This shit doesn't just go away."

He tried to speak again, but I interrupted once more before he can.

"I am a murderer! I am fucked up. I'm a broken mess of the girl I was a year ago." I wiped at my face aggressively. "My boyfriend is dead, my parents might as well be, and I don't even know who the hell I am anymore. I went back to school to prove that I was still me, but I don't even know who that is!"

Garrett leaned forward, his tensed arms finally giving out, but in the millisecond between him completely falling into me and trying to catch himself, he managed to wrap his arms around me. I fought for a few seconds before I finally collapsed against him, tears soaking through his shirt. Just as I started to sink to my knees, sirens started wailing nearby, but I didn't have the energy to even bother to look up.

*

I couldn't decipher the look on Mr. Andrews face as he looked between Garrett and me, but it wasn't very friendly. The infant in his arms was almost immediately gently placed into his wife's before she disappeared back into the house.

"Everly? Garrett?" he stepped on to the stone path leading up to his front door, hands on his hips. "What in the world are you two doing here at this time of night?"

All he got was a muffled sob out of me; luckily Garrett was in a semi-decent mind space and stepped forward to explain.

"I didn't know what to do, Mr. Andrews. Or where else to go." He responded, then filled our art teacher in on the events leading up to showing up on his doorstep at midnight.

Once he'd been caught up, Mr. Andrews touched his hand to my shoulder. "Are you okay?"

"I don't know." I replied honestly. "I thought I was ok. I thought I could tell my story without. . . without this happening. I thought I was ready."

"Everly, it's okay for you to feel all of these emotions."

"But I don't want to feel them."

He sighed, hand still on my shoulder. "I listened to the podcast this afternoon. I. . . I mean, I feel like I'm in the presence of a warrior right now. You have been through so much and continue to live through it, and still walk out with only a few marks and a head full of thoughts. I understand these feelings are overwhelming you, Everly. But you also need to understand that though you may feel like this now, in a few days it's going to be easier, even if only slightly. Because in order for you to not feel as though they are crushing you, ravaging you inside and out, you need to speak them aloud. Now that you have, all of us have a little bit more of an idea of what exactly it is that's going on and can try and help in any way we can. You just got to allow us."

"I don't want to die, Mr. Andrews." I whimpered, recalling the same thing being said to Dr. Bellecourt. "But I don't want to live the rest of my life like this either. Trapped inside my own head."

Mr. Andrews nodded, his expression softening as he took my hand between his own.

"I want you here, Everly. So do Garrett and your parents. And I'm sure if you sat down and thought about it there are a lot of other people who do as well." He says. "Whether it's to befriend you or to just have a voice to speak out because they don't have the courage to use their own. You are so many people's inspiration, Everly. You are brave. You are so very talented too and I am so happy that I have had the opportunity to be in your presence this year and teach you, and more importantly, have you teach me."

*

Garrett didn't say anything the entire drive back to his house or once we were upstairs in his bedroom. He was grabbing his things to go sleep on the couch but hesitated in the doorway and looked to me in the middle of his bed. "Are you going to be ok?"

I knew what he was getting at, and found myself whispering, "I don't know."

He glanced back out the door, then pushed his door until it was ajar and crossed the room to sit on the bed beside me.

"He's right, you know, Mr. Andrews. You are an inspiration, Everly. I promise when you wake up tomorrow, you're going to believe every word that he said." Garrett said, resting his head back against the headboard. "I know it doesn't feel like it right now, but you did the right thing with that interview. You're going to be the change, Ev."

I stared at the loose thread on the black comforter over me and beneath him. "It doesn't feel like it. Every time I think I'm getting better, it's like there's this. . . this force of resistance that pushes me away and I'm back to where I started."

He shook his head, "I feel that way sometimes too. But one day you'll be strong enough to push past that wall and be able to move forward."

"I'm sorry." I apologized. "That you can't go a day without me having a complete breakdown."

He snorted, but turned his head so he was looking down at me with a small, sad smile.

"No, none of that. I'd drop everything for you if I knew it meant you would keep fighting. I'm your friend, Everly. I knew when I befriended you in the hallway five months ago what I was getting myself into. I've got your back. We're going to get through this. You're a fighter. You're a survivor."