I rub the hem of my shirt in between my fingers, stroking the line of thread with my thumb. My knees bounce anxiously.

"Is there something you want to tell me, Easton?" Dr. Connoly asks. I've been trying my best to forget what happened last Saturday, but really I haven't slept a wink since that night. I guess it's starting to haunt me now. I think I'm coming down with something.

I clear my throat. "No," I say a little too quickly. Other than Naiya, Cooper, and Jenna, nobody else really knows that something happened. Not even Stef.

"You haven't been sleeping."

I look down at my hands.

Dr. Connoly continues. "Stef told me you received a letter on Saturday."

"Can we please not talk about that?" I don't mean to sound so rude to Dr. Connoly, of all people, but it just comes out that way. Dr. Connoly barely blinks an eye. Before either of us are able to say anything else, something tickles my throat and I start to cough. If Dr. Connoly can't tell how messed up I am just by appearances, hacking phlegm into the sleeve of my sweatshirt really sums it all up. If I end up in the hospital by next week, I won't be surprised.

Dr. Connoly watches me as I'm having my whole coughing ordeal and hands me a box of tissues. I can't say it doesn't embarrass me, especially because she knows the reason I'm sick.

"Sorry," I mumble sheepishly after I've finished.

"You can't keep being afraid of the nightmares, Easton."

"I know."

"I asked Stef to go over some tactics for you. Maybe you can read a few chapters of a book before you go to bed. You can wind down with some of your favorite music. Do whatever you need to do that will distract you."

"It doesn't work." I start to tear up a tissue in my hand before sighing. "I just can't do it. I can't relive it every night."

"And you won't. Not forever. But right now, you just might have to, Easton." She pauses. "You were doing well these past few weeks. You're official with Naiya, now?"

"I mean... We haven't really talked about it but I guess. Yeah."

"I'm happy for you. From what you've told me, she sounds like someone you should try to be around as often as you can. Don't feel like you have to keep everything to yourself, okay? Talking with others can help with the nightmares."

"But I already talk to you."

"Yes, but you only see me once a week."

I don't tell Dr. Connoly about the event that happened inside of Andy's bathroom. Neither Cooper nor Jenny has brought it up since then, though they've been considerably nicer this week. Naiyas had tried to bring it up a few times but I've shut her down everytime.

I guess I want to forget that it happened. I mean, it's already bad enough I have nightmares and can't even sleep over at someone's house without screaming and crying in the middle of the night. But this week, my physical state is really taking a turn for the worst.

At practice on Thursday, I only make it through one lap before coughing up my lunch on the side of the track. Someone pats my back as they run by. I sit out the rest of practice.

I know how easy it would be to fix my problems. All I have to do is to sleep. I don't have to climb a mountain or find the cure to some plague-raving disease. All I have to do is close my eyes and let my body take over for a while. That's it.

Sometimes I feel like the easier something seems, the harder it is.

"Hey Easton," Stef greets when I walk in through the front door. Her back is turned away from me and she's cutting up something on the counter.

"Hey," I say back, sounding not at all chipper. My body feels just as drained as my head even if I didn't do anything at practice. I might just lie down on the floor and die here.

Stef turns around to face me, her face suddenly serious. "Your Coach called me." I gulp. "Come here." I expect her to be more angry, but instead she opens her arms out to me. I bury my face into her shoulder, feeling only slightly better.

"I'm making soup," Stef continues, pulling me away to face her. "Why don't you go watch TV for now. Don't worry about homework or anything. I think you should rest tomorrow."

Geez, one little letter and suddenly I'm completely incapacitated.

But as I walk past the coffee table, I realize there's a little more than just one letter. My heart jumps to my throat and I look back at Stef. She was watching me but turns away now, back to her cutting board. I don't want to read the new letter, but there's something that draws me towards it. Curiosity, I guess. Maybe an urge for self destruction.

7 / 12 / 12

I think about you everyday here. It's a scary world out there, scarier than what you might think. John is there to help you.

Please. Don't let it get you. Run.

Damon

This letter is different from the last one. Where the last one was an apology, this seems more like a warning. A threat? Is he going to come after me next? Is that what this means? I put my head in my hands. I can't even think. The date is wrong, again. It's always wrong. His message doesn't make sense.

Stef hands me a bowl of soup after about ten minutes. I'm sitting on the couch watching TV but not really paying attention. Everything feels like it's spinning. I'm not even sure if I can down the soup right now.

After another ten minutes of sitting there, I eat the soup. It's cold by now but it still maintains the flavor. I'm surprised by how good it tastes, but then I remember it's Stef who made it. I could be lying on my deathbed and still find Stef's food delicious.

"Easton?" Stef asks after putting away my empty bowl. "How are you feeling?" She presses her palm against my forehead. "You don't have a fever, which is good."

I shrug. I don't know what to say. I feel worse than I ever have been. Damon might be after me. He's going to find a way out of prison and kill me. If it were anybody but him, I'd welcome death openly.

Stef pulls a pillow to the side of the couch.

"Try to sleep, okay?" Her voice is soft. It doesn't sound like her voice at all, but my mom's, four years earlier.

"I'm not tired," I said, scratching at the peeling paint of the doorway to the kitchen. Mom was there, sipping cold coffee from a mug. She was waiting for Damon to come home, but we both knew he wasn't going to show up that night.

Slowly, I watched her lift herself up from the kitchen table and walk towards me. But something was wrong. Something was so, terribly wrong.

I'm at the end of the hallway. The elevator doors behind me slowly closed shut, leaving me with only one direction to go. I went forward. The lights flickered menacingly, like at any moment they could go out and leave me in pitch darkness. The ground creaked below my feet, an echo of my footsteps alerting my presence to anyone within the area. Or any thing.

I had been here before. It was familiar, the kind of familiarity you get when you experience the same dream twice.

I stopped before I got to the last set of doors. My heart hammered against my chest, an alarm trying to tell me to turn back. I didn't listen.

The light flickered again and I could see now the glistening floor in front of me. It was red and pooled over the tips of my sneakers like paint. I opened the door. Blood splattered against my face.

In the sea of red lay a woman, my mom. As I stood over her, I watched her lips move. She was speaking to me, but I couldn't understand anything. She was gurgling, blood bubbling out over her lips.

I stood there, looking at her for a long moment. I couldn't turn away, I couldn't even blink. I could only stare. She was trying to tell me something, but the words were lost in the blood. It felt like I was staring for an eternity, watching as she tried to speak. I wonder how long she was like that, how long she had waited for me to come home.

I am jolted awake by a thud. My body hits the floor. For a minute, I am struck with panic. Then as I realize I am in John and Stef's living room, I calm down. The house is dark, and the TV is turned off now. It's around two a.m. when I check the microwave clock in the kitchen. I'm fully awake now, but I feel more exhausted than ever. My body is made of lead, and each movement takes all of my energy.

I get a glass of water from the kitchen. Stef is probably glad I slept, but the image of my mom burns intensely in my mind. Guilt and fear gnaw at my stomach and for a minute I have to double over. The pain subsides quickly and I gulp down the rest of my water.

Standing here in the kitchen, alone, makes me feel weird. I've done this every other night, but tonight feels different. Tonight, a threat looms over my head. Has Damon been released from prison and no one's told me? Has he escaped? Has he sent someone after me?

For a second, I can almost see him standing in the doorway, a dark, silhouetted figure looming. He's got a hood over his face, but even in the dark I can tell it's him. He holds out a glistening knife to me, streaked with something that shines a little differently than the knife does. A pang of fear suddenly engulfs me and my heart beats wildly against my chest. Is it possible he's actually here, standing barely ten feet away from me?

The light to the kitchen turns on and I nearly smash my head into the ceiling from jumping so high. John has turned on the kitchen light. I whip my head back to the doorway and the silhouetted figure is gone. He wasn't real.

"Thought I heard you up," John says almost casually. He stays in door frame between the kitchen and the hallway. "Get some sleep?"

I nod, suddenly incapable of speaking. I think about the letter. John is there to help you. What does that even mean?!

John doesn't move. "I'm sorry, East." His tone is so serious, so somber that I don't know if he's being sarcastic or not. "I'm sorry if I'm ever... angry. At you."

I go still. I wonder if I'm still dreaming.

John continues. "You just... You remind me so much of her, East. It tears me apart sometimes, just to–just to look at you, to see your face." He clenches his fist. "It hurts, Easton, to see you every single f-cking day."

He's raised his voice now and I take a step back. Something isn't right. I thought he was apologizing. I've never seen John like this. Not when we still lived with Mom, not ever.

John closes his eyes hard for a moment before focusing again on me. "It kills me. It kills me." He steps closer to me. His hands are still in fists. "I hate that I have to see you every day. Did you know that? I f-cking despise it. I hate that you live here. I hate that I have to care for you. I hate that you scream at night. I hate that Stef cares about you. I hate that I still can't seem to love you, even after all these years."

We both pause, watching each other intensely. John is so close to me now, barely a foot away. I'm backed up against the sink, my hands gripping the edge tightly. He takes a step back. He looks down at his clenched fist, his eyes screaming with fear.

"I-I'm sorry... Easton..." John swallows. He's still staring at his fist as he slowly backs away. Then, he snaps his head up to meet my eyes. "I do love you. I do. I-I love you so much. You're my son. I love that you're here with me again. I love that I get to see you every day. I love you, you know that, right?"

He's watching me now, almost expectantly. I don't breath. "I love you too," I say, my voice even and still. I stare as John recedes back into the shadow of the hallway and into his room. I don't move from the sink for a solid five minutes. I don't even think I breathe. I don't know what happened. I don't know what the heck just happened.

I wonder if I had dreamt the whole thing. It wouldn't have been the first time my mind has come up with things that aren't truly there. But this incident had nothing to do with my past trauma. I can't think straight.

Zach's parents are the ones that answer the door when I arrive. I realize, then, as I stare at their incredulous faces how ridiculous I look. I've never shown up in the middle of the night like this. I probably still smell like puke.

"Is everything okay?" Mrs. Hartman asks as I sit down at her kitchen counter. She's fetching me a glass of water, even though I'm not thirsty.

I swallow. "N-nothing happened. I just got-um-a little scared." My voice sounds small, like a child's. I cringe.

Mrs. Hartman hands me the glass. "Is there something I should know?" For all the time I've known Zach, I've never really talked to his parents. I wonder how much they actually know about me.

I shake my head. "No. No. It's nothing serious."

She frowns at me. "Are you telling the truth?" Mrs. Hartman may not always be here, but I do believe she's a good mother. She barely knows me, yet I have the urge to spill everything.

I look down at my hands. I'm furiously rubbing the hem of my t-shirt. It's the same shirt I wore to practice. I didn't even bother changing after I got home. I must smell horrendous.

"My dad..." I start, my voice thick. I clear my throat. "My dad didn't hurt me or anything. I just... I didn't want to stay there."

Mrs. Hartman has a look on her face that I can't quite explain. She's analyzing me, trying to make sense of a situation I've barely explained. It feels weird being here. At the same time, though, I think if I had stayed home I'd feel worse.

Before Mrs. Hartman can respond with anything more than a tentative nod, Mr. Hartman and Zach appear from the hallway. Zach looks more confused than I've ever seen him. This didn't have to be a whole family ordeal, and watching them all stare at me like this makes me feel sick. As if I'm in great condition already.

Mr. Hartman sends a nod to his wife. She glances at me for a moment, then to Zach, passing a look I can't decipher. Finally, she follows Mr. Hartman back into the shadow of the hallway. Zach waits until he hears their bedroom close before he turns to me.

"Are you okay?" He doesn't look annoyed, which is something I expected.

I swallow back the lump in my throat. "Yeah." I don't know I lie, considering I'm obviously not okay.

Zach sits down at the counter beside me, running his fingers over the edge of the granite. He doesn't look at me. "Cooper told me what happened."

A pit falls into my stomach. He knows?

Zach doesn't wait for a response. "Sometimes I wish you would help us to try and understand, Easton." At my name, he meets my eyes. "We're all trying to help you. You do know that, right?"

"I know."

We pause for a minute or two. I do know that, of course I do. They're amazing friends, more than what I could really hope for. I don't want them to worry about me, even though they do. I don't want them to see all the bad parts of life. I don't want my past to define me. Even though it feels like it does.

"Do you still feel sick?" Zach asks quietly.

I shrug. "A little. I haven't been sleeping really."

"I know. I mean, I can tell. Because of what happened, right?"

I look down at my fingers. There might be nothing left of my shirt hem by the time the night's over. "Yeah," I answer. I wait a beat. "Sorry for waking your family up."

Zach shakes his head. "You don't need to apologize for that. We'd rather wake up at two in the morning than have you not sleep well. I mean, Coach is going to be pissed if you start slacking." He offers a smile at the last part.

I manage to smile back at him, if only briefly.