That night, I ask Patrick to stay with me again. I don't know whether I'm just a creepy weirdo who likes sleeping with someone several nights in a row, or I just really want to be with him, but either way, he doesn't mind.

But, in the middle of the night, I awake to him muttering and moaning in his sleep. I shake him, but he doesn't respond. "Patrick!" I yell. "Patrick!"

Patrick's POV:

*

The boy lets out a cry. "Stop it!" he bellows, trying to sound strong and brave and tough, but he just sounds like a sniveling little kid. The man, who is tall and muscular with brown-blond hair and small, piggy blue eyes, turns away from the woman with the floppy brown hair and hazel eyes and roars at him.

"Shut up! It's you who started this mess in the first place! We never wanted you!" Tears run the boy's cheeks, but he tries to be strong.

"She's done nothing wrong! And neither have I!"

The man fumbles in his pocket and brings out a knife. "Believe me, boy, you're going to be sorry that you were ever born." The boy backs away, but his father has him cornered. There's nothing he can do.

"Patrick!" the woman yells. "Run!" But it's too late. His father punches him in the nose, and a trickle of blood runs into his mouth. The horrible metallic taste of his own blood fills his mouth.

There's a flick of a knife, and then blood is pouring out of his chest, and he can't breathe he can't breathe he can't breathe...

*

I jolt awake, sweat pouring into my eyes. Where is he? I lash out, kicking wildly, and then I realize that I'm not alone. Lydia's leaning over me, kissing me awake. The whole situation is so bizarre and scary that I want to scream, to run away, far away, but then I remember that she's with me, and I don't feel so scared anymore. Instead, I let out a moan and try to roll over onto my side, away from her, away from the impending questions, but that's impossible.

"Patrick?" she whispers into my ear, her short hair tickling my cheek. "What happened?"

I sigh and turn to her. Her bed is a double bed, but it's still small, and we're lying close together anyway, so when I turn, our noses are practically touching. "I..." I begin, and then I break off. I can't go on.

Gently, she wipes the tears from my eyes, and strokes my hair. "It's ok," she breathes.

"No, it's not. I'm sorry." This makes her sit up.

"You've nothing to be sorry about. Just tell me. Maybe I can help."

I shake my head. "It was just a nightmare. Go back to sleep, okay?" Lydia looks unconvinced, even in the darkness. "Seriously, babe, I'm fine."

"Patrick Stump, that is quite possibly the dumbest thing you've ever said."

"Please, don't worry about me."

"No. I'm worried. What happened?" When I look confused, she elaborates. "In the dream."

"My dad..." I don't need to go on. Or maybe I do. "I was remembering the time that he gave me this." I gesture to my vague chest area, and she knows what I mean.

"Oh, sweetie," she says. She hugs me and then adds, "You're ok. He can't get you here."

"I know," I murmur back. "But he got me in the past."

"Not any more, babe. not any more." And I know she's right, but I'm still not reassured.

"What about Belinda?"

Lydia pulls away from me. "Who?"

"Belinda. My sister."

"Oh. Is she still at home?"

I shake my head. "I don't know. She was eleven when I left, so she'll be twenty-six now. She should have left by now, but I can't be sure. I haven't spoken to her properly since I left home."

Lydia stares at me through the darkness, her bright brown eyes gazing into mine. "Tell me."

"When I was five, my mom told me that she was pregnant. Actually, she didn't technically tell me; I just found a used pregnancy test in the bathroom that was marked positive. That was the way things were found out in our house. What was annoying about it was that my "little sister", as my parents so happily called the unborn child, was planned. They wanted to have her. Not me. When she was born, I hated her, because I was jealous. The only person who had ever cared about me, at least to some extent, was now completely ignoring me. I'm talking about my mom, of course. My dad loved her, too. What really got me was that they always told Belinda that they loved her. They never told me that. No one loves me.

"But as time went on, my dad actually became more abusive. Sure, he'd told me before that he hated me, and shit, but when Belinda was a little kid, he started beating us. First he hit mom. Then me. Then Belinda. But, in a weird, sick, twisted way, he still loved Belinda, but he didn't love me or my mom. When Belinda got older, we tried to make up plans to escape. At first, it was just a game, something to shut her up when she was crying. But later on, we got serious about it. I remember one night, when our dad had taken our mom out, and then when they came back he was drunk and hit her, we hid in the bathroom and locked the door. I was about thirteen, and she was about eight. He came looking for us, but he never found us, so he just went to bed. We stayed up the whole night in the bathroom with the door locked, planning to escape with mom and leave him on his own.

"However, when I developed anxiety and, later, agoraphobia, we grew apart. She wanted to help me, we both knew that, but she didn't know how. She was still a little kid. When I left home, at sixteen, I told her that, when she was my age and I could take her away, I would come back for her. I did try to, but my dad got wind of it and grounded her. She wasn't allowed to leave the house except for school, and it was nearly summer. So, on the last day of school, she got off the bus to go to school and I found her. I begged her to come with me, and she was going to break out that night. I was waiting outside in my car, and she climbed out her window, but he caught her. I had to drive away, otherwise I would've been caught, too. I had to get rid of my car, because he'd written down the registration number, and with a bit of digging, he would've found me. I couldn't let that happened. So I never saw her again."

"Oh my god," says Lydia, tears in her eyes. "I'm so sorry."

"It's okay. I got over it."

"Really?" She doesn't believe me. And why should she? It's a blatant lie, after all.

"Okay, so maybe I didn't. Sue me. Actually, don't; I haven't got enough money."

"You know, what you said earlier, that no one loves you, that's not true."

"It is," I say. "My parents don't love me. I doubt Belinda loves me, after I abandoned her."

"You're wrong," she says.

"Am I?" I ask. She nods, and then, she whispers the three little words that I will never forget.

"I love you."