I try to ignore the rancid taste in my mouth as I clench the grubby sock between my teeth, the material sticking to the roof of my mouth and making me want to gag. I force myself not to gag because movement – any movement – hurts.

The pain in my shoulder has taken over the pain of my empty tummy now, scorching me like an invisible fire that I can't put out. It makes me feel sick – and fuzzy in the head.

Mummy.

I want my mummy. I don't even care if she forgets to give me food this time. I just want her with me, not asleep upstairs. I want to see her familiar brown scraggly hair, even though it reminds me of rat tails like the one I once saw running around the kitchen floor that one time. I want to see those dark blue eyes I've known since the day I was born, even if they don't really see me. I want her to sit down next to me and stare blankly at the wall – in that same way she always does – and mumble some words that I can't understand.

But I've already learnt the hard way that 'I want' never gets.

"Flin-gers," I cry, the disjointed word muffled around the sock.

I'm not so great with words; I can understand far more than I can actually speak.

What I mean to say is that I can't feel my fingers. I'm not sure if it's because they've gone numb, or if the pain in my shoulder hurts so much that it just overpowers every other feeling. I definitely can't move them, though – a problem I've never had before – so I know this, whatever it is, has to be bad.

Diss-low-kayshion: that's what he'd called it. I don't know what that really means, but he had sounded annoyed as he'd told me what I'd done, and that I'd have to learn to fix my own mistakes.

So, I have to fix this.

Charlotte knows it, too. She knows something is really wrong.

"Sunshine," she speaks softly, using the same word her mother often calls her. Silent tears stream down her face as she cuddles next to Bailey on the far side of the room, the pair of them curled up on one of the ratty old mattresses on the floor. Bailey squeezes Mr. Bunny in her arms, crushing him against her as if he can shield her from everything and anything bad.

Poor Mr. Bunny has his work cut out for him.

Taking a few snotty breaths, I carefully wrap the black leather belt around my upper arm, feeding it through the buckle to secure it in place.

He'd thrown the belt at me and told me it might help with something called lev-are-age, before going back upstairs and leaving the three of us alone. He'd told me my shoulder was disslowkayted and that I'd need to pull it back into place, if I didn't want to look like Eye-gore for the rest of my life.

I don't know who Eye-gore is, or why his gory eyes are relevant – it's my shoulder that hurts.

I tug on the belt with my hand, trying to pull it up. I scream and let go.

I thought the pain couldn't get any worse; I'd been wrong.

Bailey screams, too. Her screech bounces off the brick walls around us with piercing clarity. Charlotte clamps a hand over Bailey's mouth to keep her quiet.

He had been angry when he was here before; we don't want him coming back down to see us.

He doesn't like it when we make noise.

"Shh," Charlotte tries to soothe, her voice shaking. "It's okay."

She's lying.

Charlotte lies to Bailey a lot.

I sob into the sock and use my other hand to prop my lifeless elbow against the small table next to me, the movement agony. This time when I yank the belt I refuse to let go, even when my ears pop and little black spots dance across my vision. As I pull, I push down against the table top, using it to help force my arm up.

He had definitely said to pull it up into place. I don't know many words, but I know what up means.

A whooshing sound starts in my ears and I have no choice but to give up as I keel over, spitting out the bile that forces its way up into my throat. I pull the soggy sock out of my mouth as I feel more rising, my mouth tasting like the tang of metal.

My body heaves, jolting my shoulder, and I choke on the pain as I bring up the nothingness in my tummy, leaving only a small puddle of watery liquid on the concrete floor beneath me.

When it's over, I wipe my mouth on the sleeve of my tatty top, watery vomit mixing with tears and snot, soaking through the material. Then, although it looks icky, lying soggy and abandoned on the ground by my bare foot, I reach down and shove the sock back into my mouth.

I have to be quiet.

I reach for the belt, lean against the table, and try again.

And again.

...And again.

The more times I fail, the less my shoulder seems to hurt – the fire replaced with an icy numb feeling – and I start to think that I might be making it better. Then, I realise that I still can't feel my fingers and I start to think that, maybe, I might be making it worse.

I wait for a few minutes, hoping that if I leave it alone for a while, I might be able to wiggle my fingers again. When I still can't, I sob a tearless sob, my eyes too dry to leak anymore.

My fault; this is my fault.

I should've known better than to ask for a glass of water. I should've known better than to go into the kitchen. I should've known better than to leave this room, at all – we're never allowed up into the main house when he has people over.

There was a man upstairs even more hurt than me; I've not seen him before. He was covered in red water; it was dripping down his face. The others were clearing up the huge mess it had made while he slept.

The scary man – the one who doesn't like us making noise – doesn't like mess, either.

"Jade?"

The voice is so quiet, I barely hear my name. Bailey.

I glance over at her, feeling so tired I wish I could sleep like that other man is.

Bailey's eyes are wide as plates, her knuckles white from squeezing Mr. Bunny so hard. She looks scared.

I don't know how I do it but, somehow, I manage a smile. It's small, so small that I'm not sure at first if my lips have even moved, but she sees it. I can tell because, as soon as she does, she doesn't look so scared.

Bailey needs me to be okay; so I'm going to be okay.

Slowly, I reach for the belt again.

For Bailey, I'll keep trying.

In a perfect world, it would work this time. In an even more perfect world, it would've worked the first time. But this is my world. In my world, it takes another three attempts before something seems to happen.

A crunch.

A pop.

Then a loud bang.

"Okay, what the fuck have you done with it?" Bailey demands, waking me from the awful nightmare as she storms into my bedroom.

I sit up fast, bolting upright in bed, my heart thundering in my chest. It takes me a second to realise where I am – in my bedroom at home, living with the Crawford's and the boys. And Bailey, of course.

Safe.

I look at my door to see that, yet again, it's been slammed back against the wall by hurricane-Bailey. Hence the bang that woke me.

"What's wrong?" I ask, too shaken up to get angry. I quickly wipe the sweat from my forehead, too preoccupied to care if she notices that last remnants of the bruise that's now in the final stages of fading. I can feel the back of my pyjama top clinging to my spine, plastered in place by perspiration.

... Just a dream. It was only a dream.

Only, that's not quite true.

Bailey ignores me, walking over to my desk as she begins a very thorough search through all my stuff. Still dressed in her pyjamas, her hair sticks up in all directions which (if possible) makes her look even angrier.

I glance at the clock on my bedside table to find it's seven in the morning. She has school today.

"What are you doing?" I grumble, delving from one nightmare straight into another as Bailey starts knocking shit off my desk and onto the floor. She moves on from my desk in her careless search, picking up the bin underneath and pouring the contents out onto my floor.

Dead flower petals scatter across my newly-vacuumed carpet, the stems – cut up into tiny little pieces because, yes, I'm a psycho – also join them.

"Bailey!" I yell, scrambling out of bed to grab the now-empty bin from her. "What the hell are you doing?"

"I know you took it!" she accuses, moving to my wardrobe. On her way, she tramples the petals into my carpet, squishing them under her big stupid feet as she stomps around. "It has to be you."

I stare at the mess on my carpet and seethe.

"Took what?" I ask, keeping my voice slow like I'm talking to an infant – which, let's face it, I am – as I try my best to keep calm.

I watch as she searches through the pockets of all my clothes, pulling out anything without pockets and throwing them over her shoulder. The discarded clothes join the flowers on the floor and, with each new piece she adds to the mess, I can feel my cool start to heighten a few degrees.

"My phone," she snaps, digging around in the pocket of a pair of jeans. "You've taken my phone!"

I stand and watch her, feeling completely dumbfounded, as she continues to trash my room. She moves to my bed and snatches the duvet off my mattress, my pillows soon following as they also join the pile in the middle of my carpet.

"Bailey," I speak through gritted teeth. "What the hell would I want with your phone?"

"I don't know," she finally turns to me, pointing her finger accusingly. "Maybe you're trying to spy on me."

If she hadn't just destroyed my room, I would laugh.

"I hate to break it to you," I seethe. "But I really don't find your life that interesting, Bailey."

She ignores me, turning away to tip up my mattress and check underneath.

"Enough!" I finally snap, dragging her away from my bed and all but shoving her towards the still-open door. "Go throw a bitch-fit in your own damn room. Stop destroying mine!"

"My phone's not in my room," she yells, turning back to me.

"Well, it's not in here!" I yell back.

"Then where the fuck is it?" she demands.

"How am I supposed to know? It's your phone!"

Without another word, she storms back out of my room. She nearly rams into Stella on her way out as our foster mother stands in the doorway, surveying the carnage on my bedroom floor.

The loud slam of Bailey's door makes us both wince.

"I was just asleep," I state the obvious, at a complete loss.

Right when I start to think I'm making progress with the girl, it all gets messed up again and I never even know how. I literally did nothing wrong.

"I'll talk to her," Stella sighs. She moves to turn away but, right before she leaves, she frowns and turns back towards me, her gaze marked on my forehead like a laser.

"I fell out of bed last night," I reply, and it's absolutely shameful how fast the lie slips from my mouth. I motion towards the bedside cabinet, then towards my face as I sheepishly ask, "...is it really that bad?"

Luckily, Stella doesn't question it. She believes my lie because why wouldn't she. She can always trust me, right?

Oh, how far I've fallen...

"You might want to put some ice on that, honey," she tells me as she leaves to find Bailey.

With a sigh, I walk over and close my door, turning back to look at the horror awaiting me. My bedroom looks like the set to some slasher movie about a deranged florist.

Great – just great.

My initial thought is to message Dylan and rant, like I always do when Bailey acts like a complete nutter. He always knows how to make me laugh when all I want to do is rip my own hair out – he's one-hundred percent the reason Bailey hasn't turned me bald by now.

One glance at the dead flowers on the floor and the urge to text him shrivels like the petals, though.

Oh, right. He's an asshole, too.

With a sigh, and an even heavier heart than before, I reach down to grab my duvet and throw it back onto my mattress in a twisted heap.

***

As it turns out, Bailey left her phone at the Coleman's house last night. I receive an extremely half-assed apology message at nine in the morning, just as I sit down in front of the TV with a bowl of cereal. I assume Alex brought it to school for her and don't bother with a reply.

I'm still mad at her; I'm pretty sure I'm allowed to be.

"I'm just nipping out to the shop," Stella says, poking her head around the living room door, handbag slung over her shoulder and car keys already in hand. "You want anything?"

"No, thanks," I reply around a mouthful of cereal, trawling through channels with the TV remote.

"You okay?" she asks, pausing in the doorway. I turn my attention away from the TV, noticing the worried frown creasing her forehead.

I hate it when I make Stella worry.

"I'm fine," I assure her, forcing a smile.

I don't think she believes me.

"Are you still upset about Bailey?" she guesses – and it's not an unfair assumption. "Because I had words with her about what happened before she left for school. She won't be allowed into your room again without your explicit permission. And I've put her on a strict TV ban for the next week, just to make sure there won't ever be a repeat of this morning."

"I'm not upset about Bailey," I reply. And it's the truth.

I might be mad, sure – but that's not what's bothering me.

Stella sighs and remains rooted in the doorway. "It's Dylan, isn't it?"

But again, the answer is no.

As much as the thought of my cheating ex-boyfriend makes me want to scream, he's not what's bothering me, either.

I briefly consider mentioning the dream but quickly push the idea away.

I used to have nightmares when I first moved in with Stella and George, back when I was nine. I kept everyone up for nights on end, screaming the place down as my unconscious mind forced me to relive horror after horror.

It took forever to get those dreams to stop – many months of counselling and dream therapy – and I refuse to believe that they've come back. Last night (or this morning, I guess) was a one off. It was a nightmare caused by yesterday's traumatic incident, something else I can chalk up to Coleman collateral – nothing more and certainly nothing to worry Stella about.

"There will be others, Jade," Stella sighs and, for a confused second, I think she's talking about the dreams – which is absurd because there's no way she could know something I've not told her. Then, she adds, "Much better than him."

She's still talking about Dylan.

"I know," I reply, trying for another smile.

"And, as for Bailey..." she trails off, searching for the right words. "She'll grow out of it."

"Let's hope so," I grumble.

Stella leaves for the shop shortly after, which leaves me alone in the house to munch my breakfast in peace. Unfortunately, all I can taste as I shovel in each spoonful of cereal is bile and a grubby, rancid sock.

*********