He looks dead. That's perhaps the most terrifying thing. He looks like he's already gone and that all the machines around him are only there for decoration. I don't know what to do. I seem to get that feeling a lot lately—complete helplessness.

I hate it. I hate seeing my dad like this. And I especially don't like sitting here, on a chair beside his bed, pretending like everything is fine. Nothing is ever fine—not now. It wasn't fine when my mom died, it wasn't fine when a part of my dad died along with her. It wasn't fine when he was beaten nearly to death and now has too many broken bones to count.

My eyes go to his bandaged eye. They always do, and every time I try to tear myself away, I can't. It's the strangest thing. The broken bones I can deal with. The cracked rib I can get over. But his eye—I can't. That's a part of him—a whole tangible part of my father which is now gone. It's been destroyed and left to rot.

Then again, it could have been worse. His whole body could have been left to rot.

I hear someone walk in and I look up to see Tally coming over. The heels of her boots clack against the floor and she stops beside me. She places a plastic cup filled with water in front of me and I take it wordlessly. It sits cradled in my hands but I don't take a sip.

"Franny, come on," she says. "At least go for a walk or something. Just down the hallway. You haven't moved since we came in."

I shake my head. I can't move. The idea of leaving my dad's side makes me feel guilty. I don't want that guilt to get stronger. I don't want to feel the same guilt I was hit with when my mom died.

"I'm fine," I say.

"That's not a good enough response," Tally comments.

"Well it's gonna have to be good enough," I say. "I'm not moving, Tal. I'm staying till he wakes up."

She doesn't give me a reply but at that point she doesn't need to. I know exactly what she's thinking.

What if he doesn't wake up?

The doctor said he wasn't in a coma—just unconscious. But he's unstable, he lost a lot of blood and the amount of pain medication that is being pumped into him is enough to keep him out cold even longer.

But he's breathing and that's something.

"How did it happen?" Tally asks.

I shake my head again. "I don't know."

But I do. And that's what's killing me even more. There aren't many people that would want to beat my dad to a pulp. He's respected enough. Although one man would. Carl would hurt him. If my dad didn't pay up, then Carl would have been at his throat.

I think back to when I saw Carl in school, his pleasant smile trying to appear innocent. His smile turned dark when he saw me, though, as if he'd finally found what he was after. The principal had seemed so at ease talking to him, and letting a random man into the school.

I have a terrible thought. Maybe Carl isn't a random man. Maybe he has some sort of legitimate connection to the school. Maybe he could walk in whenever he wants.

The idea makes me feel sick again and the taste of bile is still very prominent at the back of the throat. I lift the cup of water up and take a long gulp. It doesn't help.

"Look," Tally sighs. "My mom's home, she got back yesterday. I can't stay."

"Your dad?" I frown.

Tally shrugs. "Still out there."

I nod. "It's okay, you can go."

"Franny." Tally winces. "I don't want to just leave you here. Not like this. You can come back with me. Stay at my place for a bit."

"I might later," I say. "If the offer's still open. I just . . . I don't want to leave. Not yet."

I can't leave.

"Okay," Tally says quietly. "Be safe okay? Keep your phone on and I'll check up every now and then. If you want to come over just call. The offer's always open and will stay open. Fuck what my mom says."

I smile a little. "Thanks."

"Alright." I feel her place a hand on my shoulder and she kisses the top of my head, hugging me to her side. "I'm so sorry this had to happen to you," she whispers.

I place my hand over hers until she pulls away and I stare down at the sheets covering my dad's body in the hospital room. Her boots click once again against the floor until Tally is out the door and down the hallway.

My head pounds and my eyes itch. I haven't cried. I've thrown up, choked and yelled, but I never cried. Maybe I should—maybe that's what you're meant to do. It's probably supposed to help in some way. Shift the stone in my stomach and the constant tense pain in my chest.

My eyes sting and they're red but no tears fall. A part of me wants them to and a part of me is angry that I'm not crying. I must be some sort of stone-cold bitch to not be bawling in the corner when my dad could have easily died only hours ago.

Eventually I pull myself off the chair. I don't want to but I've been sitting in the same position for over an hour. My back aches and my bones crack as I stand up. I gently place my hand on my dad's and yawn.

"I'll be back soon," I murmur and pull away.

The hallway is not as crowded as I thought it would be. A few nurses walk here and there but other than that it's quiet. I trudge down the hallway, my feet feeling as though they are carrying the weight of the world on them. I head toward the washrooms when a commotion comes out of nowhere. The doors at the end burst open and a gurney is rushed through. People surround it, jogging and pushing the bed along. Someone is lying on top, an oxygen mask covering their face. The gurney turns sharply into a room where the doctors and nurses follow, their voices carrying down to me.

"What's happening?" a hysterical voice yells. "Is he gonna be okay?"

I frown and look down the hallway. Tyler is frantically trying to get past a male nurse, who holds him back. His eyes are going everywhere, from the room the gurney was taken to, to the man in front of him. Eventually he gives up and takes a step back and the nurse leaves him alone.

I rush over and don't stop until I have my hand on his shoulder. Tyler flinches and looks up, his eyes widening when he sees me.

"What are you doing here?" he asks.

"I could ask you the same thing. Are you okay? Who was that?"

Tyler looks over to the now-closed doors of the hospital room and his face turns dark. "Ethan," he chokes out.

"Ethan?" I gasp. "What happened to him?"

"I . . . " Tyler sighs and runs his hands through his hair. "I don't . . . come on," he says abruptly and gently takes my arm, walking down the hallway.

He looks in every room until he finds an unoccupied one, and pushes his way in. I shut the door behind me and lean against it. Tyler sits down on the edge of the bed, his head in his hands.

"He got stabbed," Tyler explains. "He was beaten up and had a note literally stuck to his hand."

He speaks with no emotion in his voice. Everything is hollow.

"What did the note say?"

"I have a fight," Tyler whispers almost to himself.

"A fight?" I ask. "Does that mean that Carl . . .?

"Yes," Tyler says. "Probably. I don't know." He looks up at me. "Why are you here?"

"My dad..." I start off shakily and Tyler comes over to me.

"Are you okay? Did he do anything?"

I shake my head. "He was beaten up—like Ethan. He was unconscious and his eye . . . his eye was smashed in, and the blood. So much blood. Oh god, there was so much blood." My breath catches and I put my hands over my face. "It was on the walls . . . it was everywhere. I . . . I couldn't."

For the first time, tears run down my face. I can't stop them. They come in one long, messy stream. Everything blurs but I can feel Tyler's hands on my shoulder. I keep mine clutched over my face.

"I can't . . . I can't . . . not again . . . I can't," I choke out and Tyler wraps his arms around my shoulders as I sob.

I can't watch him die like I watched my mom.

My face is wet and my hands are covered in tears. There is a saltiness on the tip of my tongue that eventually drowns out the sick. My entire body sags. I'm exhausted and my brain just continues to pound against my skull painfully.

"It's okay," I hear him say against my hair. "It's okay."

I shake my head. "No, it's not. Not anymore. It's never been okay."

I choke on a sob and feel Tyler's hand rubbing my back. After a few minutes he pulls away and carefully pulls my hands away from my face. His thumbs wipe at my tears and I suck in a long breath, looking up at him. Our height difference isn't that big. He's a couple inches taller than me but it's a small enough gap that I feel on the same level as him.

Neither of us ever seems to overpower the other.

I place my hands on his wrists and rub the side of his hand. In any other circumstance, I would turn away, say we're too emotional and being close for the wrong reasons. But I know Tyler. Maybe it's only been a month or so, but I know him. I understand him, and he understands me.

And that's enough.

I lean close to him and slowly, our faces come closer together. The ache in my head dulls and the pain in my chest becomes a sharp feeling of nervousness. Tyler's hands stay rooted on either side of my face and he too leans forward until our lips have nowhere to go and press together.

For once it feels right and I slide my hands up his arms until they reach his face. Tyler moves his hands to my waist and holds me. He's not overpowering me and for that I'm thankful. I never want to feel helpless again. And as I kiss Tyler, I realize that I don't.

His lips touching mine, our hands touching each other and our bodies touching our bodies. In this moment I don't feel helpless. I don't feel as though I can do nothing—as if I have to let myself be dragged along.

Being with Tyler makes me feel powerful. Strong. Alive. It makes me realize that not everything has to have an explanation. Tyler doesn't. He's as much a mystery to me as any other. But that doesn't unnerve me; he doesn't unnerve me. He makes me feel safe.

And I haven't felt safe for years.

- Ellie x