The countdown begins with exactly one week left until the court date.

The day was dreary. But every day has been like this day. My body is constantly flooded with nerves if I'm not staring at my bedroom ceiling, all music resembling something like TV static. The constant up and down of nervous energy— and then no energy at all— leaves me with a case of chronic fatigue that I just can't seem to shake off or even hide. The reoccurring nightmare only makes it worse.

"NO!" He's gone. "D-Dad, please!" I can only sob, powerless to get him back into my life.

Why wasn't it me? Why couldn't I have died instead? It's not fair. None of this is fair. Me, being abandoned, losing the people I love, losing myself.

"DAD!" The shrillness of my voice scares even myself and I sit up, fighting to catch my breath. My eyes dart around the room, my heart pumping out of my chest, and I feel a sliver of relief that I'm not in a pile of rubble on the edge of a highway somewhere, but in bed. Where I should be safe. Gerard's silhouette stands in the doorway for only a split second until I break down in tears, dropping my face in my hands.

Immediately, he's at my side. "Sh, it's okay, I'm here." He hugs me as sobs wrack my body, like he's physically trying to keep me in one piece. "Deep breaths, okay? I'm here, we're okay."

He's here, he's okay, but when that red car hit us dead on and my head whipped and hit glass, it felt more real than ever. And at the sight of his glossy eyes and his hair glued down to his face with his own blood, I just couldn't keep myself from crying out. I woke him, and undoubtedly Lindsey, up. I showed weakness. I am a burden.

"I-I'm s-sorry," I manage to choke out pathetically through tears that are already soaking his T-shirt.

He only hugs me tighter.

The realization that I'll have to punish myself for this later does nothing to calm me. When I close my eyes I'm bombarded with flashes from my nightmare, but also with images of my own skin under the artificial light of my bathroom, my own shaking hands gripping a blade I keep safely tucked away in a drawer that once held money.

And why do I still do it? Why can't I remember how to cope without it? And, why, no matter how hard I try, how deeply I hurt myself, can I never recreate those blissful feelings of contentment and satisfaction from the beginning of it all that I so crave? It's cruel and it's romanticized and I was stupid enough not to notice.

"D-Dad," I wail, not even knowing how to continue.

"Sh, Evie, calm down first, we'll talk after," he says in a soothing voice. He has one hand on the back of my head, holding me to his chest. The other secures my body. I hadn't even noticed he'd pulled me onto his lap.

"I-I need... Dad, I j-just need h-help." I'm gasping, pleading, and for what, exactly? I'm not sure. For him to understand, maybe, without me having to explain everything. Maybe for him to turn back time to a couple months ago before that letter ever showed up in the mail. Or perhaps back to just a few weeks ago. I could live with going back to before I ever broke that razor, before I ever refused to swallow my meds, and before I started lying left and right.

I could get a do-over, choose a better path. One that won't end in complete catastrophe and disappointment.

Or maybe I was doomed from the start.

"Deep breaths, Evie," Gerard reminds me, on the edge of a whisper. I feel my body being rocked back and forth and I try to match my breathing with the movement. A lullaby would almost be fitting.

Eventually, it ends. I've either run out of tears, or lost my sense of self so badly that I've forgotten how to cry, but my breathing returns to normal.

"I'm sorry I woke you up." My voice is raw.

"You don't have to apologize," Gerard says with a sad sigh. "You had a nightmare?"

I nod into his chest and mutter, "Same one as- as before."

I swear, his breath hitches. "It's just a dream. I'm okay. We're all okay."

"I'm not." My words come out so lightly that my own ears barely register them, but somehow, his do.

"What can I do to help?"

"Nothing."

And I truly believe that. He shouldn't have to clean up my messes. I'm more independent than that. He's already done enough for me, and being handed off might just be what's meant to happen and, in my mind, it's undoubtedly what I deserve. There's nothing left for him or Mikey, or Ray, or Frank, or Lindsey to do.

I feel his thumbs swipe across my cheeks, wiping away a couple stray tears.

"There's nothing left," I whimper. Nothing but a million ways to end that sentence: nothing left for me, nothing left for you to do, nothing left that can save me at this point...

"'Course there is," he says, sounding genuinely hurt. And although there's barely any light in my bedroom, I can practically see the pain in his eyes when I look up from his chest. "I'm not giving up on you."

"I don't deserve that. I just deserve to keep getting hurt."

Whether he recognizes my cry for help for what it really is or not, his voice is more serious when he speaks next. I'm thankful when he doesn't take note of the way I've bunched the sleeves of my shirt in my hands.

"No, you don't. The world keeps throwing shit at you and maybe you're used to it and you think you deserve it, but you don't and you never have. I just wanna do everything I can to protect you, and I don't want you to go blaming yourself or hurting yourself either, alright? You know this, Eve, nothing is worth hurting yourself over, right?"

I fight to keep the stutter from my voice when I reply, "Right."

That's it. I can never tell. The guilt is eating me alive from the inside out, seeping through my pores, and swirling in my stomach, and making me feel sick, but I can never tell. The hurt and disappointment on his face would be too much to handle. There was a period of time during which I never kept secrets from Gerard, but this is a secret I'm going to have to keep.

He holds me for a while longer, though I'm not quite sure how long. I never bothered to look at the clock and when I do it's about four in the morning. He could've been here as long as a couple hours, for all I know.

He shifts me off his lap and tucks me into bed, then brushes hair off my forehead before kissing it lightly.

"Goodnight, Evie," he says. "I love you. Try and get some sleep."

Gee begins to walk away. I feel as alone and hopeless and weak as I did when I was fourteen and I find myself reaching out my arm, my fingers finding the soft fabric of his shirt in the dark.

"Dad," I say.

He stops walking. "Yeah?" he asks, but I stay silent, suddenly embarrassed. "You want me to stay, Darling?" he guesses.

"You don't have to."

"I'm gonna go tell Linds we're alright and I'll be right back."

I hear his footsteps retreat, then, almost as quickly, they come back, stopping next to my bed, then I feel my mattress dip. He drapes one of my many blankets over himself, puts a comforting arm around me and eventually I fall asleep, my neck at an awkward angle as I lay my head on his shoulder, but I couldn't care less.

• • •

I'm deep in my sheets when I wake up to light pouring through my window at about 9AM, the space next to me now empty. The smell of pancakes wafts up from the kitchen. Gerard must be making a breakfast to cheer me up, but I'll be surprised if I can actually manage to show my face downstairs before it gets cold.

I pry myself out of bed, shuddering when my feet hit the floor, and go to my bathroom.

My reflection is almost shocking: The paleness of my face stands out against my firetruck-red hair, and my eyes are still puffy from having cried so much.

Looking at myself in the mirror, I try and turn the corners of my mouth up into a smile, just to see what'll happen. Just to see if I can brave going down to the kitchen and fake my way into making Gerard and Lindsey believe that I'm fine yet another day. But it feels too forced even for me and I let my face fall again with a heavy sigh, splashing some cold water on it and making a mess of the countertop in the process.

I don't know how they do it in those skincare commercials you see on TV.

Before leaving the room, I roll up my sleeves carefully. My forearms and wrists are littered with cuts. They sting if I put too much pressure on them, they sting in the shower, and I feel a sting of guilt when I think back to what Gerard told me last night. They sting when I roll my sleeves back down, too.

"Morning, Girly," Lindsey says with a warm smile when I finally get to the table.

"Hi," I say flatly, taking a seat in front of a plate with two pancakes on it. I take my fork and poke at them, not feeling hungry at all.

"Tired?" she guesses.

"Yeah. Who would've thought?" Sarcasm drips from my voice and I don't even feel sorry.

We have breakfast in silence, sitting at our usual spots. The only sound is the gentle clinking and scraping of silverware on plates, making me dig my nails into the backs of my hands.

That's enough for now, but I feel that magnetic-like force drawing me to my bathroom, willing me to punish myself for keeping Gerard awake last night, for not being strong enough to keep from crying, and for hundreds of the same old things.

It never ends.

• • •

hey, it's been a little while! I had my last exam this morning. it was math. I don't want to talk about it.

I hope mcr are having a good time watching us all collectively lose our minds