In a few days, I'm discharged from the hospital. My mom pleaded with me to come back home for awhile to rest, but I told her I'll be fine at school and that I'll ride back with Damon to our campus. I have something important to do anyways. Jessica woke up a few hours after I did, and we had been by each other's side since then, interchanging between our rooms. I told her about how I planned to go see Travis. She disagreed; she thinks it's a bad idea, but she supports my decision to go. Although, her support hardly matters in swaying my choice; not even Damon can change my mind about going. And oh has he tried to. Even as I'm being wheeled out of the hospital doors and towards his car, he's bickering about it.

"I just don't understand why you would even want to go see him, after all he's done. I just feel like it's only going to result in tearing open old scars," he complains.

"Damon, for the last time, I will be fine. I just want to confront him, especially now."

"I'm coming with you."

"That's not necessary."

"I don't really care."

I smile and throw a middle finger in the air towards him. He catches my hand and kisses the same finger. Once we reach his car, Damon scoops me up and carries me to the door.

"This is definitely not necessary," I motion to myself in his arms.

"I still really don't care," he rebounds.

I chuckle. He looks at me out of the corner of his eyes, a sly smirk dancing across his lips. He opens the door with his foot, and then tucks me inside of the car. I grab the seat belt and pull it over my waist while he shuts the door and walks around the side. With ease, he slides into his seat and starts the ignition. When we get back to school, I waste no time making the arrangements for my prison visit, and in two days I'm on the road again on my way to Mortem Album. I can tell Damon is anxious; I think he is worried about me going in there while I'm still pretty weak. I assure him that I'm fine, but that has no effect. My crutches sit on my lap, crowding up the little space I have in my seat.

"These are so annoying! And the metal is cold against my leg! Can't I just chuck them out the window?" I ask him.

"Scarlett, so help me if you throw out those crutches and try to walk on that leg of yours I will personally strap your ass in a stroller."

I throw my head back in laughter, "You wouldn't!"

He quickly glimpses at me before setting his eyes back on the road; he may not be laughing but his expression is.

"Try me."

We arrive at the prison not an hour later. Damon helps me out and I rest my weight against the cushions of my crutches. Staring up at the gloomy, stone building makes my mood nose-dive. The whole area is boxed in by a tall fence with scooping barbwire at the top. There are a few guard towers spread throughout the grounds and barriers of fencing in between them. To my far right, I can see the prison yard just barely peeking out from behind a side of the building; a few inmates are casually walking along the fence. The large prison is separated into conjoining buildings, all with limited windows. Just standing in front of this place motivates me to continue being a law-abiding citizen, and I try to motivate Damon as well.

I point a finger towards him, "Don't ever go to jail."

He laughs and pulls me closer to him, "I'll try my best, Kitten."

"Don't call me that."

He nuzzles my ear, "You loved it that one day I called you it."

Scenes from the pool table flood back to me, "Did not," I lie.

"I prefer to think otherwise."

He smiles and pulls back. He starts walking in front of me towards the prison entrance. He spins on his heel and start walking backwards towards the doors. He runs a hand through his thick hair, pushing it out of his face. He faces me with an amused smirk and a gleam in his eyes. He tucks his hands into his back pockets, pronouncing his arms. I gaze at him in awe; I forget sometimes how attractive he is.

"You coming?" he asks

I can't help but smile, "Obviously."

After a lengthy process of waiting, signing in, identifying, and waiting some more, I'm now sitting alone in an uncomfortable metal chair waiting for my father. I'm in a small room with sectioned off visiting areas; there are two other inmates in here with their own visitors. The only thing that will be separating my father and I is a tiny square table not even three feet long. I'm anxious beyond belief but also slightly curious. I wonder what he looks like now; while I'm waiting I try hard to remember every detail about him. I can see his face with its permanent crease on his forehead—probably from his constant anger—and the prickling stubble of hair that frame his jaw. I can see his thin, light brown hair combed to the side and the freckle that rests like Marilyn Monroe above his lip. But, most of all, I can see his large, brilliantly blue eyes sweeping me up like a wave. I used to get lost in those eyes back when I was naïve and young, back when I saw hope in every situation. And I used to be proud of my very own blue eyes, my one connection to him, because I wanted to sweep people away as well; however, now I regret these eyes of mine, and I dread seeing his because no matter how badly I want to be swept away, the current just isn't strong enough anymore.

I hear the door behind me slide open, but I don't turn around. I know that it's him they're bringing in, but I don't dare to verify it. I can't dare. I stiffly sit waiting for him to be brought around the table; it feels as though time is traveling slower. A splash of orange crosses my peripheral vision, and my breathing quickens. No turning back now. The orange jumpsuit is accompanied with a buzz cut head and a short, scruffy beard. I wait as the guard steps in front of the man in orange and quickly says something to him before pointing towards the chair. The man turns, still not fully facing me yet, and pulls out the chair, the metal screeching across the ground as it goes. He sits down. Finally pulling up his head, my eyes connect with those familiar blue eyes and downward crease. He's the first one to break the silence.

"Hello, sweetie."

"Travis."

"Now, is that anyway to speak to your father?"

"I wouldn't know, would I?" I question.

My dad's entire demeanor deflates, and I can see that I'm annoying him. Yet, he continues anyways.

"So, how's it been?"

"Oh, you mean over the past six years? I don't know if we have enough time for that," I don't even mean to be rude, but I can't help but vomit the malevolence brimming inside me.

His left eye twitches; he is very clearly annoyed now.

"Okay, Scarlett, get to your point. Why are you here?"

I'm about to make another remark but I restrain myself. I decide to carry on with what I came here to do.

"You know, I was just in a car wreck a little over a week ago."

"Well you look fine, so that's good."

"I have a five inch stab wound in my left leg and I coded on the way to the OR," I say blandly.

"Oh," is all he says.

"I was on my way back to my campus when it happened. You know who I was with?"

"Obviously I wouldn't; why would you ask—?"

"Jessica," I cut him off.

His whole face shifts as if his cover's been blown, like his whole charade just blew up into a million pieces.

"Oh...," the man of few words repeats.

"Mhm, what a shock that was to me to find out that my entire childhood was a lie...for the second time. You did well at covering your tracks though; I commend you for that," I say.

"Scarlett," he growls. I can tell I'm starting to push him over the edge.

"Anyways," I wave my hand in the air as to shrug him off, "you want to know why we got in a wreck?"

I don't wait for him to respond, "You."

My whole nonchalant demeanor changes, time to get serious. I put both of my hands on the table and straighten my body. My fists curl into tight balls while I look at my father's shocked expression.

"What the hell are you saying? How in the hell could I have caused your wreck?" he asks, very angry now.

"You see, our wreck was caused by a series of events: first talking about my boyfriend, which lead into men in general, which became twisted into remembering you, which upset Jessica, which made her hysterical and unable to control herself, which ultimately ended in us hydroplaning through a guardrail and off a cliff."

I end my monologue and stare hard into his eyes. I'm seething, all the years of neglect and hatred consuming me. I wait for a response while he shifts forward in his chair, deadly intent leaking out of his eyes.

"Listen here you brat, I am not going to sit here and take all of your shit like a dog with his tail between his legs. How you two turned out has nothing to do with me, and that wreck is in no way my fault. Tell Jessica to get a handle on her emotions; she's always been such a crybaby. At least I didn't have to deal with that with you," he states.

I'm shell-shocked, but I have no idea why. Did I expect anything less than hateful from him? Actually, I think that's my problem because I think I did. I thought I came here for two reasons: to finally tell him what I think after all this time and to throw the wreck in his face; however, I now realize I came for a third: that hopefully, after hearing how just the memory of him drove Jessica out of control, he would realize the damage he's done and apologize. A part of me wanted to make up; a part of me hoped he had changed. I wanted to see hope in the situation again, just like when I was younger; I wanted it so badly. Yet, even after hearing that his two daughters almost died, he still thinks he has done no wrong. It's still our fault, as always. And that's why I feel like the air has been knocked out of me because I've just realized that there will never be hope for Travis.

I stand out of my seat, purposely screeching my chair. I situate my crutches and turn to leave when Travis decides to pipe in, "Leaving already?"

I sharply spin and slam my hands onto the table. He jerks back slightly.

"Yes I am because I have nothing left here. I hoped for a second that you would somehow see the error of your ways, but you're just as self-righteous and arrogant as you've always been. Coming here wasn't a mistake though because it opened my eyes to stop trying, to stop caring. Seeing you wasn't a mistake, just like leaving you won't be one either."

The shocked look on his face is one for the books, but I don't wait to soak it in. I turn around and hobble towards the door. I wait as the guard finishes writing something down before sliding open the door. Before I can take a step forward, I hear my name called out behind me.

"Scarlett!"

I pause for a second before pushing forward, "Goodbye, Travis."

I leave the room without a second glance. I'm not mad or sad or much of anything. I've accepted this life I've been given, and Travis needs no part in it. Some may say I'm in denial or that I'll eventually make things right between us, but I don't believe so. I don't need to make things right because it'll only tear me down in the process. I'm strong and secure all on my own, and I don't have to search for it in another person. That thought leads me back to Damon; that was our main difference, our splitting stake. But I've learned that to be with somebody there must be compromise; it's a two way street. During our date, Damon really pushed himself out of his comfort zone and chose to be in a relationship with me for the sake of not losing me; I should do the same for him. I don't need a title to assure that we are together. We are together because we love each other. I need nothing more.

I'm lead back to where Damon and I first came in. Damon is waiting in a chair across the room; his body is rigid and hunched over, his elbows finding support on his knees. His head is resting atop his fingers, a hard expression cast across his face. He looks worried, anxious even. I'm sure it's because of me so I walk over to give him some peace. He notices me before I reach him and he stands up and starts to bombard me with questions.

"How was it? Are you okay? He didn't do anything do you right? You know I'll kill him if he did; although, I don't know if I should be admitting that inside here. But I would," he manages to get out in only a few seconds.

"Yes Damon, I'm fine. Don't worry about me. And no, you probably shouldn't say that here," I joke.

"I always worry about you, and I'll probably never stop," he notes with all seriousness.

"That's unhealthy."

"I'll survive."

He gives me a warm smile before we begin to head out back to his car and back to our daily lives.