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|| Evelyn ||

Okay, so maybe Reed can cook.

The waffles are delicious, but I can only manage a few bites before my stomach starts turning. Reed doesn't question my practically untouched plate—he cleans it up deftly and efficiently. Then, he sits next to me on the couch, looking tense.

What's wrong? I write, and he releases a long breath.

"Nothing," he says, smiling at me, but it's watery and fake. Nevertheless, I don't press him. I just smile back, albeit the stinging pain in my cheeks.

"Do you need anything?" He asks, and it seems as if he's jumping at the chance to move, to do something. So I close my eyes, thinking of my sore muscles and my inability to function and wonder what can be done.

Medicine? I write finally, and he nods, swallowing hard.

"Um, I'll call Mrs. Bracket and ask what I can do." He says, but the confidence in his voice is wavering. I pat his hand in means of reassurance, and he clutches at my fingers for a split second before pulling out his phone.

A few minutes later, he has a few medicines written down on a spare sheet of paper. He frowns at the list, looking at me, and then back at it.

"Okay, well, I don't have any of these on-hand," he says, "So—so I'll have to go to the store. I mean, I can stay, if you want. But if you want these—"

Go, I tell him, in my untidy lettering, I'll be fine.

"Are you sure?" He asks, looking hesitant. I give a feeble thumbs-up, and he caves.

"Okay. Alright, I'll be right back, I swear. Fifteen minutes."

Fifteen minutes, I echo in my head, Fifteen minutes without Reed won't kill me.

He touches my hand one more time before crossing the room to shrug on a coat and collect his keys. He locks the door behind him on the way out, promising a hasty return yet again.

And then he's gone, and it's just me, lying here, staring at the ceiling. Trying to ignore the way my every inch of my body aches, and the way that—without Reed—I can't distract myself from the truth.

I can't distract myself from the memories that come back in flashes, crashing over me like waves. The beer swinging precariously from Greg's hand. The closed door. My hand dropping the punch ladle. Greg, crossing the room. Greg, hoisting me up by my neck. Greg, telling me to shut up, shut up, shut up—

And suddenly, it's too much to handle. I squeeze my eyes tight, trying to banish every thought of him from my mind, trying to erase every moment from my memory.

But then, an awful thought rises in the back of my mind.

I don't even know his last name.

My stomach squeezes, and I feel as if I'm going to throw up, a wave of nausea overcoming me. The boy who did this to me was a practical stranger. I had spoken to him once in my life, had learned his first name, and that was that. That was all I knew before he decided that it was only fair to try and kill me.

Was he trying to kill me?

I don't know. He was drunk, and angry. But why—why—would that be reason enough to...?

I can't even bring myself to think of it anymore. Instead, I close my eyes and focus on my breathing. In, out. In, out. In, out.

Reed will be back soon. Reed will be back soon. Reed will be back soon.

________

The medicine, as awful as it tastes, takes an almost immediate effect. Before I know it, I'm able to stretch my limbs out without the sharp, stinging pains. Reed offers me his arm, and I can get up on my feet without any additional assistance. We walk a few steps, slowly at first, and then he lowers his arm so I'm standing on my own, my knees quivering, but just barely.

"Look at you," Reed enthuses, staying close but smiling nonetheless, "Making progress on day one."

I smile, and take a few steps before leaning forward to balance myself on the counter. I release a long, shuddering breath and close my eyes.

I can move. I can move, and in a few days, I'll be able to talk again. I just have to hang on.

I just have to keep breathing.

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