I will always look at Evan and know what he did. And he will always look at me and know what he did, too.

Can’t go back. No going back.

It comes to me again. The burning, obsessive realization: I have to get out of here. I can’t be this person anymore. I can’t lead this life. It hurts too much.

I sit up. The movement sends a sharp, bolting pain through my left side. I gasp, falter, then catch myself. After everything I’ve been through, I refuse to be cowed by something as trivial as physical pain. I grit my teeth, and force my way to standing.

My legs wobble. I grab the metal bed-rail and hang on tight.

When I’m finally convinced I won’t collapse, I turn my attention to the row of machines. I turn off the heart monitor first, unclipping the plastic lead from my finger. Next, I remove the tape holding the IV needle in the back of my hand, sliding the needle free. A single drop of blood appears against my pale skin. I wipe it away and will myself not to bleed again.

I walk gingerly, five steps across the room; I’m not going to make it. With each inhale, my insides feel like they’re being flayed by shards of glass. I’m light-headed, achy. I need to lie down. I can try again tomorrow. But when I turn back to the bed, I can’t do it. Maybe I’m crazy. Maybe Evan isn’t the only one who broke this morning. But I can’t go back. I won’t.

Goddammit, after the past eight years, I’m entitled to at least one nervous breakdown.

Tighter binding, I decide. Something wrapped around my ribs to support my weakened side.

Good news: I’ve spent years quietly repairing the results of Evan’s rampages. I’ve reset finger bones, superglued deep cuts (I saw it on the Discovery Channel), and taped fractured ribs. All I need is a few supplies, and I’m a surprisingly decent medic.

Well, I am in a hospital.

I shuffle slowly into the hallway, clutching the back of my hospital gown. The clock on the wall shows it’s after midnight. Sunday is over. Monday has officially begun. I try to find strength in that. A brave new day. Mostly, standing in the middle of the overbright corridor, I feel lost and alone.

The ward is quiet, the nurses’ station empty. I keep moving. Four doors down, tucked against a wall, I find a cart of first-aid supplies. I slip a roll of gauze and a box of butterfly clips into my hands, then shuffle back to my room, shutting the door behind me. I have to rest. My head is spinning. I chew some ice chips, then crawl into bed. My lips hurt. I chew more ice; then, despite my best intentions, I fall asleep.