What gives you the right? You're not any better than--
[ She stops, and thinks about all of them -- her parents, running from one shrink to another, a dozen different kinds of pills; her classmates, her teachers, the worried looks, the calls to the counselor's office. "You haven't been getting into fights, have you?" No, of course not, no one that small and mousy could possibly be getting into fights. "Are you being bullied? Are your parents hurting you?" No, no, no. It's all right, really -- she's on medication, you see, there's nothing to worry about. The twentieth talk with the school counselor, the twelfth new brand of pills; they all gave up, eventually. They all learned to leave her alone.
Except for him.
He was always there, even when every other person in her life had faded into a blurry smudge of monochrome -- he would watch her from the top of the hill, and every time she woke up and found herself in the hospital, she knew it was because of him. She never asked for any of it. But he was always, "Are you done?", "Isn't this enough?". She hates that she can still hear his voice, can still feel his presence in the blind spot of her vision, in the back of her eyes. She hasn't woken up in a hospital once since she's got here, but he's not gone, not all gone, and that piece of him that's here still refuses to leave.
And she hates that he's the same, hates him even more for claiming not to be. Hates that she used his stupid bandage, as if doing that somehow enabled all of this to happen. She hates that he's all there, and that he simply wouldn't leave, because she doesn't know what to do. He's all there. Not even a little gone. ]
-- You're not any better than him.
[ She feels her eyes burn, and her throat close up. She thinks that she might hurl.
Instead, thin streams of water begin spilling from her eyes and down her cheeks. ]
[he wants to make her stop crying. he wants to hold her, comfort her, something, anything- but that's a mistake he shouldn't make, a lesson he's already learned...
he reaches out to her anyway.]
...I'm sorry. I'm sorry I lied. But I... people have died because of me. I didn't want you to die, too, not if I could do anything to stop it.
[ She remains perfectly still -- not moving away from him, but not towards him, either. And her tears have yet to stop. ] Why do you care? Why do you care if I die? You don't know me. I'm not-- [ -- And this is where she cuts herself off, and drops her gaze down to her hands. ]
[he swallows, and finishes the movement by bringing his hand up to her face and wiping at her tears with as much gentleness as he can muster. he doesn't take his eyes off of that hand, and he doesn't blink.]
...There was a girl, and she had the same face you do. That was why, at first. But you're not her, you're nothing like her, and... even if I don't know you much, I know you enough for that.
[ She stops, and thinks about all of them -- her parents, running from one shrink to another, a dozen different kinds of pills; her classmates, her teachers, the worried looks, the calls to the counselor's office. "You haven't been getting into fights, have you?" No, of course not, no one that small and mousy could possibly be getting into fights. "Are you being bullied? Are your parents hurting you?" No, no, no. It's all right, really -- she's on medication, you see, there's nothing to worry about. The twentieth talk with the school counselor, the twelfth new brand of pills; they all gave up, eventually. They all learned to leave her alone.
Except for him.
He was always there, even when every other person in her life had faded into a blurry smudge of monochrome -- he would watch her from the top of the hill, and every time she woke up and found herself in the hospital, she knew it was because of him. She never asked for any of it. But he was always, "Are you done?", "Isn't this enough?". She hates that she can still hear his voice, can still feel his presence in the blind spot of her vision, in the back of her eyes. She hasn't woken up in a hospital once since she's got here, but he's not gone, not all gone, and that piece of him that's here still refuses to leave.
And she hates that he's the same, hates him even more for claiming not to be. Hates that she used his stupid bandage, as if doing that somehow enabled all of this to happen. She hates that he's all there, and that he simply wouldn't leave, because she doesn't know what to do. He's all there. Not even a little gone. ]
-- You're not any better than him.
[ She feels her eyes burn, and her throat close up. She thinks that she might hurl.
Instead, thin streams of water begin spilling from her eyes and down her cheeks. ]
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he reaches out to her anyway.]
...I'm sorry. I'm sorry I lied. But I... people have died because of me. I didn't want you to die, too, not if I could do anything to stop it.
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...There was a girl, and she had the same face you do. That was why, at first. But you're not her, you're nothing like her, and... even if I don't know you much, I know you enough for that.
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I- I didn't hurt you, did I-?
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Her shoulders are shaking a little. ]
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Then- ]
I have the same face as a lot of people.
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You can stay here, until you get better. You... you could probably stay after that, too. If you wanted.
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Why me? If there are other [ better ] people with the same face.
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Because you're hurt, and you need it.
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