21

Marco's doctor had been expressing major concerns recently about his health and the fact that it seemed like he was eating, but was still losing weight. She insisted they take blood and found several alarming things.

He knew the session he had been summoned for would include his parents but he'd been unaware that his friends had also been called. When he entered the room and saw everyone sitting there, he wanted to run away, back to his room. He hadn't seen any of his friends in two months and he despised their shocked faces when they saw what was becoming of him.

He sat down in is usual chair and couldn't bring himself to look in Dylan's direction.

"Marco, as I told you yesterday, you are in serious danger. I spoke with your parents last night and explained what's going on. You're severely malnourished and dehydrated. You're a very unhealthy person right now."

As usual, Marco said nothing. He couldn't, even if he'd wanted to because his throat hurt so badly from vomiting his meals every day.

"We're gravely concerned that you don't really seem to care about what I told you," the doctor said. "Marco, you haven't spoken since you came here at all. And now these test results show some serious nutritional deficiencies. If you don't take care of yourself, you'll die."

He said nothing, just looked at the doctor.

"Surely there is a less painful way of committing suicide, Marco. Even you can't be happy about this method," she said. "This can't make you feel good."

He just sat, staring at her, occasionally looking down at his fingers.

"Please, Marco," his mother whispered, touching his arm but he yanked away from her and pushed his chair further away from everyone. "Marco, please, say something."

"Marco, we decided to bring your friends in on this conversation because your friends and parents love you. They want you to be healthy and well. They want you to be around to get married and have children. They want you to be happy. They are all scared and very concerned about you."

He knew her words were supposed to have an effect on him, but they didn't.

Nothing she said could make him ever admit what happened. Nothing.

"Marco, caro mio, tell us what happened," his mother sobbed. "Please." He looked at her only a second. She was still one of the few who could affect him. How her heart would break at knowing the truth! He had to spare her that pain. He knew he wasn't strong enough to know his mother knew, to know his mother knew she'd failed at keeping her child safe.

"Does anyone know why this is happening?" his father demanded, turning on the group of teens that Marco once considered friends. "Someone has to know!" he yelled at them, but they all just sat there.

Except one person.

"I know," Dylan whispered softly and Marco immediately looked over at him, eyes begging him not to speak, not to say the words.

But Marco knew Dylan was about to betray him in front of everyone.

"What?" his dad asked. "What! Please- tell us. What happened to our son?"

"He… I've told him a million times he has to tell, that he needs help. But I'm sorry, Marco, I can't keep quiet and watch you slowly melt away. I can't do it."

"NO," Marco yelled, straining his voice to do so. The therapist looked shocked.

"WHAT?!" his father demanded, grabbing Dylan by the arms and hoisting him up off the couch. "TELL ME! WHAT HAPPENED TO MY SON?! You've been silent while he's been doing this?! WHAT IS IT?!"

Marco wanted to rush over there and pull the two apart. He wanted to stop it from happening, do something to distract them, but the words came out sooner than he could do anything to stop them.

"He was raped!"

The room froze and Marco had never wanted to die more. All his hard work to keep it from coming out, to keep his father from doing exactly what he was about to do, to protect himself and his parents from the awful truth… It was all over now.

There was no real reason to try anymore.

His father would have laughed if he hadn't been so angry. "Liar! He wasn't raped. That doesn't happen to boys and he's not a fairy. Tell me what really happened!" his father asked, shaking Dylan rather violently now as Spinner and Jimmy just stared at him.

He saw the shock and sorrow and pity on their faces and Paige and Ellie's pity and sympathy stricken faces as well.  He couldn't take all their pain too. It was too much. Then he looked at his mother and saw the fear and panic and heart break in her eyes as well, the way she was crying and trying to hold it together when she was dying inside thinking of her little boy being hurt like that.

"IT'S TRUE!" Dylan screamed and shoved his father away. "It's true. He was, in an alley near the hockey rink where I play. He was meeting Jimmy and Spinner there to watch our opening game when he was attacked and he couldn't tell anyone. I found out by accident and I tried so hard to make him tell someone-"

Marco sat stoic as Dylan released all his guilt and told everything he knew. Marco couldn't make eye contact with anyone so he stared at the floor as he had to listen to it all.

"This isn't true," his father said. "Only whimpy boys get- only queers get-"

"Well I'm sorry to tell you, Mr. Del Rossi, but he was on his way to see me that night. Whether you can accept it or not, before all this happened, your son was realizing he was gay. And the whole reason he's on the verge of dying now is because he was too scared of what you would think to get help."

"No. He's not," he heard his dad say angrily, disgustedly. "He's not like that. There's something else that-"

At that, Marco stood up. What he'd feared all along was true.

He wouldn't stay in a world like this any longer. He couldn't stay knowing that his parents knew now. He wouldn't stay knowing how much it hurt his mother and disgusted his father.

He would not be anyone's charity case or be part of any pity parade.

"Marco-" the therapist said but he slammed the door behind him and went quickly to the common room. He needed a book and he needed it quickly.

He would end it now.

22

"Marco!" he hears and he looks up and nods to his friends.

He takes the steps two at a time and takes a seat next to Paige.

"We were worried you weren't gonna make it," she smiles. "They're still doing some warm-ups, so we got snacks. Hungry?" she asks cheerfully.

Marco nods and takes a couple nachos before looking down at the ice. He's never been that much into hockey, but he scans all the players for one that looks most Dylan-ish.

He knows it's silly to be hoping that some gorgeous, popular senior would ever want to ask him out, but at the beach, he thought he was getting vibes from Dylan. Granted, he'd never flirted before, but he was pretty sure he did a good enough job of it to let Dylan know he was interested.

He sits and pops a few chips in his mouth and watch as the teams run some practice drills. Finally, they all skate over to the benches which are a few feet in front of their seats and he finally sees Dylan.

The hockey uniform seems to accentuate his stunning good looks and beautiful eyes and great body.

He remembers one day at Paige's house a few years ago. She was having a pool party after school one hot day and he remembers, even then, seeing Dylan shirtless and thinking he was hot.

And now that he's older, he's certainly much more muscled and defined.

They sit and watch the game. They cheer them on and yell when their team wins and though he'd never really shown an interest in sports, Marco can definitely see himself developing an interest in hockey.

After the game, they wait for Dylan to get showered and changed.

"Congratulations, big brother," Paige smiles and hugs him.

"Yeah, great game," Jimmy and Spinner both mention.

"It was exciting," Marco says quieter, still unsure of himself. Now that he's been looking forward to this game all week and being close to Dylan again, he's so nervous he's going to vomit.

"I'm glad you liked it, Marco," Dylan responds. "I'm glad you came."

"Well I've never been to a game, so I figured it was about time," Marco smiles, hoping beyond all hope that this is not the most offensive thing he's ever said. It seemed flattering at the time to say it but once he hears it coming from his mouth, he thinks perhaps that would totally put Dylan, the hockey stud, off.

"Wow! Well I'm touched my game was first," he grins and that makes Marco happier than he's been in years. "So, feel like ditching the group and going for pizza?" the senior asks and all Marco can do is nod.

The next thing he knows, he and Dylan are walking down the street, idly chatting and completely casual and Marco feels comfortable with him, like they've been friends all their lives or something.

"The only thing I didn't like about it was the cost of the food," Marco laughs softly. "Otherwise, the game was great. I had no idea hockey was so much fun to watch. My dad's taken me to baseball games before but they are such a drag."

"Yeah, I like the sports that move like hockey or basketball," Dylan responds. "Obviously I'm partial to hockey, but I do like playing basketball."

"I suck at all sports," Marco sighs. "I really did try when I was younger but I'm just not sports inclined."

"Not everyone is," Dylan says and keeps talking a little but Marco is frozen. "Marco? The pizza place is right around this corner."

He can't move.

No. Actually I'm just meeting some friends for a hockey game.

"Marco?" Dylan asks. "What's up?"

Marco stares down the alley and his heart cries.

Look, I don't care what you want, Faggot! Do you know what *I* want? Huh?

"Marco?" he feels Dylan's hands touching his shoulders and he jumps, he screams.

"NOOO!"

Marco opens his eyes.

Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.

He sighs sadly.

He failed again.

23

Marco can't move.

Marco is trapped inside the situations he's created for himself and for once, he's wishing he could get out of it. For once, he's wishing the chains that bind him would loosen just a bit so he could breathe.

But he forced his situation, created it of his own design. And he and he alone bear the responsibility for the restraints that hold his wrists and torso down.

Marco's spent three days thus far staring at the ceiling of his hospital room, trying to count the black dots on the ceiling or hoping a spider crawling might provide some form of entertainment.

He's heard the explanations of everything that had to be done a week ago when he was brought in. He's constantly reminded of everything being done to try and save him. He's being given fluids and pain meds. He's had surgery on his arms to sew them back together but there's a constant burning in them where he cut muscle. They are bandaged and sore and raw and he hasn't yet been able to look at them.

He was lucky, they say. Every nurse says "you were lucky".

He finds that ironic that they are now calling him that. Lucky?

Was he so lucky? Was lady luck on his side when he was in that alley and didn't die?

The doctor has been in to see him every couple hours since he woke up but he's refused to talk. Sure, he's listened to her talking about how he can make it through and get well. He's listened as she's rambled on about how his friends and family love him and want him healthy again.

But all Marco can think about, all he can hear, is the disbelief and disappointment in his father's voice.

He's glad no one has come to see him or been allowed: he's not sure which.

He knows he's on suicide watch, which is why his room has a glass window front and door and he finds the idea of people watching him sleep creepy and unnerving.

He remembers trying to scream when he woke up and realized he was being held down. He tried to scream or yell but his voice wasn't there. His throat is dry and damaged from vomiting and he has only said one word in months now.

He wonders how long it's been since that night. Six months perhaps? Longer? Shorter? He stopped keeping track long ago since every day has bled into the other.

He remembers staring at himself in the mirror before smashing everything the smithereens.

Marco remembers closing his eyes and trying to remember what a hug feels like, or what it feels like for someone to hold your hand. His palm tingles a bit at the thought, as if his cells still remember the sensation of being touched.

Never has he felt so empty and alone. He feels voided, worthless, forgotten.

He wonders briefly what the weather is like outside, if it's cold or warm. He wonders if the sun is bright and what it would feel like on his face. He remembers morning walks to school when he would close his eyes and just allow the sun to warm his flesh. It would fill him with such a sense of joy and belonging and he misses that feeling. He misses feeling anything but hollow.

Since waking up, he's been forced to cope with minimal touching. But the nurses are very careful when changing the bandages. Doctor Hathway has assured him that the staff has been informed that they are to have minimal contact with him. She also assured him that the entire place is secured with cameras and guards and that although he's restrained, he is safe and protected.

Marco misses his stark white room. He wishes he'd never broken the mirror and done this. He wishes he could go back and not do it. Had he known he wouldn't succeed, he never would have tried.

Now he fears that the only way he'll ever be able to be done now, is to get out of this place. They'll never leave him alone again, he knows. He will not have a room with a mirror or bathroom or closet, nothing with private space.

He tries to think. If he ever is released from the restraints, he could tie a sheet around his neck and around the head of the bed and try to strangle himself somehow, but in all ways he imagines it happening, it's never successful.

He contemplates his ability to suffocate himself with a pillow, but he thinks that as soon as he's deprived of enough oxygen, he'll weaken and his arms will release the pillow and he'll breathe again.

He spends five hours staring at the morphine drip, willing it to surge all the contents of the bag into his IV at once, but it never does.

Nothing ever happens the way he plans.

And he's left alone.

Unmoving.

Untouchable.

24

He clenches and unclenches his fists, pressing his nails as hard as he can into his palms. He scratches and digs at his palms as he lays silently. His arms are still healing and he's still in the glass room, healing from all he's done to himself, allowed himself to become.

He wants her to go away. He wants her to LEAVE.

He hasn't told her as much but he knows she must know. She seems relatively intelligent.

"Our time is almost up," she announces before he sees her turn a page out of the corner of his eye.

This is what she does. This is all she does. All she does is read while he counts the black dots in the ceiling tiles and hopes she'll leave soon and give up. He's a hopeless cause.

He desperately wanted to move for several days. But over the second week and third, he gradually got used to laying, restrained. His body eventually gave up the will to move. Marco likes it now. It's much like the stillness he tried to find. He refuses to eat or drink anything and so they feed him through a tube. It wasn't pleasant to have it put in but it's now one less thing have to bother him about.

He sleeps often, or feigns sleep to avoid hearing the nurses ramble on about stupid shit he doesn't care about.

She flips another few pages and he's been curious about what she's reading every day she comes for a session. It seems to be a new book or magazine each time. She's said nothing but to greet him and tell him when their time is almost up for three weeks now.

It's becoming maddenly annoying for Marco. Listening to someone breathe and flip pages with timed perfection yet not have them acknowledge your presence when they are supposed to be there to help you?! Annoying.

Five… four… three… two… one. Page flip. Sigh.

It'll be another minute until the routine happens again and it's driving him crazy. He thinks that funny since up until now, he hasn't through of himself as crazy, though probably everyone else has.

He scratches his palms more, digs into a raw spot.

Five… four… three… two- "What-" he says, barely managing to speak since he hasn't wanted to speak for months. But the word stopped her from flipping the page and sighing. He turns his head to look at her. She's waiting. "What… are you reading?" he asks softly. It's hard to talk around the tube they have down his throat. And his throat is dry.

"It's called the Lovely Bones," she answers his question, putting the book down to look at him. "It's probably one of the saddest books I think I've ever read, but it's too good to stop reading."

He nods slowly. He would have thought she'd be reading some psychology book or something, like Freud.

"It's told by the spirit of a girl who has died." He turns to look at her as she speaks. At least it's something to break the monotony. "She was actually murdered by a next door neighbor after he raped her."

As soon as she says the word, he turns away, wanting her to leave now.

"And the story is her ghost watching her family cope with her disappearance and how it tears her family apart and breaks up her parents and destroys her siblings."

He thinks about his parents and wonders. Is she trying to tell him something? Is she making up the story to tell him that his parents are broken up? He hasn't really seen them. Every time he hears them coming, he pretends to sleep or starts thrashing around on the bed so they won't allow visitors.

But now he wonders what she means by that.

"Well our time's up," she says quietly and stands. "I'll see you tomorrow, Marco."

"How are they?" he asks, surprised the words leave his mouth.

"How do you think they are?" she asks, sitting back down on the edge of the seat.

He shrugs. He knows they are probably just as torn inside as he is, for different reasons. His mother probably blames herself and his father blames Marco for being a fag. No. Not a- he knows he's not gay. He's nothing.

"They are devastated, Marco," she responds. "Your mother doesn't know why you wouldn't have gotten help. She thinks she's lost her only child forever. And your father wonders how they could have allowed this to happen and not realized how badly you were hurting."

"No, my father wonders how he could have a son who's-" He stops himself.

"Gay?" she asks and he shakes his head in denial. "You can deny it all you want, Marco, but… you didn't run from that room when Dylan told us about the rape. You ran when your father started talking about being gay. That's the reason you couldn't tell, part of the reason anyway. You didn't want your father knowing you're gay."

"I'm not," he whispers. "I'm nothing now." He can't by anything now, gay or straight.

"Perhaps not now, but… one day, Marco, you will be again," she says quietly before she leaves.

25

Marco lays silently all morning, as always, staring the ceiling.

He's aware, as he digs at his palms, that his arms hurt more than they had been and wonders why that is. He wishes he could ask someone. He thinks perhaps the medication being given to him is out or all gone or not effective or perhaps something is wrong.

However he has no way to contact anyone. He tries to lift his head to look and see if there's any nurse call button but he can't see one or feel one. He tries calling but can't yell loud enough and as he waits for the hourly check-up, he wonders if restraining people is all that wise. What if there was a fire? How would he escape?

That word catches his mind: escape.

He finds it peculiar that he would use that word at all since 'escape' would imply surviving the fire and being alive. And he's fairly certain he does not wish to be alive so he shouldn't want to escape.

He shrugs. He simply does not wish to burn to death, he supposes.

No, you'd rather starve to death, he thinks.

The tube in his throat is growing tiresome and painful and he desperately wishes to be able to move more than just the little bit of monitored movement he's allowed each day.

He notices on this particular day that the silence that fills the room is less comforting than it was just a few days ago. He glances up at the clock and realizes that the doctor was supposed to be there for his therapy session but she was fifteen minutes past due. Perhaps she'd given up on him? Or perhaps she simply couldn't come.

Either way, it surprises Marco greatly that he actually misses her in some strange way.

He digs his nails into his palm tighter. He misses her and now she won't come and he is stuck. He is trapped on this bed now and will be, forever. The silence weighs on him heavier than the restraints.

Silence is all around him, pressing into him, seeping in through his skin.

He is tired of it all of a sudden.

He bites his tongue as he scratches at his palm and feels the scabs give way. He feels the wet of blood on his fingers once more, seeping under his nails and he's suddenly tired of the complete stillness in the room.

It has trapped him as much as he had been in that alley and he doesn't like the feeling of being helpless once again. He doesn't like the vulnerable feeling and powerlessness.

Marco is angry about it. He's angry that she's left him to be powerless and isn't there to fill the silence.

"I'm so sorry, Marco," a voice says and he looks to the doorway.

Marco is surprised he's actually happy to see the woman, who just yesterday was frustrating him so terribly.

"My daughter is ill and I was waiting on a babysitter for her."

She takes her usual seat and opens her bag and pulls out a book.

He watches her for a change as she moves the chair and crosses her leg. She opens the book and notices him watching her. She smiles and then turns to her book.

She begins to fall into her reading pattern but after the first turn of the page, he somehow finds himself asking, "what… what do I have to do… to get the tube out?"

She puts her book down and he feels her eyes on him as he stares at the wall on the other side of the room. "You know what you have to do to get the tube out. You'd need to start eating, Marco. You'd start on sugar water for a few days since you haven't been eating at all and your system is screwed up. After your body is processing the water, you'd be moved up to clear liquids like juices and jello."

He nods acknowledgement of the information.

He simply stares at the wall though because he doesn't wish to see her with a small tear in his eye.

He jerks when he feels something brush against his wrist. When he turns to look at what she's doing, he finds his wrist free of the restraint. He watches as she undoes the one around his torso and frees his other wrist.

He's shocked. Marco is shocked because she's not undone them during any of their sessions.

He pushes the button on the bed so he's able to sit up and stare at her after a few minutes.

"Would you like some sugar water?" she asks quietly.

His stomach lurches and his entire body tenses. He knows accepting the water means something. Accepting the water and sitting up to drink it means something.

It's a choice.

It's the first one he's been able to make for himself in a long time.

"Yes," he nods slowly.

26

Choice.

It feels like years since he's been able to make a choice for himself.

Marco stares at the cup, sitting on the table before him.

It's a choice.

He feels for some reason that if he chooses to drink, he's making a larger choice.

He can't remember the last time he felt as if he had a choice, a say in his actions. He thinks perhaps it was what shirt he wore that night, though had he known it would be ruined and soiled forever in his shame, he would not have chosen his favorite shirt. He would have chosen a different one, an ugly one to suit the occasion.

He thinks about what's happened since that choice, since he chose a shirt. None of it feels like it was a choice at all, none of it has been chosen. Marco's been forced over and over again by that- by it.

Every day he's allowed himself to be raped, over and over again.

He allowed it to decide how he slept, how he showered, how he dressed, how he spoke, how he read, how he lived. He allowed it to determine how he cried and how he died, even. He allowed it to control how he thought and felt and dreamt. He allowed it to tie him down, chain him to a bed. He allowed it to decide what he ate and when and where and how much. He allowed it to eat his insides.

And he's angry at it.

Suddenly, he's so angry at it. The rage boils up from his gut and makes his blood burn inside his veins. The fury comes on strong as he stares at the cup of water. His insides lurch in disgust at what he allowed.

The fire in his veins burns his arms, burns the wounds, still healing, spills out of his bleeding palms and he looks down at it. He watches the red oozing slowly, scalding his skin.

"Are you going to drink?" she asks quietly and he looks back at the cup.

Choice.

Power.

Control.

He's been without it for months. He's allowed himself to be helpless and weak and he's angry.

He picks up the cup and gulps the water down.

"Not so fast!" she says and he knows why because his body rejects the water and he coughs most of it up and it burns his throat, reminds him of what he allowed.

"You haven't really eaten in a long time, Marco. You can't overload your stomach. Just sip some, alright?"

He nods and wipes his mouth off. He takes a small sip of the water and lets it sit on his tongue for a few seconds. It's sweet, too sweet. He hasn't tasted anything but the bitter taste of pain and emptiness in so long. He swallows the small amount of liquid easily and sits back against the pillows.

Choice.

He finally made a choice.

27

He stares at the book in his hands for a few seconds before looking at her. He's surprised. He hasn't held a book since the one he held while he smashed the mirror.

"What's this for?" he wonders as he stares at it.

"Your mother mentioned you always liked puzzles and things. This is a new type of number puzzle called Sudoku. I thought it might be something you could enjoy."

She handed him a box of pencils as well.

Something he could enjoy. The phrase catches his attention. Something he could enjoy.

He hasn't been able to enjoy anything in so long. Marco wonders if he's forgotten how to enjoy something besides the bite of pain from the slice of flesh.

"Thanks," he says softly. He stares at the box of sharpened pencils and wonders about the safety of leaving sharpened pencils with someone on suicide watch.

She sits down in her usual chair and he places the book and pencils on his table, next to a half-eaten Jello cup.

As always, he watches as she pulls out a book and opens it up to her place mark.

Marco looks down at his hands, which are scratched up and sore and raw. He's been scratching more and more now that he's free of the restraints.

He thought by taking the water, he'd feel suddenly better. He thought by sipping the water and eating Jello and drinking juice that he'd feel whole again. But he doesn't. He knows it's been a long week of sipping water and feeling sick after. He knows the week has felt like months to him and he still doesn't feel anything like Marco.

Instead of feeling like himself, he just feels anger. He's not even sure who himself is anymore. All he knows is the rage. Marco is angry. He's angry at himself and he's angry at Spinner and Dylan. He's angry at his parents for not knowing. He's angry at the school for ignoring his pain. He's angry at IT. He's angry he didn't stop it. He's angry he's hurting. He's angry that he wants to die and he's angry that he's not dead.

And he's angry that the only thing he feels now is anger.

He starts scratching his hands.

He's angry that she doesn't make him stop, that she doesn't care enough to make him stop. But he knows the only way they could make it happen would not be a pleasant way.

"Why aren't you fucking helping me?!" he growls, angry at how she uses their sessions as her own personal reading hour. "You're supposed to be the one helping me and you read books every day. How much are you being paid per hour?"

She puts the book down and looks at him. "You haven't wanted my help. You've been quite happy living in your own little living hell. So I've chosen to be productive with my time. Now if you're saying that you'd like to talk, I'll put my book away."

"I just wanna know why you've been using our hour a day sessions that you insist on for your own personal gain. I doubt that's professional to do that."

Marco covers his shock at how easily the words begin flowing from his mouth and how venomous they are. It's the most he's spoken in a long time and it feels good to lash out at her.

"Fine. I'll put my book away then," she says and Marco watches as she marks her place and slides the book into her bag. Then she stares at him and he's angry about that as well. "Do you want to talk?"

"No. I just think you should fucking do your job instead of reading. What kind of therapist reads when she's supposed to be helping people? Here the insurance company is paying you to do absolutely fucking nothing for all these people you're scamming out of hundreds of dollars and-"

"I do scam people out of money. You were the one who set the precedent of what we do in our sessions, Marco. You're the one who's refused to speak. You haven't told me why you're hurting. You haven't told me anything about you except that you're offended I read."

"You know why!" he practically yells at her. "He fucking told you! Told everyone! You know why!"

"I know what he told us happened but I don't know what truly happened, Marco. You haven't told anyone."

"I told HIM, didn't I?" he snarled and dug his fingernails into his hands.

"Told him what?" she asks.

"THAT I WAS RAPED!" he screams at her, his whole body tense and tight with rage. As soon as the words leave his mouth he wants to run. He wants to leap out of the bed and run but he has no where to run to.

"Tell me about it," is her request.

He doesn't respond to her. He simply lays down and stares at the wall and hears her pull out her book after several minutes of waiting.

Five. Four. Three. Two. One. Page turn. Sigh.

T minus 89 seconds…

28

"Will I ever go back to the other place?" he asks, curious what will happen to him now.

Marco has stayed under watch for nearly five weeks now and he wonders if he'll ever get back to the ward with the door and a lock on it. He wonders if he'll ever see those white walls again.

"No," she shakes her head as she flips a page. "We're waiting on a transfer to another facility for you."

"Do I get to know where I'm going? Since I'm being held here against my will?"

She puts the book down at that and looks at him. Over the last few sessions, he's said some vile things but he feels vile and he likes it. He'd rather feel vile than hollow. At least vile is a feeling.

"Do you believe you're being held here against your will?"

"There's no gun to my head but do you think I would have willing agreed to let you strap me to a bed for three weeks? Especially after what happened?"

He barely understood how she could even ask him that. He certainly would never have agreed to being strapped to a bed. Marco wondered how she could even believe they had his permission to keep him locked up like an animal.

"You haven't told me what happened."

"I fucking did!" he yells. He knows he told her.

"Did your attacker strap you a bed?"

"Where am I going next?" he wonders, ignoring her question. He does not wish to revisit it. He thinks he's finally pushed the thoughts and memories down deep enough that perhaps he can hide them enough to appear well enough to get out so he can finish it.

He knows that's what needs to happen.

"You're being moved to a center that has a floor specifically for victims of sexual crimes. They also have a suicide ward there as well so they'll be able to monitor you more closely than the other place."

"So that's it?" he asks. "Just gonna ship me off without telling me?"

Marco's heart begins beating faster because he's started to feel somewhat secure in his routine and being moved could turn out very bad. As much as he hates listening to her flipping pages every day for an hour, he's come to look forward to the company. Listening to the pages turning has given him something to look forward to, given the day something to break it up.

"It's a permanent residential facility for long term mental health care."

"A looney bin?" he questions, not knowing what to make of that. The fact that they might be giving up on him grates on his nerves. "So you can't fix me, so you're just shipping me off in a straight-jacket?"

"Do you want to be fixed?" she asks and he looks away, not sure he has an answer to that question. Marco hasn't had an answer to that question in a while. He thought he'd answered it when he started eating again, but thus far the results haven't proven effective and he's growing tired of waiting.

"That's why you're being transferred. This isn't a facility that can deal adequately with your needs. You've been here for months and you've not improved."

"I ate, didn't I?" he counters. He thought that had been enough of a message that at least he perhaps had chosen to keep himself alive.

He had chosen to keep himself alive? The thought barely has time to register in his head before she asks-

"Why?"

"Why the fuck do you think?" he growls, hating therapists and their questions. He hates their superiority and the way they look down on you because they know so much.

"I thought it was because you wanted help, because you were ready to accept some. But that was weeks ago and there's been no change. So in my professional opinion, this facility no longer suits your needs and you're being transferred."

"So… you've given up on me. You've written me off and that's that? Cased closed?"

"In my professional opinion, you've given up on yourself and I can't help that. You've refused any medication and-"

"I don't wanna be a fucking zombie and that's what makes me hopeless? I ATE! That's not… that's not giving up on myself…"

He finishes the sentence quietly and hates the horrible feeling in his stomach that he truly is hopeless. He hates the fact that his therapist is confirming that very thought. It hurts his already bleeding, dying heart that even his therapist thinks he's worthless and-

"I don't think you're hopeless, Marco, but I think you think you are." He stares at her when she looks him directly in the eyes because he can't seem to stop. "I think you're so desperate to find anyone who thinks you're worth something, that you'll be vile to me and mean, just to see if I come back, because the second I come in, your eyes light up for about a second. They give you away. They tell me that you're relieved to know I'm back and that I haven't given up. I think you're terrified of opening up and telling me what happened and I think that you're more scared of actually talking than you are of dying, which is why you've attempted suicide so much."

Marco is stunned at her words. He's stunned to realize that she actually might truly understand something about him that- "So why the transfer? Why… why can't I stay *here*?" he asks quietly, staring at his fingers.

"Because. on paper, you've made no improvements. Someone on suicide watch for months at a time is not a temporary stay. They need long term monitoring and a facility equipped to give them a quality of life that is more than just one little room. In the new place, you'll be able to use the common rooms because everywhere is heavily watched and monitored."

"Who- who will be my therapist?" he wonders. "You?"

"I think the new one assigned to you there is Doctor Richard Alleghany."

A bubble of fear wells up from his throat. A man? He'll have to sit alone in a room with a- "NO. I don't want to go. I won't. I refuse."

"You have no choice."

He hates that phrase. He's hated that phrase since he was a child but especially now.

"I'll stop eating again. I'll-"

"Why don't you stop trying to run away from this and actually do something real about it? Why don't you stop being a coward and a victim and fucking take a stand for a change?"

Marco sits in stunned silence because she'd never raised her voice to him before and never sworn.

"Stop fucking letting your LIFE slip away and CARE about something! Care about yourself or your friends or your poor mother who hasn't seen her son in MONTHS!"

He can't believe she's screaming at him as he picks at his hands and scratches them more.

"Maybe this new place can-" She stands and he watches her do it. "This transfer is good for you. It'll be good for you." He watches as her chin trembles a little and Marco realizes, for the first time, that she actually truly cares for him and his health. All these days she's spent reading, she's been trying to save him and now she knows she's failed.

"Goodnight," she whispers and opens the door. "Tomorrow will be our last session."

He's completely shocked that he never realized that before.

29

Marco sits staring at his lunch, trying to remember a time when he ate a tuna sandwich in the cafeteria with Paige yammering in his ear and he can't. He can't honestly remember a lot from his former life.

He realizes his friends have started a new school year now and wonders if they think of him. He wonders if any of them still talk about him and what they thought when they learned the truth.

He notices from the tag on his lunch tray that it's Monday. He hasn't noticed what day it is in a long, long time, since he was moved to this room.

He idly takes a bite of the sandwich and glances up at the clock. Fifteen minutes.

Fifteen minutes.

It seems like the morning has taken a long time, from his morning shower to his refusal to go to "group therapy" to his sitting in his room, the day has gone slow.

He stares at the piece of paper sitting on his bedside table and hopes it's written well. He hopes it does what he wants it to do. He hopes… he hopes it gets read and not thrown away. He hopes the doctor will mail it to Dylan for him. Marco hopes Dylan will accept his apology.

Marco sat all last night thinking about what she'd said and about how he felt when she said it.

Why don't you stop trying to run away from this and actually do something real about it? Why don't you stop being a coward and a victim and fucking take a stand for a change? Stop fucking letting your LIFE slip away and CARE about something! Care about yourself or your friends or your poor mother who hasn't seen her son in MONTHS!

The words keep echoing in his head, over and over, and he wonders how this one woman could care for him so much that she'd be that upset that he wasn't getting well. Then he thinks of his own mother and how much more she must be hurting because of everything that's happened.

Marco sat all night, suddenly missing his mother terribly. Sobs wracked his body all night as he thought of how he must have hurt his mother so badly, how everything and everyone in his life has been ruined by this, by what happened to him and how he was unable to cope with it.

Then he found himself wondering about Dylan and how he must have felt carrying around this secret and knowing that his silence was the reason Marco had nearly died.

The door opens and she walks in, looking somber. She takes her normal place in the chair next to his bed and opens her book to begin reading.

Marco stares at his fingers, noting for the first time how thin his arms are, how thin his body has become, skin tone changed from undernourishment.

What has he let himself become? He wonders how he lost himself so completely. He wonders how he'll ever be able to be whole again, if he'll be able to be. But for the first time in months, possibly forever, he thinks perhaps there's hope.

He glances at her and knows that she truly believes he could be well again.

"I got off on the wrong stop," he says and she stops reading to look at him. "I… I lost track of… I wasn't paying attention and got off at the wrong stop. It… it was dark. I ended up walking through the… where all the gay clubs are. I…" He turns away because he can't look at her, can't find the words.

"It's okay," she says quietly. "The words are there, Marco, they've been dying to come out."

"I was a couple blocks from the arena to meet my friends when… this guy… he approached me, came up to me and started… he grabbed me. He… he had a gun."

Marco closes his eyes, dreading the cold images he'll see behind his eyelids. "He dragged me to an alley. He… said stuff, mean stuff… said he'd… said I'd better shut up or he'd kill me. I could feel it- the gun pressed to my head. He… made me… forced me to say I wanted it."

He wipes a tear from his face as relief starts flooding his body, relief at having said it, at realizing he was forced to say it.

"It's okay," she whispers and he feels her hand cover his and it's the first contact he's had with another human in so long, he starts crying. "Shh, Marco, it's gonna be okay. This is good. You're safe here."

And he knows he is.

So he tells her.

30

Marco sits on the couch scratching his hands nervously, wondering why his hands keep producing skin when he's spent the better part of a year scratching it off.

He knows he should use the rubber band or the bandana to scratch at, but he's too nervous. His stomach is in knots and he's terrified of what may happen.

"Calm down," Doctor Hathway says. "Relax. You've been preparing for this for a couple weeks now."

"I know, but it's still… nerve wracking."

"Yes, but you said you felt ready for this and I feel you are as well."

He nods. Marco knows the past two weeks of intensive therapy and nights spent crying or screaming in the solitary padded room have given him release. He knows it's still a long time coming until he'll be ready to leave the facility but he's grateful. He knows he wouldn't feel safe anywhere else.

His body has been conditioned by his mind for fear and the nightmares that he'd gotten rid of are back now and play on repeat every night since reliving the rape.

"I… what if I'm not? What if I'm not ready?"

He doubts every decision and every thought, not trusting himself enough to truly decide for himself. He's become hyper aware of his thoughts, scared he'll start hurting himself again.

"You shouldn't second guess this, Marco. They are your parents and they love you."

He's still not sure.

Marco hasn't had any contact with his parents in months, since he ran from the room where Dylan told them all he'd been raped, since his father refused to see his son's ultimate pain.

He nods and scratches more at his arms.

Then the door opens and his heart pounds in his chest, vomit threatens to come boiling up from the pits of his stomach. What if they don't love him? What if they hate him for putting them through-

"Marco!" his mother whispers as she lays eyes on him. "Baby..."

She doesn't make a move toward him but he can see what this has done to his mother, how it's hurt her as much as it has him. She's lost weight and she looks so tired and pained and it breaks his heart.

"Momma," he says and bites his lip as he walks over to her. He prays that he'll be able to touch her, that he'll be able to hug her and be okay. "I-"

She pulls him into her arms and starts sobbing and hugging him tight and emotion overwhelms him too at having his mother's arms around him after so long, after feeling so alone and so empty and so unloved.

"Marco," he hears and sees his father's eyes red and sobbing as well while his father's arms wrap around them all. "Son."

The words makes him cry harder in relief.

EPILOGUE

Marco walks down the hall, careful to stay near the wall so as to avoid people bumping him.

Marco is nervous and terrified.

Marco still has nightmares weekly and he still has therapy every other day. He doesn't think he'll ever want to stop going because he doesn't feel he'll ever be truly healed from everything that's happened.

But he doesn't feel the overwhelming dread and loss every second. He doesn't feel the hollow despair that once consumed him so completely.

"Oh my god, Marco? Marco! Is that you?"

He feels a hand touch his shoulder and he jerks away a little, cursing the reaction he can't seem to shake. He turns to face the person who knows his name and he's shocked to see- "Dylan?"

"I… thought that was you when I got out of my class. I- why didn't you tell me you were out of the hospital?"

"I didn't… wasn't sure if it'd be permanent…" he says shyly.

"What are you doing here?" the tall blond asks.

"Classes. I got my GED, so… I'm starting classes today. I'm a little… freaked out, but-"

"How long have you been out? You haven't mentioned it in any of your letters."

Marco smiles softly inside, grateful that the blond accepted his apologies for making him keep the secret. Since Dylan received the letter, Marco had been writing to him and his other friends, trying to reconnect with the world slowly.

He'd spent a long year in the institution, trying to find a way to be okay with himself, trying to make himself healthy and whole again. He's still trying, but he wants it now.

"A couple months. I've been at home pretty much. But… I'm mainly taking online classes, but I have one that I have to come to campus for."

"Well… everyone here is pretty nice and… I'm around if you need a ride or-"

"Start flipping out? The prozac helps," he laughs quietly.

"Or if you want coffee. I know of a good coffee kiosk."

"I'll… keep it in mind," Marco nods. "I should probably find my class."

"Well I'll walk with you. I've got time to kill," Dylan offers.

"Okay," Marco agrees gratefully, feeling butterflies in his already nervous stomach.

Maybe… maybe he's not hopeless after all.

Marco's grateful he has no secret.