Broken

In my dreams I am whole. I am running again, and that is how I know for sure that it is a dream; because never in life could I run like this, free and uninhibited. But, for a moment, I delude myself, let myself believe that I'm awake. Because it feels real. It smells real. It sounds real. It tastes real.

I am in the reception centre. The cloths that once covered the tables are now hanging from the ceiling in ragged strips all around me, dangling to brush my face and arms, the fabric rough against my skin. Some of the pieces of cloth have keys stuck in them, halfway down the tear, as if they were in the middle of being ripped apart.

I am alone, but I can see phantom bodies through the tangle of sheets. A flash of red silk. A glimmer of black. But when I chase after them, they are gone. I am chasing shadows.

The smell of perfume in the air is so strong that I can taste it: heady and floral to my nose, but cloying and thick to my tongue. A slow waltz plays, but the music is coming from everywhere and the white tablecloths are universal and the room is never-ending.

I am sobbing as I run and then I trip over a hand splayed out from amidst the sheets and I am falling and my leg snaps and I crawl, like a wounded gazelle, because if I stop moving it will get me it will catch me I will be gone. And I don't want to die. Not yet.

In this dream, I am broken.

First comes hearing. The slow, soothing sound of a machine reading my heart rate. Then the soft sheets of the bed against my skin, the mattress beneath me. The slightly heavier feel of my leg, wrapped in special lightweight plaster. But then, I knew that would be there. It does not surprise me.

Then I hear the breathing, and the soft tap of fingers on the metal bar on the side of the bed. I open my eyes. Math boy sits there, in a chair beside my bed, his head bowed over his tapping fingers, chocolate hair shaggy and unkempt. He still wears his suit from the formal, although he has taken off his jacket and rolled up the sleeve of his shirt, and his tie has gone missing. There is a slight spattering of red on his sleeve and along his chest. Slowly, I reach out and touch it, and he freezes.

"How-" My voice is rusty, but I try again. "How did that happen?"

He looks up at me, and a slow, sheepish smile crawls across his face. "Ahhhh... Greaves deserved it," he says leaning in conspiratorially. "But don't say anything too loud. Wouldn't want him to remember who beat him up. Especially since he won't be drunk anymore."

I smile a little, let my hand drop back to the bed. There is an ache inside of me, bone deep.

"Do you remember me, then?" he asks.

"Your face," I say. "The class I took with you. Where you sat. That you used a 2B pencil for math. But not your name." He laughs, and it makes me wish that smiling didn't hurt so that I could do it more often.

"I'm Lance," he says, extending a hand to shake and then thinking better of it.

"Lance Kefton," I complete, and he grins.

"You have a good memory."

"I have to have something about me that's good," I joke. And then I look around, as much as I can from my vantage point. "Where're Marcus and Olivia? And my parents?"

Lance shifts in his chair, then stands and stretches like a cat. "They all slept here the whole night, and the nurse told them to go home, have a shower." I think of my family sleeping in the small army of chairs I now see stacked in the corner, and the ghost of a smile graces my lips.

"If you don't mind me asking, why are you here?" I ask, as he cracks his knuckles.

"I'm visiting my sister," he says, and his smile turns fond and soft. "They refused to go unless someone was watching you, someone who wasn't a nurse. They said you wouldn't want to wake up to that."

I smile a little at that, but then sober. "Sorry to take you from your sister, then."

"It's fine," he says dismissively, and then a smile grows on his lips. "Though... Can I ask for a favour? And you can feel free to say no, I mean... it's pretty stupid."

I remember pain and a scream tearing from my throat and him dragging Greaves away and the blood on his shirt. I force a smile. "Anything."

He wraps his fingers around the back of his neck. "Can my sister meet you? She's always wanted to meet a... a fairy. And you're the closest thing I've ever seen to one. I know it's stupid but-"

I smile, and this time it isn't forced. I ignore the pain. "Sure. Of course." It isn't in me to break a little girl's dream.

He leans over and presses a kiss to my forehead. "Thank you so, so much. You don't know what this means to her."

He darts out the door, leaving me surprised and bewildered. He said 'visiting' which means she's sick. I only hope I can indulge a sick little girl. I may look too broken to be a fairy.

When Lance comes back, I hear him before I see him. There is a squeaking of wheels, and soft laughter, and his voice is warm and tender. And then they are in the doorway and I keep my smile on for her. Talk to her as she chatters about how pretty I am and touches my hair with the softest of touches, because Lance said to be careful not to break me.

Lance's sister has leukaemia. I can tell because I read her chart, up on the metal frame that she takes with her. I can also tell that she isn't going to get better, and it makes my throat close up and my eyes sting, because surely she deserves to live, this bright, alive creature.

She wears a hot pink bandana on her head, and is only about six or seven years old. She is thin, almost as thin as me, and fragile-looking. But she has wide brown eyes like a deer's and a sweet smile and a laugh like silver.

I spend an hour with her, and then a nurse comes to take her back to her room. Lance kisses her on the cheek and promises to visit later, and then he drops into the chair beside me again, but now he looks worn.

"Thanks," he says.

"It was nothing," I respond.

Lance puts his elbows on his knees and rests his head in his hands, covering his face. His voice is muffled, when he speaks. "No, really. Thank you. So much." And then he starts to cry, softly, his shoulders shaking. I look at him for a moment in surprise, but then I reach through the metal bars on the bed, painstakingly slow, and put my hand on his wrist. He slips his fingers through mine, careful, gentle, and I watch him cry until he stops.

He wipes his face on his sleeve and lets go of my hand, looking up at me. "She hasn't got long," he says, and he swallows a sob, breathes deeply. "And that was amazing, really. You made her day."

I smile a tired smile. "You can go to her," I suggest. "I'll be fine." He looks like he's about to protest, so I look at him sternly. "I am going to rest. Now go see your sister."

Slowly, he gets up from the seat. And with another, "Thank you," he is gone. I sigh and settle back against the mattress, and think of a little girl named Tatiana, who loves fairies and thinks she just saw one. And I am glad that I could fulfil her dream. That I could do anything to help her. It makes me feel less useless. As if I'm worth something.

"Syl, darling girl." A hand softly brushes my hair from my face, and I open my eyes. Mum looks down at me, a tight smile on her lips, relief clear on her face. Dad stands beside her, his hands gripping the rail on the bed so tightly that his knuckles are white. He looks at me, but the only things in his eyes are love and anger, warring against each other.

"Hey," I say softly. Mum looks like she's about to cry.

"Syl, who did this to you?" dad asks bluntly, and there is so much anger in his voice that I am a little frightened.

Mum's hands clutch at his arm. "Not now, love. She's tired and-"

"I need to know who hurt her," he says, cutting her off.

I look between them both and then shake my head slightly, my eyes settling on dad. "I'm not entirely sure that you won't kill him."

"Neither am I."

I swallow. "Regardless, he already got punished. And even if he hurt me, that doesn't mean that he should be hurt in return." I see him being kicked, again and again, and I can't help but feel a sick sort of satisfaction. "Hurting him won't fix anything," I say, and I am so sure of it that dad slumps slightly.

He walks out of the room without another word, and mum watches him go, looking worried. Then she looks back at me, and her smile is trembling.

"I'm so sorry we made you go to this, sweetheart. You'll never have to go out again, I promise." She rests her fingers on my shoulder before taking them away, scared I'll break.

I frown. I don't like the sound of that. "You didn't make me go, I wanted to go. This isn't your fault, mum, so don't blame yourself for it." She opens her mouth, but I shush her. "Also, I am not going to stay inside the house for the rest of my life. I want to write a list."

She looks at me for a moment, confused. "Right now?"

I smile a little. "Maybe later."

Her eyes grow cautious. "And what is going on this list?"

"It's my bucket list, mum. Everything I want to do before I die."

"You're not going to die, Sylva-" I laugh bitterly, quietly, cutting her off.

"We both know that's not true." I smile to gentle the words. "I've made my peace with that, and so should you. But before I go, I want to do everything on this list."

She looks at me for a moment, and then smoothes down my hair and kisses my forehead. "Whatever you want, sweetheart," she says. And then she covers her mouth and leaves the room, and I know she's crying and that I did this to her, but there isn't anything I can do to stop it. I'm through with lying. I'm through with hiding.

The next person to walk through the door is Olivia, with Tom by her side. I am strangely happy to see him there, and he grins as he sits in the chair beside the bed, while Olivia perches on the arm.

"Hey, Olive," I say. "Tom."

"I'm so sorry, Syl," Olivia says. She looks pale and frightened. She didn't even put on makeup. This worries me more than a lot of things, because she's been wearing makeup every day since we were fourteen. She says it makes her feel strong. Today she looks broken.

"If you blame yourself, I will have to get my frail bones out of this bed and slap you," I warn.

She looks down at her hands in her lap. "I think we all think it's our fault," Tom says, pulling her gently into his lap. "What if everyone had stayed with her? What if I'd been quicker or stronger or smarter? What if we just told the venue that Greaves snuck in alcohol when we saw him with it?" Tom shakes his head and links his fingers against her stomach. "What's done is done. Don't blame yourself for something you couldn't help."

"I couldn't have said it better myself," I say, and Tom smiles at me. Olivia is still staring at her hands. "Olive?" I ask, gently. "You're not wearing makeup. Is the world ending?"

She snorts out a laugh. "That's what I said." Tom looks amused.

"It wasn't exactly the most important thing at the time," she says sheepishly.

"Well, you're freaking me out. Go. Fix yourself." Not that she needs fixing: she's beautiful. But she needs her strength, and if it's makeup, she can have it.

She looks at her outfit appraisingly before smiling up at me unsurely. "Blue or green?" she asks, standing.

"Blue," I say, and she snorts, taking Tom's hand and pulling him with her.

"Syl, you would make a horrible makeup artist." I laugh as she leaves. And then Marc is in the doorway.

My words catch in my throat. His jaw is black and purple with bruising, and there is a cut along his cheekbone. His eyes are dark, furious, but when they see me they are soft.

"Hey," he says, sitting in the chair beside me.

I don't know what to say to him first. "Help me sit up," I ask, instead. He reaches down and grabs the small remote, holds the button til I am sitting up comfortably. He drops the remote with a clatter.

"What happened to you?" I ask, reaching out to touch his cheek. He catches my hand and lowers it to the bed, winding his fingers through mine; his knuckles are just as bruised as his jaw. I run my thumb over them softly, sadly, and wait for him to answer.

"Greaves wasn't as drunk today as he was yesterday." He coughs.

I study his face closely. "What does he look like?"

Now he grins, and it is a little wild and more than a little satisfied on his face. "Worse than me," he says. I roll my eyes but let him revel in the memory.

Then he looks at me. "Syl, I'm so sorry."

"Marcus, I had this discussion with Olive, and I'm not having it again." I reach out with my free hand and press it to his cheek, turning his face so that he meets my eyes with his own. My arm hurts, but I hold it up. "This is not your fault."

He searches my eyes for a moment, and then I lower my arm to my side, and he sighs. "In other news, I am writing a bucket list."

Now he looks at me, curious. "What's on it?"

"Oh, well so far it's imaginary, but I'm working on it."

"Let me know when it's done."

I nod. We are quiet for a while, listening to hospital noises. Olivia and Tom come back. Olivia looks herself, and Tom looks slightly fabulous, a sweep of glitter strewn across his face. When I mention it, he frowns at Olivia, who giggles.

"She thought it would be hilarious," he explains drily.

"Sparkly is always better," I say, and Olivia laughs and wraps her arms around his neck.

"I think I'd like you in drag," she says, kissing him on the lips.

I smile a little. "We dressed Marc in drag once."

"Hey!" Marcus looks at me, betrayed.

Olivia laughs and lets go of Tom, continuing the memory. "I remember that. We put him in a dress and did his makeup and he sat there looking like a kicked puppy."

Tom raises an eyebrow at Marc, who looks slightly embarrassed. "Really?" he asks.

Marc grins widely, his bruised jaw and the scrape on his face making him look wild and frightening. "Think I'd look good in a dress now?" he asks.

Tom shakes his head and laughs slightly. "No, but some makeup couldn't go astray."

Marc chuckles softly. The sound makes me smile. I listen to the cadence of their voices and let them lull me to sleep. When I dream, I am whole again.