ten

                                    

                                          
Turns out, throwing the first punch is never a good idea.  I have a week of suspension for that, those monsters twisting everything they've done to me and making themselves the victims.  The depression hits hard after that, because it's simply not fair.
                          
"Don't worry," my mom says, voice soft and controlled.
                          
If anything, he's become better at hiding his own pain.  However, that only seems to hurt me more, because he loves me and he's trying.  But I feel so broken.
                          
"It's unfair, my sweetheart, but we'll figure it out."
                          
I nod, trying to show some optimism, but it's like I'm not really there.
                          
I stare at the screen of my computer, blank Word document pulled up.
                          
Aside from being suspended, I have to write an apology letter.
                          
For throwing the first punch.
                          
For defending myself and my mother.  For fighting to try to stop the inevitable.
                          
To me, at this point, they always seem to win.  They truly have the upper hand.
                          
And I hate it.
                          
A soft knock interrupts my bitter thoughts, Ian is standing at the door with determination written on his face.
                          
"What's wrong?" My mom asks.
                          
I look away from him, glancing at the wall ahead of me just to distract my racing my mind.
                          
I barely catch snippets of what Ian says.  Subconsciously I listen to his voice but my mind refuses to comprehend what he's saying, until something snaps.
                          
"We're suing, there's evidence that Morgan had already reported those little brats as bullies, there's even a log on the number of times he had to visit the school nurse.  Add that to his hospitalization and the report Max did with the police, there's more than enough evidence to sue the school for negligence on their behalf for doing a shit job.  They had no right suspending Morgan for defending himself either, which is what that was.  Any potential 'charges' against Morgan will be written off as self-defense considering the hell he had to go through.  All of this is also enough to petition the school board to expel those bastards," Ian explains. 
                          
Those words should make me feel relieved, they should make me feel something.  But I feel empty.
                          
"No one is going to force you to write a stupid apology letter," Ian adds more softly.
                          
It's only then I glance at him and give a small nod, exiting out of Word.
                          
My mom seems to breathe easier at the news.  He presses a kiss to my head and wipes away a tear I hadn't realized had escaped.
                          
"Thank you, Ian.  Now go wash up, my precious boy, I'll go make your favorite for dinner."
                          
"Okay," I whisper, still finding it hard to find my voice.
                          
When it's just Ian and me, I reach to close my laptop and begin unstrapping my prosthetic.  Ian takes a seat at the foot of my bed, without a word helping me slip it off.
                          
"Bath or shower?" He asks.
                          
I shrug, but that's not the answer he's waiting for.
                          
"Talk to me, Morgan," he begs.
                          
"There's nothing to talk about," I say, voice a bit raspy.
                          
He immediately calls me out on my bullshit.
                          
"I just don't want to talk about that, anymore."
                          
It's more than enough with my nightmares, reliving it almost every night.  It's torture and cruel.  And talking about it won't make it go away.
                          
"Then what do you want to talk about?" He tries again.
                          
I look up, into his eyes.
                          
I hate what I see.
                          
I know I shouldn't, but I ask anyway, "why did you leave?"
                          
With those four words, he closes off, "I don't want to talk about that either, not right now."
                          
Regardless of how I feel, I nod.
                          
At this point, I don't even care anymore.