(Daniel's PoV)

As soon as we got back, Connor headed straight for Holly's room. I trailed him, stammering along the way. "Um...Connor. I don't think you should go in there. She doesn't--you know she doesn't like it when we enter without permission."

"Yeah, it's kind of a death wish," Trevor added, using his long stride to step in front of him.

Connor shoved him aside. "Good." He swung the cabinet doors open and began to ransack through their contents.

"What the hell?" Holly exclaimed. Although normally confrontational, she backed against the wall.

Connor kept throwing bottles to the ground after struggling with the child safety locks. "Where's the lethal combinations you talked about?"

By this point our entire group had migrated to Holly's room or just outside the hallway. Christopher grabbed a few of the medicine bottles off of the ground. "Connor, maybe you should just give yourself a little time to calm down. Before you do anything rash."

Connor squeezed his eyes shut and pounded his fist against the cabinet door, causing the top hinge to break. "I deserve this."

"What's going on?" Holly screamed.

We all went silent. It had just occurred to us that Holly was unaware of everything that happened after we left base. Landon fidgeted with his hands as he spoke up. "Aaron's dead...he got shot."

Holly furrowed her eyebrows, attempting to match names to faces.

"The ginger," Alan confirmed.

After a moment, Holly's eyes widened. You mean the one who was always with him? she mouthed to Landon. He nodded and whispered something to her that caused her to gasp.

"Everyone out of my room." She cleared her throat in an attempt to stop her voice from shaking. "Get out now!"

I began to make out the voices of Clayton and Logan arguing about whose show had a better opener last year from the barracks.

"See," Holly stated. "Someone needs to tell them. So you all do that and I'll..." but she couldn't find the words to finish.

As our half re-entered the barracks, Clayton and Logan approached me with their debate, prompting me to give them a 'not the time' gesture.

Our half kept looking back and forth between Connor and the other group, unable to speak.

"What's going on?" Justin asked, examining our expressions.

I glanced around, hoping to find some sort of reassurance or right words.

Sean pushed his way to the front. "Where's Aaron?" His gaze shifted around the room, slowly growing in confusion. "Why isn't he here?"

"Well you see Sean," I began, although I trailed off as I locked eyes with the biggest, bluest eyes I had ever seen. Full of worry and curiosity. I had to turn away. "Fuck, I don't have the heart."

"The heart for what?" Sean questioned. "What does that have to do with Aaron?"

"Because he died," Alan replied matter-of-factly.

My side of the room exclaimed at Alan for being a blunt dick, while the other half exclaimed in shock.

I knelt down next to Sean to bring him down from the chaos. "I'm so sorry, little guy."

He wouldn't bring his head up. He shifted several times, while trying to hide wiping his eyes.

"And it's all my fault," Connor spoke over the crowd. He paused, waiting for silence. "We were fighting, I kicked him, and he fell over the barricade. And then..." he eyed his gun, which Landon gripped even tighter.

"Here, I'll go make sure Sgt. Blake's getting the full story," Landon offered, looking for any excuse to get out of here.

I never quite understood the idea of deafening silence before this moment. I wanted something to distract me from the present, but no one knew what to say, so my mind became cluttered with my own internal pleas for comfort.

For the next hour, I kept looking over at Connor's bed. The strongest of our platoon, reduced to shaking and silent sobs.

"I feel so bad for him," the words managed to escape my lips in a whisper. Those in the beds around me nodded. "He's never gonna forgive himself," I went on. "He thinks it's all his fault."

"But it is," Matteo responded.

"Not directly," I reasoned in a lower tone, hoping he would get the hint.

"Aaron wouldn't have died if Connor didn't think it was necessary to celebrate National Kick a Ginger Day." Matteo's face flushed red as he spoke.

"Matteo, I know you're worried about your girlfriend, but please don't take it out on Connor," I begged. "He already has enough to deal with. He just lost his best friend."

"If they're friends then why did he kill him?" Matteo questioned, his volume raising in furious crescendo.

He can hear you, I wanted to reply, but upon seeing Connor's pained expression, I realized that was probably the intent.

(Logan's PoV)

I climbed out of bed. There was no use tossing and turning. Once I reached the ground, I tried to sneak into the bathroom. My skin felt hot, so I splashed some sink water in my face. It didn't really help. My face was still overheated and now it was soaked too. I cupped some of the water in my hands and attempted to drink from it, but even that couldn't fix the dryness of my throat. Nothing helped.

"Hey."

I turned to see Clayton with Daniel and Trevor standing. All three of them had the same weary, bloodshot eyes that I did. "Can't sleep too?" he assumed.

I nodded, feeling the pit in my stomach grow larger. I clenched my sides to stop the pain from spreading, but I eventually had to sit down.

Daniel took a knee next to me. "Are you all right?"

My eyes burned so much I couldn't bring myself to look at him. "It's just not fair," I choked out. "Like I didn't even really know him, but he seemed like a decent enough guy."

Daniel pursed his lips before responding. "It just happened so fast."

"No time to reflect or say goodbye," Trevor added. "He probably didn't even see it coming."

I wiped my eyes with my sleeve. "It was stupid of me to be so optimistic, but I honestly didn't think we were gonna lose anybody after Seth."

Not to say that Seth's death wasn't sad, but the whole situation was different. Seth had surrendered his life, Aaron had his taken from him.

"It's just..." Daniel struggled to find the words. "I can't believe he's gone. Gone forever. The only thing he'll become now is a statistic."

Clayton sniffled. "And statistics sucks," he mustered out, unable to convey the light-hearted semi-distraction he intended. Daniel wrapped an arm around him. "This whole situation sucks," Clayton added before covering his eyes. I couldn't help but break down too in the next moment.

After that, none of us said a single word. Only silent tears and an unspoken realization about the severity of our situation.

(Landon's PoV)

I approached Holly's room. She sat at her desk, pushing her hair out of her face.

"Hey," I began, tapping my fingers on the edge of her desk. After a moment of no response, I rambled on through her silence. "I'm really sorry about earlier. None of us are strong enough to stop Connor and it was just a mess and--it that a typewriter?" I examined the individual keys. "I don't think I've ever actually seen one before--just in movies. Why do you have it?"

"Well, a regular computer wouldn't work without wifi," she mumbled.

"Well yeah," I replied. "But what do you need it for?"

"For typing, What do you think?" She shot back. She looked up and for the first time I noticed her face was red and blotchy.

"What's wrong?" I asked, heading to her side. "What are you even working on?" I peered over her shoulder to see. "Dear Mr. and Mrs. Trivett," I read aloud. "We regret to inform you that your son, Aaron Trivett, 17, was killed in action on the 20th of November..." my voice trailed off and I stepped backwards.

Holly turned to me. "See."

"You write the condolence letters," I realized.

She sighed. "Somebody's got to. And Sgt. Blake decided it was me."

Though I could see the room around me clearly, the thoughts in my mind were as blurry as my vision without glasses.

Holly grabbed the letter from my hands and began to read it herself. After several seconds, she threw it aside. "How am I supposed to write something that I know will crush people. I mean what the hell can I say?"

"Holly....I..."

"And for something that could have been so easily prevented." Her breathing grew faster as she stood up. "Why do you think I'm always on your case about not fucking around while fighting? It's because stuff like this happens! It might not happen every day, but reality inevitably catches up to you, and when it does, it's devastating! Think of everyone who's gonna read that letter! Think of Connor--look at Connor! That's damage beyond what any nurse--even one's with competent training--can cure!"

I could barely make my reply audible. "I'm sorry."

She sat back down. "It's not me who needs it." Her voice got softer. "You all need to take this seriously. People get hurt. What if it's you next time?"

"Me?" I questioned.

She stopped, flustered. "Y-yeah. I mean...you're popular, right. Lots of people would miss you or stuff."

Before I could correct her, she ushered me out. "Nevermind. Just leave me alone so I can finish."

I stood still in the hallway, unable to face the barracks again quite yet.

Holly was right. It was because of us that she needed to write that letter. And I had to do everything in my power to prevent her from having to write another one again.

(Emmy's PoV)

The weight of my bag kept pulling against my hand, which was simultaneously wrapped around one of my crutches. The crutches were hindering my ability to support a backpack, and my arms certainly weren't free, so my school supplies were currently being held in a large purse and the responsibility of carrying said purse fell to my hands.

You're pathetic and weak.

The voices in my head didn't make it much easier.

I continued on the neighborhood route from school, my purse hitting against my good leg every step of the way. I wished I was in a car. Actually I more so missed the person who would drive me places.

You deserve to be hit by a car not driven in one.

The thought of Matteo gave today's date a bitter perspective. National Kick a Ginger Day. Not that I actually cared--my broken leg had helped me get off pretty easy this year, but to Matteo anything above nothing is going too far.

Maybe he won't be so angry about it since I'm not there, I tried to tell myself, ignoring the faulty logic.

He's probably relieved he doesn't have to be around you.

"Shut up," I told my brain.

We can't be silenced, we're a part of you.

I set my bag down to let my legs rest for a moment before turning to a new corner. Now these are the type of hard moments of God's plan that require us to have faith and look on the bright side of things, I could practically hear the voice of my annoying youth group leader. (I only go cuz I don't wanna have another thing to fight my parents about. At first I thought it might have been okay since Matteo went too, but of course they can't allow boys and girls to be near each other--what would the Lord think?) I mean sure, it wasn't too cold and I only had a brace thing instead of a cast on my leg, but somehow that didn't seem to cancel out the fact that I was walking home on crutches.

Bothering anyone for a ride home would've been worse--as if I had anyone to ask anyway.

No one likes you. Even your parents think you're worthless.

A white truck pulled up to the stop sign in front of me. I flinched as its engine revved. The passenger side window rolled down, revealing three college-aged boys. The driver smirked. "Normally when I see a chick walking along the side of the road, I gotta shout, 'Nice tits,' at her, but it seems you don't got any."

I held my breath, hoping they would leave by the time I ran out of air, but to no avail.

The one in the passenger seat continued to eye me. "So what are you? Ten? Twelve?"

"Sure," I muttered, my eyes darting from house to house. My pulse quickened as I heard the engine stop. Every house in this neighborhood looked exactly like the ones in mine--comfortably middle class. Two parents who worked and had kids who stayed late for after school activities. Even if they were home, they would likely close their blinds to the scene, allowing themselves another afternoon of ignorant bliss.

No one can help you. Not that they would even want to anyway.

The car door clicked open. Calling out would be useless in both senses; no one would hear me and my phone was all the way at the bottom of my bag. As the group of boys advanced toward me, my tight grip on my crutches reminded me that I couldn't outrun them.

The boy who had been driving wrapped his hand around mine and the bar of my crutch. "You got a boyfriend?"

"Yes," I mumbled. Before I could process anything, I felt my other crutch yanked from me, my only support now coming from the driver's hand.

"Wrong answer."

I felt a sharp pain in my leg. The driver let go of me and I collapsed to the ground. My face got a little scraped from the concrete, but I could really only focus on my legs. It was getting difficult to tell my good one from my bad one.

"I don't see him here, so either you're lying or he can't protect you."

You deserve this. You're a freak who deserves to be in pain.

Pain. So much pain. From every direction. I couldn't make a sound--not even a whimper. My legs throbbed and I could feel the brace coming off.

I don't know how long it lasted. Most likely minutes, but my perception of time was so skewed by my desperation for the whole situation to end.

Once there had been a moment of stillness, the driver knelt down next to my head and whispered. "You know, it's a shame you weren't pretty, or else this could've gone a whole lot differently."

Ugly. Worthless. You deserve to die.

Too frozen with fear, I couldn't even let out a sigh of relief when I heard them drive away. My body ached as I laid on the ground, losing track of time until a familiar blue van passed by.

"Emmy? Is that you?" It was Mrs. Rosalez. Her three youngest sons piled out of the car.

I quickly made up a story. "Oh thank goodness you're here. I tripped and my crutch fell out of my reach."

Mrs. Rosalez helped me up. "How long have you been like this?"

"Probably only like ten minutes," I winced, completely guessing.

"I'll call your parents--"

"No!" I blurted out. After a pause, I mumbled, "they're busy."

She looked at her watch. "Well someone needs to get you to a doctor. I can take you to the boys' pediatrician. Is that all right?"

"Sure," I mustered out. The pain was worsening, even as I grabbed a hold of my crutch again. The little boys sensed I needed help and attempted to support my arms. "Thanks," I told them.

They're only pretending to care because they pity you. Everyone hates you. You're a burden.

With every step, my leg began to throb more and more, but I could walk. "You know, you probably don't need to take me to the doctor, I think I'm fine."

Mrs. Rosalez shook her head. "No way, Emmy. A fall like that could break your leg even more."

I tensed up at the thought.

You deserve to have your leg broken more.

At the doctor's office, a middle-aged man examined me and took x-rays. "So Miss Graves," he began. "Tell me what happened."

"I fell," I lied.

He lowered his glasses.

"I fell hard."

He didn't look entirely convinced, but he shrugged anyway and turned a sheet in his notes. "Well, your good leg has some bruises, but it's overall in a stable condition."

I let out a sigh of relief. Bruises. Nothing that I hadn't dealt with before.

You deserve worse.

"As for your bad leg, the fall seems to have re-broken it out of place," he continued. "We're going to have to break it back into its original position in order for it to heal properly."

That's more like it.

The whole procedure was agonizing, but it was nothing compared to the wrath of my parents when the visit was billed to their insurance.

So much hitting. So much yelling. My head hurt. I cost too much. I deserve this. I should've been left to die on the street.

They wouldn't stop. I couldn't distinguish which voices were external and which ones only existed in my head.

As I retreated up to my room, I found a picture of Matteo. My eyes welled up thinking about how angry he would be about this. Even if he wasn't mad at me, he'd still be mad--too mad to think.

I couldn't tell him.

I began my next note with no specifics of today. Nothing novel, nothing terrible, just dull everyday life--the only sadness coming from missing him. I felt sick to my stomach for lying to him, but it was for his own good.

Good work, you dishonest bitch.