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There are moments in everyone's life where the narrator of your own story has to take a step back and look at the finished work and evaluate if it's actually worth telling

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There are moments in everyone's life where the narrator of your own story has to take a step back and look at the finished work and evaluate if it's actually worth telling. 

My 'finished work' wasn't so finished yet. 

I opened my eyes. 

The atmosphere was serene and so, so clean. 

Everything was white. 

"Cami?  Are you awake, sweetie?"

My social worker's voice cut through the calming fog, however. 

I jolted at the sound of her voice, angry that she was still allowed to be anywhere near me after hearing my father tell me over the phone that they were basically in league together to take my inheritance money.

Her honey blonde hair assaulted my eyes and the sickly sweet smell of her perfume attacked my nostrils. 

Joanie Grant—the worst social worker in the entire state of California, and she was mine.  How lucky must I have been?

"I—I can't—"

I couldn't talk. 

I'd sustained the same injuries Grey had during his attempt, it seemed.  I could still make certain sounds, though, so maybe they weren't necessarily as bad as his. 

The thought of Grey there, dangling from his belt strap hung on the doorway of his closet...

I couldn't motion for the trashcan before I was hurling my guts up onto the floor beside us. 

"Can I get some help in here, please!"

A nurse in sky blue scrubs came rushing into the room with a small puke bag, almost like she'd been expecting this to happen. 

My social worker came up behind me and rubbed her hand down my back as I continued hurling into the small plastic bag. 

I hated her touch.  I wanted Grey's instead. 

Grey...

"Is—is he ok-okay?"

"Who?"

"Grey."

My throat was angry with me.  It was scratchy and irritated and ready to give out on me at any moment, but still I pushed the words out. 

"Grey Hartingrove?  He's in another hospital, your foster mom called me after he had some complications, but it looks like he's doing better.  She wanted me to be here for you since she couldn't be."

I admired Maria for doing the next best thing, but wished she hadn't sent anyone at all.

A boy with dark blonde hair poked his head in the door. 

Alec.

His appearance was rough, hard edged, bedraggled.  Almost like he'd been waiting a very long time for me at this hospital. 

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