I Found You, Something Told Me To Stay - (Jason/Zacky) Version Two.

Chapter Forty-Seven.

Hiii, guys! I'm really sorry this chapter took so long. My writing became a little stiff afterwards and it's kind of an important chapter, I guess, so I didn't want to force it. I'm sorry it's another really long chapter as well - I had to include a lot of detail. The next one will be shorter. Also, sorry for any mistakes. I hate proofreading, especially super long chapters. And I also really don't like Wattpad's new writing tool.

Anywaaaay, please vote, comment and let me know what you think!

Enjoy!<3

**

I dreamt vividly that I argued with my mother.

It wasn't a sight I'd missed - the creases in her skin as her face contorted with fury and she screamed at me. She clenched and unclenched her fists, as she always had done, and paced the floor, brushed her hair back in frustration and tugged at the strands. Even the smell of the alcohol felt present.

I wasn't sure at which point I realised I was dreaming, but it didn't grant me any safety, anyway. I couldn't open my eyes, and I therefore remained stuck in the doorway of my living room back in England, meeting the gaze of my drunken mother as she smoked the cigarette in her hand and repeated many vicious sentences I'd heard before. The realistic memory was what paralysed me with fear; this wasn't just some horrifying picture my mind had created whilst I'd been sleeping. It was a memory - one of many alike, and one that had occurred too many times to remove it from my mind.

There had been many times throughout my life at which I'd decided I hated my mother. I would always scold myself, afterwards, for thinking that. Despite the unthinkable things she did, she was my mother, right? She'd brought me into this world. But my fight for her defence stopped there; she'd done nothing more to gain my respect than give birth to me. It was a sad thing, almost, that my fear of her wasn't that I found her threatening - sad, because my fear of her derived from my fear of being entirely on my own. I was sure I hated her more than anybody, sure I could justify every inch of anger I held towards her. But she was the only thing I'd had, and I'd spent seventeen years fearing the day that I lost the last thing I had. Even wearing a tough exterior for so long wasn't enough to convince me; life experience had aged me beyond my years, sure, but I was still Midge, and I was still tiny, and I was still clueless as to how I would ever cope in a situation where I was completely on my own.

The dream was the first one I'd had of her since I'd been living in Huntington Beach - that I was aware of, anyway. It felt more like I was simply replaying an incident that had occurred enough times to remember it second by second. I suppose, in a way, it was. She would shout, and I would shout louder, ask her why alcohol was more important to her than I was, ask her why I'd never been enough. It was nothing new to me, as frightening as it was; I'd experienced it enough times in real life and in numerous dreams. And it always ended the same - a vodka bottle being launched at the wall, glass and liquid showering over me.

I sat up abruptly.

Only two things could comfort me from a dream of that nature; daylight, or a person to spill the details to. I quickly realised I had neither of those things.

The majority of the room was still hidden in pitch black, though the side of the huge bed on which I was curled up was basked in a bright light - a full moon shone through the uncovered window, and I became quickly sure that it had been the cause of my awakening.