Chapter 5.5

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Jess shivered. Cold. So cold. Warmth covered him and he realized it was Cacee's hoodie. He tried to tell her he didn't need it, but no sound left his mouth. There was something he didn't want to think about, something he didn't want to face, even in his half-alert state.

When the darkness came to drag him back under, he followed it willingly.

Jess looked around at the door-lined hallway and tile floors, unsure where he was. He started walking, knowing it would come to him. As he walked, he trailed his fingers along white-washed brick wall. Damn. His hand looked tiny. How old was he? Almost seventeen? No. That wasn't right. Fourteen? No—Eleven. He was eleven.

It didn't strike him as odd that he hadn't known this.

As he looked around, his memory returned. He'd come here to see his mother. It sucked that their first visit in six months would take place in such a shit hole. He put his hand over his mouth, trying to block the stench of ammonia and urine, and jumped when a nearby patient almost walked right into him. The man muttered, "Bugs in my ears. Bugs. Get 'em out." He slapped the sides of his head in a steady rhythm that had to hurt. Across from Jess, an old woman in a wheelchair sat in a stupor, her mouth slack, her eyes dull. A thin line of spit swayed from her chin. Jess walked faster.

Shit. He should not have gone looking for his mother. He should've stayed in the nice, friendly waiting room. But they'd paged Lila Renazari twice and she hadn't come. He'd gotten impatient and decided to find her himself. However, he'd obviously come to the wrong floor. No way his mom lived in this ward. This was the ward for the real psychos.

He turned down another hallway, moving with the swagger he'd picked up after establishing himself as the toughest kid in his latest school. The deliberately cocky walk told people to back off as did the belligerent expression that rarely left his face.

He considered how pissed his new caseworker would be when she came back from the bathroom and found him gone. His mouth crooked in a smile that was too cynical for his young face. Fuck it. At least she'd have something to bitch about on the way back to the group home, instead of nagging him to "discuss his feelings." He scoffed. Why the hell would he tell some stranger how he felt?

Besides, he could damn near hear what his caseworker would say. She'd assure him that his embarrassment of his mother was natural. She'd tell him it did not make him a crappy excuse for a son when anyone with half a brain knew that was a lie.

Adults were always more worried about damaging his fragile self-esteem than telling him the goddamn truth. He snorted and shook his head. When his mom got better, none of this would matter. And that would be soon. He had a good feeling about it. He'd be going home and he'd take care of her like he used to. He'd make up for getting them caught and they'd both be fine.

A nearby wail jolted him from his thoughts. He cursed and turned down another endless corridor, almost jogging now. As he searched for an exit from the ward, his hand clutched his necklace and his mind wandered back to the day his mother had given it to him.

It might've been yesterday instead of two years ago. He remembered the exact scent of the flowery perfume his mother had been wearing, and how cold her hands had been when she held his and the way her bottom lip had trembled as she tried not to cry. He remembered how she'd taken off the necklace he'd never seen her without and clasped it around his neck.

She'd told him once that the silver medallion she always wore was her only souvenir of a past she couldn't remember. She said it made her happy to wear it. Like, somewhere, someone loved her. He hadn't wanted her to give it to him, but she'd insisted. She'd told him as long as he wore her necklace he would remember how much she loved him. He'd sworn to never take it off.

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