𝐩𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬 ━ transformers

𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐲

Weeks fly by in a haze. School gets more strenuous and physical therapy keeps me busy when academics do not. Ratchet comes over on more than one occasion to check my progress, tells me I'm doing swimmingly once, and I go to regular therapy every Thursday (even if I don't talk during it). Ron, Will, and Dad still come and go to the base as needed and Mom is shining in her work. Alfonzo is still as exuberant as ever.

It's a pretty steady routine that I've thrown myself into.

I'd say everything was okay, honestly, but Dad and Will give me these looks (and perhaps Ron does, too, but I tend to avoid his gazes these days for personal reasons) and I don't know what to make of them. I believe I am doing good; I'm passing school (both grades!) with flying colors and I'm doing good in physical therapy--there's nothing to complain about.

That doesn't stop Grandma Lynn from asking me what the hell is wrong when we visit her in Florida for Thanksgiving. We're sitting in her too giant kitchen, Uncle Jeffrey's kids bustling around at our feet and screaming at the top of their lungs, and I'm helping her peel potatoes and she stops what she's doing, wipes her hands off and gives me a look, emerald eyes shining.

I frown. "Yes, Nana?"

"Hon, I didn't change your diapers for the first years of your life or hold you when your pet fish died to stand here and watch you wallow in your own self-misery," Nana says with a frown. Her ginger hair, a trait that my dad did not pick up, is graying.

I fiddle with my necklace and then shrug. "I'm fine, Nana. Really." I send her a look when she doesn't seem to buy it.

"You're not fine, Jane." I don't comment on the name; Nana always wanted me to be called by her middle name, but Mom denied her so Nana uses this as a revenge tactic against her. It'd be pretty smart if I didn't like the name so much. "Anyone with eyes can see how much you're suffering. What is it?"

I shrug again. I don't know what to tell her. I suppose I could tell her that a few weeks ago I confided in the only person who I thought I had only for them to brush me off and claim them to be nightmares--to recite what happened to me like he didn't remember anything but telling me it was a nightmare and not that he was sorry or that he believed me. I could tell her that the next time I had therapy, Dr. Henderson told me that, "Perhaps you truly are imagining these things, Eleanor. Graphic nightmares such as these can occur after a very traumatic experience. It is very probable that this is a figment of your imagina--Eleanor wait!" I could tell her that I stopped going to therapy after that. (And that Mom was not happy about that.)

I could tell her that my smiles feel like they're waning every time I try to supply Mom or Dad with one. I could tell her that being around Ron every single day is tugging at my heartstrings until I feel like I can't breathe, until I have to get out of the same room just to feel a little sane again. I could tell her how much it fucking sucked for them to dismiss my case, to basically tell me that I was a nutcase for thinking that what I dreamed was an actually memory. I could tell her that it gnawed at me, ate away at my heart and my brain and made it hard to see straight and even harder to concentrate. (I could tell her that I hate that this is the first Thanksgiving we're spending without my brother and no one is acting any different.)

I could tell her all this--but I remain silent as I stare at her, face impassive and shoulders slumped. Nana stares back with determination. I see where my dad gets his drive from.

"Nothing is wrong, Nana," I inform her with a smile. Jethro zooms through the kitchen, screaming, gapped teeth showing as he dodges his mother, Skylar, in an attempt to reach for the carrots on the counter. Aunt Skylar grabs him up before he can do much damage and she sends us an apologetic smile before leading him towards the family room, scolding him all the while. I can see his bottom lip wobbling from my position.