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“Remember,” I tell him and turn away, my eyes burning. “Don’t forget me. I’m still fighting for you.”
I walk across the field, through the jeering of the Blue Team, because apparently what I did was too cheesy and girly and whatever, and someone says “Slut” and I glance over my shoulder only to see Jason grabbing someone and shoving them to the ground.
In a moment, Ophelia will yank him back and erase this moment. He’ll find a piece of paper with a heart and my name in his hand. Will that be enough?
It has to.
God, why is this so hard?
The librarian doesn’t look impressed when I ask her for a book on ADHD. Then again, nothing really ever impresses her.
Her directions send me down a different part of the library—the non-magical topics area, I assume—and that’s how I find myself seated at a long table with other students, a book in front of me and Jason’s note beside it.
That was what had been nagging at me. He tried to write to me. I still can’t make out what he wrote. But Attention Deficient Hyperactive Disorder has bad handwriting listed as a common symptom.
As well as other familiar symptoms. Short attention span, constantly changing activity or task, constantly fidgeting, unable to sit still or concentrate on tasks, some learning difficulties.
I see him in my mind’s eye fidgeting in class, getting up to go before the hour is over, admitting to problems with language classes in particular.
A genetic thing, apparently. But wait, it can also be triggered and augmented by childhood trauma. Trauma and traumatic stress.
I frown as I read on. Traumatic stress is the result of prolonged activation of the body’s stress management system. There is a relation between ADHD and post-traumatic stress disorder which is caused by adverse childhood experiences—neglect, dysfunction, abuse—and maladaptive behavioral responses—mental health disorders, substance abuse, purposeful injuries.
Holy crap. I push the book away, feeling cold. I remember Jason’s words at Ashton. “Your family kidnapped me, kept me a prisoner for years.” And then, “I was a child. I was six when I was taken. Twelve when I escaped.”
What exactly happened to him in the vampire court? How badly was he hurt? The scars on his back won’t leave my mind.
If someone can come back from something like that so strong and kind, always fighting, never giving up, then how can I stop? How can I ever give up on him?
Short answer: I can’t. No way.
I look again at his note, and in the jumble of lines and curves that seem more like a tangled skein of wool, I think I make out my name and beside it the word ‘mine’.
