Billy felt like he was in a trap. A stark, suffocating trap. He had a fear of hospitals, one that made him feel like the walls were going to close in on him if he didn’t escape. That someone was going to come and inject some kind of poison into him that he didn’t understand. If there was a way to overthink what could happen to him, you could be sure he’d already thought about it. He lay in a heap, one arm outstretched as it was handcuffed to the bed, his wrist purple from being pulled tightly against it as he lay on the other side of the bed to where the handcuff was clamped. His face was a mess of gashes from cheek to cheek, eyes teary from the stinging pain of each little movement of his face. His ribs throbbed with every little breath and his mind was a fractured storm on the verge of snapping. He was trapped, broken and seething with a restless tension that barely masked the frightened boy underneath. As the door opened, his head lopped to one side, a tear dripping down his cheek and clearing his vision. “Oh, great.” he muttered. “The prodigal daughter. What’s this? You here to play morality police?” He scoffed, but his teary gaze stayed fixed on her, sizing her up as a threat to his safety. “I’m not in the mood for this.” He added, voice low and clipped. The cuffs rattled softly as a faint remor betrayed the pain he was trying to hide. “If you’re here with some kind of lecture, you can save it. I don’t need you acting like you’re better than me. We both know you’re not.” He glanced at the cuffs, then back to her, breath hitching slightly for just a moment. “What do you want? I’ve enough to deal with without you adding to the pile.”
