She has to be careful now.

She always had to, it was stupid to relax even for a moment, a day, a week. But now, now she's reminded. Starkly, painfully. She has to be careful.

Mistakes are costly. Cost seconds, relationships, lives. No mistakes twice, she had lived and breathed it for years - years of mistakes disguised as righteousness. But of course, of course, she's stupid. Let herself fall again for soft words and sweet promises. For an instant, a toxic instant, Evan looked young and in love and full of shining potential again.

She has never wanted to hurt herself like this before.

(That's a lie, she's a filthy liar, she has the scars to prove it but she still plays pretend like she's invulnerable, like her shoulders don't ache from the beams of her own burning house crashing down.)

She's never felt like this while she was in control. And she is very, very good at keeping control. One tablet, once a day, keeps her sane. It's all she has now, this say over her own life. When it isn't bitterly ironic and threatening to eat her alive, he revels in freedom of thought and unbound limbs. Mum- she couldn't trust Ange. She lied to you, remember? She lied.

Now, though, now she imagines she can feel blisters bursting across her palms, inflicted by the curling iron in her hand. Maybe it would make her feel better. Pain, at least, makes sense.

But no. People would see it, and she can't have that. She pulls her shirt up temptingly. Her skin is so white and pale, and the voice in her head is only getting louder. And suddenly, before she knows it, her skin is searing with a white hot pain and in such a twisted way she loves it. It takes her whole body to wrench the curler off her stomach, and she sits there panting. All of a sudden, she's numb again.

The door creaks open and Evan comes around the corner. She's sitting on the edge of the bed, head reeling, hand pressed over her new wound.

"What the hell are you doing?" His voice is low. She knows what this means.

"Chloe? Lift up your hand. What did you do?" His voice is calm, so calm, too calm. She takes her hand away and breaks eye contact, concentrating on the way the closet door flutters open and closed in the breeze.

"Why would you do that? Jesus Christ, Chloe, you're not a kid anymore. Grow the fuck up." He walks over to her, one hand on her shoulder and the other on her hair. He pulls, she winces, he punches and all of a sudden she's gasping again. He's winded her, and she collapses backwards onto the bed, pulling her knees to her chest and rolling onto her side.

"Think twice, next time." And he leaves.

There will be a next time.

—-

"What happened to your stomach?" Dom asks, seeing her out of the corner of the mirror in his locker.

"Nothing." She pulls her scrub top down quickly, tying her hair into a ponytail and pushing her feet into her work shoes. As she opens the door to leave the locker room, Dom steps forward to catch her arm.

"Chloe, are-are you okay?" Gently, he turns her around to face himself, looking at her with concern.

He knows. They all know. You can't even lie properly, stupid girl. Stupid girl.

"Why do you care?" She avoids eye contact, staring instead at the posters on the wall behind him.

"Chloe," He says, quirking his head to the side. "I'm your big brother. Of course I care." His thumb rubs circles on her arm.

For a moment, a few fleeting seconds, he thinks she's going to tell him. She thinks she might tell him, too, until she's brought back down to earth with a sharp knock at the door.

"Chloe, you ready to go?" It's Evan, and he looks pissed. She wants nothing more than to stay with Dom, sweet soft caring Dom, but God knows what he'll do to her. So she returns Evan's tight lipped smile, casting her eyes to the floor, and on her way out, Dom catches her last words.

"I'm fine."

—

Dom has to stand outside his Mum's office door for several minutes until he gathers the courage to knock.

"Can I have a word?" Opening the door, he sees Ange hunched over paperwork at her desk.

"Sure. What's up?" She looks up, resting her chin on top of her hands.

"Have you noticed anything off about chloe lately?" He walks into the room, sitting on her sofa and crossing his legs as she swivels in her chair to face him.

"In what way?" Her eyebrows furrow.

"Has she seemed distant, or not herself?" He is twisting his hands around each other, rubbing his fingernails with his fingers.

"Yeah, but I'm not surprised. Why? Is everything okay? Ange has a growing look of concern spreading over her face.

"I honestly don't know."

Ange stands up and walks to the other side of the desk, leaning against it and folding her arms.

"Talk to me." She surveys him with a quirked head.

"I think, maybe something's going on with her and Evan." He finally looks up at her, making eye contact.

"When is something not going on with her and Evan?" Ange smiles and shrugs her shoulders.

"No, seriously. We were getting changed this morning and as she was pulling her top down, I saw her stomach. She had a burn dressing over part of it, and then her ribcage was bruised, too. It looked dark."

"What?" Ange's laughter is suddenly replaced with a frightened expression.

"And then a few days ago, she had bruises on her arms as well. Handprints, almost. As if someone had been holding her down."

"You think Evan is throwing her around?"

"I don't know what to think." He shrugs, focusing his eyes on her potted plant.

"Thanks, Dom. I'll try and have a word. She still won't speak to me though, not properly." Ange rubs her eyes tiredly.

"I'm sorry." Dom sighs. Everything is such a mess.

Ange just shakes her head.