Juliana's POV

I'm locked in the car. Whoops. Apparently doors lock. What can you do about it?

"Juliana open this door right now!" My dad yells through the door, his voice muffled. I ignore him, staring ahead at the front of the children's hospital. I'm not going in there. I told him I wasn't. My mom stood off to the side, speaking incessantly on her phone, looking stressed.

She looks really pretty. If you ignore the extra grey hairs I've given her since she's been back. She was beginning to get her complexion back, however her Russian blood was not helping. Her yellow sundress was blowing slightly in the wind. She was clutching her cardigan, which I now knew she used to cover the bruises and scars on her arms.

Her hair was down around her face, too short to do much with it. I'd learnt from Justin that when she first got back, her hair was so matted that she had asked Aunt Stephanie to just shave her head.

I flinch when a loud bang comes from the roof of the car before I see my dad stomping off to where my mom stood on the sidewalk. He looked mad, as he should be. Even I could attest that I was being a little shit right now.

I had asked Dad for the keys when they were checking me in, having conveniently left my phone in the car. That was a mistake on his part, because now I was locked inside the air conditioned car while they stood in the hot sun, trying to figure out how to get me out of the car.

As of right now, they have tried bribery, threats of grounding, reasoning, threats of grounding, ice cream, threats of grounding (Are you seeing a pattern here?) but nothing is getting me inside of that building.

Those little shits called Aunt Teresa. Now, I'm not saying I'm scared of her, but she's a little scary. To some people I mean, not to me. No. Definitely not.

On another note, this lobby is oddly colourful.

"Juliana Bianchi?" I continue watching the episode of Paw Patrol they have playing on the big screen. Juliana Bianchi? Never heard of her.

Oh... Okay, so we're doing it this way then. My dad has a tight grip on my uninjured arm and is pulling me towards the two barn sized doors the nurse is standing between. Someone's moody today.

"I take it you're Juliana?" The nurse asks, looking at me with a sympathetic smile.

"Yes, she-"

"-No, my name is Fernando Hernández-Guerrero-Fernandez-Guerrero." I say with a straight face, giving my best spanish accent.

Yeah the nurse didn't think it was funny... But I did!

She walks us down a long hallway with lots of doors, followed by another hallway with a lot of doors, followed by- yeah. When we get to a room, it's your standard torture room, I mean doctors examination room. A bed with a single strip of white, annoyingly loud and useless, wrapping paper. Or maybe it's parchment paper. Am I a cookie waiting to cool off or something?

Does anybody actually wait for cookies to cool off before they eat them? If they do, then I fear for their childhood. Cookies that are still so hot you'll lose a fingerprint and a tastebud trying to eat it are the best, and only, way to eat a homemade cookie.

"That nurse was a bitch." I say once she's left the room, shifting on the parchment paper, making it crinkle and shift a whole two inches to the left. Whoops.

"Juliana! Don't say things like that." My mother exclaims, looking mortified that I would dare speak with such language. One thing I've learnt about my mother, she's having a hard time accepting that her little 5 year old babies are now almost 15 year old bratty teenagers.

But I'm not lying, that nurse was extremely judgmental. First she didn't like my joke, but then, when she was getting my height and weight, she looked me up and down and then back to the scale with a cringe in her nose. Rude, much?

Tapping my fingers against my leg, I kick my booted leg against the metal 'bed', which really should have been called a table, those liars. Why do doctors make you sit and wait forever? I mean really, I know they're probably busy, but why tell someone to be there if you're not going to be free to see them when you told them to be there?

"Juliana, please stop that." My dad groans into his hands. He's bent over in one of those tiny chairs, elbows resting on his knees as he covers his face, fingers coiling in his hair. He's been kind of moody today.

I mean, who would enjoy taking your daughter to see the oncologist? I even helped the situation be more interesting by locking myself in the car earlier. And sleeping underneath my bed so he wouldn't be able to find me this morning. And then hiding in Uncle Stefano and Aunt Stephanie's closet when we were supposed to leave.

"Oh shut up, John Carlo. She's nervous just like the rest of us." Aunt Teresa says, leaning against the wall and taking a swig out of her water bottle. I'm beginning to think that it isn't water in that bottle.

Aunt Teresa isn't someone I see often. Sure, I've been staying in the same house as her but she always seems to make a point of staying busy. She's always at the office, or at one of the warehouses. She's hardly there for mealtimes, and when she is she's very snappy. I wouldn't call her unpleasant but if the shoe fits...

I think everyone in the room jumps two feet out of their chairs when the doctor finally comes in. I can't remember his name- well never mind, at least he's nice enough to introduce himself. Not so nice to see you again, Dr. Oliver.

"So Juliana, how have you been feeling lately? I see you're off the crutches." Dr. Oliver says, sitting down on the little stool that makes people look like they're two inches tall. Another thing I've never understood. Why make the doctors sit on such a small stool if their patient is on such a high bed? I mean, seriously? I'm not that short and-

"Juliana?" My head flies up as I see Dr. Olive Garden looking at me, concerned. As are my parents and Aunt Teresa. Shaking my head I smile nodding my head as I try to recall what was being said.

"I'm fine. Can't stand crutches, ya know? No... cancer-y things have happened. Makes it hard to believe that I actually have it." I mutter, rambling. I see my mother grimace at my words, my father running his hand through his hair again as Aunt Teresa took a breath, lifting her "water" bottle back to her lips.

Dr. Oliver gives a small chuckle. "Yes well I certainly hope not. No pain, nausea, changes in weight or appetite?" I think my face gives away that I truly have no clue because Dr. Oliver nods with a small smile. "I'll take that as a no then."

"She's been great." My mom pipes in, a slight hint of desperation in her voice. "My brother in law says she's been eating a little more, my nephew has made sure that she's getting the correct amount of calories thanks to the tube. She's had a lot of energy as of late. Her and her cousin are always outside."

The doctor nods, turning and typing something into the clunky computer, seemingly scanning a couple things over. "See, that's great and all, but what concerns me is that her weight isn't going up like it should. Now I want to send you to a nutritionist, we have a couple good ones who-"

And suddenly the situation slips back from under me. Once again I feel out of control and confused as they talk and spout out facts about nutritionists and diets. Formula changes and this and that. I hear it, but I don't understand it. Like their talking in a completely different language.

That used to happen to me a lot. When I was younger. Sometimes, English and Italian would mix in my brain until I couldn't tell which one I was speaking in and understanding people was hard. It was like I needed to have my own little language spoken to me. I grew out of it, eventually.

"... chemo, I mean there are ways-" My head snaps up as I interrupt him. I'm sorry, did he just say chemo? I am not losing my hair because my body decided to throw a hissy fit.

"I'm not doing it." The entire room pauses, the doctor looking at me and clasping his hands together. My parents are both staring at me in shock, and Aunt Teresa mutters something that sounds suspiciously like 'damn teenagers' before she lifts her, likely not water, water bottle to her lips again.

"Juliana, what do you mean you 'don't want to do it'? Not doing it isn't an option. You'll die." My mom says, flabbergast. She's looking at me, pure confusion in her eyes.

As I look at my mother, my resolve almost breaks. Part of me can't help but think about how she doesn't deserve this. Any of it. Not being kidnapped, not having to watch her child be tortured, her husband, herself. Then coming back and having the threat of losing one dangled in front of her face.

"I'm not doing it. I'm not doing any of this." As much sorrow I feel for my mother, it does not erase nine years. The nine years I spent in a house where I feared for my life. The nine years I spent hiding under my bed to avoid my oldest brother's drunken wrath, The nine years I spent barely surviving.

I'm. Done.

The drive back home was a silent one. I didn't go home with my parents. I don't know where they went, actually. Aunt Teresa stopped driving behind them almost twenty minutes ago.

"You're being stupid." She says, chuggin her third water bottle. Once she found out it was best she drove me and not my parents, she mysteriously chugged two previously unopened water bottles in the parking lot.

She was definitely drinking before.

"Yeah. Thanks." I mumble, staring out the window as the city with all its buildings and people slowly became sparse, and the countryside began to encompass the car. The trees, just like the buildings, became a very green and brown blur. They all sort of became one, with the ability to still be individual if you tried to focus on one hard enough. For the couple milliseconds it took for the car to pass it by.

It reminded me of people, to be honest. We all sort of blurred into each other people's lives, one after the other. Some sticking out, some blending into the others, but all staying equally as important, with their own lives and stories if you choose to focus long enough.

"Where are we going?" I ask, when Aunt Teresa continues driving. I can't tell you exactly where we were, but I could tell you that we weren't on the way home. Uncle Stefano's home, I mean.

Can I just say, somewhere is not an answer, people! When someone asks you where you're taking them, the least you can do is give me a damn answer. Seventeen minutes in a car is a long time.

"A coffee shop?" I ask as Aunt Teresa stops the car, turning off the ignition and opening her door. I watch her stand before raising an eyebrow in my direction.

"Yes. I'm in the mood for some caffeine. Are you coming?" She asks, shutting her door before I have the chance to answer. Well... Who's gonna say no to coffee?

It's a small shop, maybe three other customers in the entire place. An elderly couple sitting out on the patio, and a middle aged woman sitting alone, headphones in, computer in front of her while she vigorously wrote things down. It was very obvious that the cup in front of her wasn't her first.

While Aunt Teresa ordered, I found a small table in the corner of the room, windows covering the length of the area. The view was a surprisingly nice one. That could be the New Yorker in me, the one that's used to large crowds, overly tall buildings and trash littering every sidewalk.

But not here. Here, there were a couple sparse buildings, close enough together that people could walk easily from one to the other. It's like most of the business owners had all decided on a monotone vibe, because most of the buildings were a tan colour, with not much else outside of the neutral colour spectrum.

Except for this shop. This shop had decided on light orange as their base colour, with a green shade protecting the patrons out on the patio. They had a very similar set up as some of the other shops, though their colours do make them stand out. The area where they made the actual coffee was scarce, but well enough stocked that it seemed like whoever ran it knew enough about what they were doing.

When Aunt Teresa comes back, she's holding two cups, one is a mug with steam coming out the top, the other is a tall glass holding an icy drink and whipped cream on top. As she sits down, setting the cold drink in front of me, I can't help but wonder how she doesn't burn her fingers off. And what kind of psycho drinks such a hot beverage in 100 degree weather.

"You know, when I was your age, I used to hate my parents." She comments randomly, after both of our drinks were nearly halfway finished. Despite the lapse in time, she was still having to blow heavily on her drink in an attempt to salvage her taste buds.

"I used to think that all the rules they put in place, all the restrictions, the guards, the cameras, were just to control me. To keep track of every little movement. I thought they were total bitches." She continues, taking a large gulp of her coffee, all but finishing the thing off. We sit there in silence for a moment as I wait for her to continue, but she doesn't.

"And? What changed?" I ask, pretty sure at this point that the psycho is waiting for me to engage in the conversation. Seriously, who drinks plain black coffee without making funny faces? Is everyone in this family demented?

"Oh nothing did. They're still bitches." I look at my Aunt, blinking a couple of times. Okay... where is this going exactly? "But," Aunt Teresa continues, setting her coffee cup off to the side and looking me directly in the eye.

"They're my bitchy parents. And nothing can change that. Because at the end of the day, they care. And blah blah, pretend I said something really emotionally moving and motivating, m'kay?" She says, sitting back in her seat and crossing her arms proudly.

Looking at my Aunt, I press my lips together, tilting my head to the side slightly. I see the relation. We sit there in a comfortable silence, me staring out the window, Aunt Teresa on her phone, angrily being beaten at Angry Bird. I told her that logistically, she can't be getting beat, but that got me the threat of having my coffee poured out, so I shut up.

"Is it okay that I'm okay with dying?" I'm the first one to break the silence, the question having been nagging at my brain for a while now. It's not that I was actively seeking out ways to end my life. But if I happened to walk out on a street, and a car came barreling my way... I might not make an effort to move out of the way.

Aunt Teresa glances up at me from the top of her phone, clicking it off, setting it face down on the table. All of her moves were slow and calculated as she took her time. She nods her head softly, thinking.

"I think you're scared. And you're tired- don't start with me." She cuts me off when I try to challenge the fact that I'm not either of those things. Deep down I know she's right, but hell if I'm actually going to tell her that. So instead I do the mature thing, leaning back in my seat and pouting. Aunt Teresa, ever the leader for grace and maturity, takes one look at me and rolls her eyes.

"Seriously? Are you five?" She asks, and I shrug at her. Maybe. Maybe my spirit animal is a pouty 5 year old.

"Five in dog years is 20. So technically, I'd be half your age." I comment, taking another sip of my drink while Aunt Teresa gasps, looking at me like I've just threatened to run over her puppy with a car.

"I will have you know, I am nowhere near 40! I've barely hit my 30's." She exclaims, and I raise an eyebrow, looking her up and down. "Oh shut up!" She snaps, getting up and taking my cup with her.

Sigh. There goes a perfectly good coffee.



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Lemme know if you guys have any questions, suggestions, or comments!

So guys... Please don't hate me. I know it's been almost two months since the last update, but surprise! I was released from the loony bin.

We had a little mental health crisis, but it's all been sorted out. Meds have been adjusted, lol. I can't promise regular updates at this time, but I can tell you I'll try, even if it's short snippets.







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