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Being Her

Summary:
A series of one-shots in Claire's perspective throughout the series For Her.


Notes:
Um, will not go in any order. they come as i get bored enough to write them. PSSSTTT if you want a new story, go review with her!


40. Chapter 40

Rating 5/5   Word Count 567   Review this Chapter

I watch the little girl in the bed. She lies there totally impassively. She seems unconscious of the voices of the pre-med students all around her.

Our first real patient, they were saying, laughing.

She doesn’t react at all but I know she hears every word, and knows it.

I walk to her, breaking every rule I have from the professors to shreds, and whisper, “I’m Claire.”

“I’m Allie,” she says, strictly following her rules, the ones circumstances forced on her, that she followed strictly.

“Who was it, Allie?”

I don’t get an answer, but I didn’t really expect one.

“You can tell me.”

Her eyes close. “I can’t. She’ll kill me.”

“Your mom?”

She shakes her head. I believe her, because she couldn’t suppress the shudder if I’d guessed right.

“A big sister?”

This time, the identical movement of the head could be supposed as such by anyone but me. But I see her freeze inside.

“She won’t kill you. She won’t be able to hurt you, Allie.”

She opens her baleful eyes and stare at me like ‘how could you know?’

I wait for a moment, quietly, and then say, “He couldn’t hurt me… and I told.”

“Really?”

I nod and smile hopefully at the expression on her face. And then I move away, slowly, so I don’t scare her.

The teacher comes in then, and introduces the case. “Eight year old female, with traumatic injury to the arms and legs. Probable cause: some kind of blow.”

“Don’t we have to call the police?” I ask.

“That’s our hospital policy, to report suspected child abuse. But there’s no chance anything’s going to happen unless she talks to us.”

“Why don’t you ask her?” I say, and walk out of the room to gather myself. I’m probably going to get failed out of school for this, but I can’t watch them ignore this little girl falling apart.

When the group drifts by me, the teacher catches my eye. He doesn’t say a word. But when I come back into the classroom from our little field trip, he doesn’t ask me to leave, either.

There’s a headline on the third page of the paper the next day. Physically abused eight-year old will provide pivotal testimony in case to be tried in three months.

I smile, and put the paper I was reading in the elevator into my purse as I walk through the door. Quil grins at me.

“Hi Quil!”

“Hey, sweetheart. See you tomorrow.”

“Bye!”

“Bye!”

As he walks away, I take the newspaper back out.

I put it on the table beside my bed and smile even wider.

I chose this life, the one that’s causing us all so much stress, for this very reason. As Carlisle Cullen taught me I could trust people, I could be healed just like the broken bones, I’ve helped someone in a tangible way with real evidence. I’ve made a change.

No one ever mentions the incident again, and I never get around to telling Quil, but as I leave for my job (scooping ice cream in a downtown shop) I can feel a sense of relief. I am no longer the victim. I am the protector.