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STEFAN

Ashley was never the same after Jemma's death. I couldn't imagine the amount of
stress that he had overcome. I had to say I knew how felt. I never displayed it
in front of anyone, though. I cried for Ashley. I wept for him. For him. He
wouldn't respond. I'd scream his name. I'd beg, pray, cry, and still nothing. He
would just turn and stare blankly. He'd pass me by like I wasn't there.

I had called his family, rarely a response. His grandmother came over one day.
She'd tried to comfort him. She'd hug him. Spoke softly. She'd question him. His
reaction was the same each time. An emotionless gaze. Slow, monotonous voice.
"I'm fine. Nothing's wrong." That was the most she could get out of him. His
parents and sister would visit. Each time he'd say the same things.

I grew sickly of his actions. One day, I started digging through his closet. I
really shouldn't have, but I needed to know what was truly going on. I looked
for a journal, a drawing, a letter. Nothing. It wasn't until later when I did
the laundry when I unintentionally discovered the horrid, life-threatening
situation Ashley was in.


ASHLEY

Life was gradually returning to normal. Well, not really. But better than
before. Late one Sunday night, Stefan asked me to come upstairs. He said he'd
seen something shocking. I walked upstairs, hands in the pockets of my jacket,
cynically.

When I reached the bedroom, Stefan looked pissed off. He was holding a piece of
glass, stained red.