Saving Styles

Nowhere To Go

Harry's POV

I stared at him, trying to figure out what he could possibly be referring to, as he just looked back at me. Clearly, he thought we'd met before which was obviously not a good thing since before I met Hannah my life was nothing but shit. My mind was racing as he reached over and put his hand on my shoulder.

"Harry, it's okay. Just forget it." He said softly.

"No...no what do you mean? We've met before? When?" I asked, knowing I didn't want the answer.

"I really don't wanna bring all this up. It doesn't really matter." He shrugged.

"It matters to me."

He sighed, realizing I wasn't about to let this go, before he spoke.

"Has Hannah told you what I do for a living?" He asked.

"Uh, yeah...yeah she said you're a doctor. An ER doctor." I said, recalling the conversation and trying to see how that could possibly be relevant to what he was trying to tell me.

He looked at me, that sympathetic look in his eye that I knew all too well, and I immediately realized that he knew much more about me and my past than I would ever want him to. He was a doctor, so what did that mean? It's not like anyone ever took me to the hospital after they'd beaten me. Most of my bones and bruises healed on their own, so what the fuck was he talking about.

"Harry, you're an amazing kid. You've done so much for yourself and you should be very proud." He said softly as I immediately stood up and began pacing in the cell.

I tried to remember that he was Hannah's father, that I couldn't flip out, but the things running through my mind were not helping. If he knew, what did that mean? Was he gonna tell me to stay away from her? Did he think of me differently?

"Please, I just-I need you to just spit out whatever it is that you are trying to say." I said, doing my best to remain calm.

"I shouldn't have said anything. It doesn't matter."

"It does matter, you're Hannah's father. I need you to tell me. Please just tell me." I pleaded.

"Can you just sit down?" He asked as he motioned to the seat beside him and I reluctantly sat down, anxiously waiting for him to spit it out.

"About eight years ago, I was working a night shift at St. Mary's. There was a young boy, about 13, brought in with injuries so severe that we didn't even know where to start. We had to run every test we had just to try to figure out just how bad the damage was, which only revealed that this had been an ongoing thing for most of his life. There were fractures that hadn't healed properly, scarring consistent with abuse, horrific trauma."

I felt every muscle in my body tensing, clenching as I fought my urge to throw my fist against the wall. I knew exactly where this was going.

"He needed weeks, probably months to heal from the damage that had been inflicted, he needed medical care and an investigation as to what happened. After about 4 hours after he arrived, men showed up to take him away, saying he had to be returned to the facility where he resided. These men were cold and callous, and I was in no way comfortable releasing my patient to them, so I told them no. I went back for my shift the next day and they had taken him without my consent. There was nothing I could do at that point, they'd convinced another physician to sign off on his release."

I stared at the floor, resting my elbows on my knees as he continued and I just tried to keep Hannah at the front of my mind, hoping the thought of her could keep me calm.