The waiting room is a bland beige walled room with ugly patterned seats and a small television. All in all, I thought that perhaps a more cheerful room would do patients some good. After all, we were all here because something was wrong with our mental stability.

This is the third time I have found myself in this waiting room. Disappointingly, it hasn't gotten much better than the first time. The walls still feel too close and a melancholy fog of negative emotions seems to suffocate everyone in the room.

There are only two other patients waiting today: a sullen middle aged man with deep sunken wrinkles and another teenage girl with hair swept across her forehead and eyeliner pooling under her eyes. The two seem pretty content with keeping to themselves, as is the case at Devenford Mental Facility.

Of course, we have all been forced here by someone else. For me, that was my auntie. June was a lady of forty with a no-nonsense view on everything and believed that I was an injured puppy that needed closure.

I knew my parents were dead. I didn't see how a therapist was going to help. But even so, I went to these stupid therapy sessions. I was old enough to move on, no matter how much it hurt. People die, life goes on. It was pretty simple, really. However, what the practical side of my brain failed to comprehend was why I would sometimes find myself awake at three in the freaking morning, curled into a ball and sobbing until my eyes were raw.

Either way, the therapist hadn't helped much at all. Her questions were monotonous and clinical. I never felt a hint of comfort in any form after our weekly sessions.

One by one, the other two patients silently slip out of the room to their own therapy sessions. I check the time. Two forty-five. Half an hour past my scheduled appointment. I don't know why I still bother showing up on time since Dr Clarkson is almost always running late. Of course, my auntie insists on hurrying me out the house as soon as it hits quarter to two.

Ten minutes later, Dr Clarkson enters the waiting room and calls my name. "Lenore Harrington," she says in her sickly sweet voice.

I have a severe dislike toward Dr Clarkson. The woman is just too perfect. Like those aliens that fester inside of human beings in those apocalypse movies. Her black hair is pulled into a tight bun at the nape of her neck. Her eyes are a bright turquoise and her lips always have impeccably applied fuchsia lipstick. Her milky, unblemished skin is pulled taut over her sharp cheekbones. I have no doubt that she's had some work done - her skin looks like it's been through one of those retouching programs.

"Please, sit," she says. I slump back into the plush cushioning of the couch, shifting in my seat. "Lenore," she says, her lips curving into a smile. "How have you been since our last meeting?"

My lips twist into a smile of their own. "Great," I reply, folding my hands in my lap. "Just great." I fail to mention the three a.m. crying sessions.

"Mm," she coos. "I see. You don't need to lie to me."

I raise my eyebrows. This is the first time she has ever acknowledged my lack of honesty with her. "I'm not lying," I protest, raising my voice slightly.

Dr Clarkson holds up both her palms in a gesture of defence. The woman thought I was going to go fucking violent sociopath on her. I clench my jaw. I hate feeling like that. Like everyone is expecting me to one day snap and hurt somebody.

"Calm down, sweetheart," she says calmly, her eyes softening. My hands are clasped together in my lap, my nails digging into the flesh on the back of my hands.

I exhale loudly. "I'm sorry," I say, smiling sweetly.

"It's alright, Lenore," the therapist says. She lays both hands on the table. "Now, let's move on. The first step of getting over grief is accepting it. Lenore, you need to understand that your parents are gone. Even though it might seem like the end of the world, it's not."

"I know," I say levelly. "I understand."

"Now," she says, sliding her glasses down the bridge of her nose, "I understand you were in the back seat of the crash. I understand you may be blaming yourself as such is the way of survivors in your position." She beckons me to answer.

"Bullshit," I say. "I don't blame myself."

I do feel a sort of guilt, sure, but I wouldn't call it blaming myself. I know it was a car crash and I know I was just lucky. Why any god would choose me, I have no idea. Maybe it was punishment. After all, death was the end, a cease to all emotions, an infinite numbness. Why not wreak upon me the misery of surviving when I know my parents are dead? Some divine power was obviously having a big laugh out of this cruel farce.

Dr Clarkson lowers her eyebrows pityingly at me. "Even though they might hurt, letting out your memories may be the way to exert all that negative energy inside of you. Tell me about that night."

I intake a sharp breath. It's a difficult night to remember. Not in the events, but in dissecting reality from hallucination. I remember what I saw clearly, but some of it makes no sense verbally or mentally.

It was a dark night and it has been raining all day. The air had that musty sort of rain scent to it, the kind which clogs up your nose and makes it hard to smell anything else. The road was wet and covered in a film of mist. The heater in the car was on, but I could still feel cold in my bones just from looking out at the wet weather.

I remember being curled up checking my messages on my phone. It was a comforting position to be in, really. It was the type of warmth that you would feel looking at an old drawing of a family huddled in front of a fireplace on Christmas Eve. That undeniable joyous warmth. My head was resting against the window when it happened. The doctors had said it was a miracle that no shards of glass had penetrated my skull.

All of a sudden, the car jerked to the side. My mother was yelling, my dad was yelling, I was yelling. The car veered off of the road and down into the thick forest on the sides of the road. I felt my body bobbing up and down like I was in turbulence on a plane. The car was losing control, and we all knew it wasn't going to end well. The next thing I remember was the most pressurised knock I've ever felt in my life.

The side of the car slammed into a tree trunk and I felt metal digging into my body and warm blood oozing into every crevice of my skin. My parents or mine, I don't know. My head was swimming so badly that multiple times I would black out for a second and then come to again. My ears were ringing and my vision was rimmed with black. I could feel my brain bouncing around against my skull. My heartbeat was racing and I was losing blood at an astounding rate.

My vision fell into a black abyss again. But this time it was different. Because when I regained consciousness, I realised I wasn't alone.

The person - the thing - over me had humanoid features, but their eyes were onyx marbles and black veins snaked down their cheeks and neck. His skin had a greyish pallor to it, like he was a corpse.

And when his lips peeled back, where his teeth should have been, were fangs.

I tried to scream, but I was too weak. I felt a hand slide under my neck and the next thing I knew the world had turned to black again.

I told myself it was an animal for some time, and then I convinced myself I was hallucinating, but none of it was genuine. I saw what I saw. A man bearing fangs and black eyes.

I say what I think she would like to hear. "The rain and fog that night was heavy. My dad lost control. The car went into the forest and hit a tree. I drifted in and out of consciousness. I thought I was going to die. I'm not dead, though."

She nods. "Any feelings of guilt, perhaps?"

I shake my head, biting on the inside of my bottom lip. The funny thing is is that I do feel guilty and I'm not sure why. I didn't have a say in my parents death, so why should I feel responsible? I know it has something to do with me surviving. I shouldn't have survived. Why would a sixteen year old girl with next to nothing muscle mass survive when her parents are dead?

Dr Clarkson sighs. "You're not talking to me, Lenore," she says as if I didn't know.

I press my lips into a firm line and nod. "I don't see how therapy is going to help. I can handle it. It's already numbing up and I'm already forgetting. I don't need your help," I tell her.

She purses her lips. "So why are you here?"

I lean back into my seat and sigh. "Why do you think I'm here? My auntie won't fucking let it go. I know my parents are dead. I don't need a therapist to tell me that."

She looks up at me, her eyes hostile. "You can leave, Lenore," she says quietly.

"Thank you, Dr Clarkson," I say in return. "Do me a favour and tell my auntie what she wants to hear."

"And what is that?" She looks over the thick rim of her glasses.

"That the sessions are helping," I say. I shut the door behind me.

It gets dark early these days, and by the time I'm walking across the parking lot, the sun is setting in a shade of blood.

I pull open the door to my jeep. My auntie continually tells me that she'll buy me a new car. "It's ugly," she blatantly told me the first time she suggested purchasing a new one. I shook my head and went up to my room. If there's one thing that reminded me of home, it was the jeep.

I stick the key into the ignition and drive back to my auntie's house. The house is in a well to do neighbourhood a few streets away from Devenford Prep. The house itself is a normal size, but it's furniture and decor is sleek and modern. Just like my auntie, I suppose.

My auntie never really filled the void that my parents left. Whereas my parents acted like my, well, parents, I sometimes found myself wondering if June saw me as little more than a burden.

June is at the dining table with paper work spread out when I come in. June is a surgeon and often works at night, meaning she is almost always home during the day. I plop my bag down onto the bar and slump into the stool nearest to it.

"How was it?" she says, giving me a grin that flashes her extraordinarily white teeth. She bears little resemblance to me. Her hair is a light blonde colour and framed to her face with layers. She
has blue eyes and a pale complexion that is the epitome of classic beauty. She was my father's sister, meaning that her family had come from England a couple hundred years ago and were all blessed with the all-American blue eyes and blonde hair look.

Me, on the other hand, I take after my mom's Filipino features. I bear tanned skin, long black hair and slightly almond shaped near-black eyes. I'm not ugly, I suppose, but the Filipino features do sometimes make me feel less pretty than other girls. Either way, I have an average self esteem and that's considered a good thing to me. It would be a lot worse if I hated myself.

Either way, no one could doubt that Aunt June wasn't my mom.

"Good," I say. "It's really helping."

I keep my eyes fixed on hers, unflinching.

"I'm glad," she says. "You excited for school tomorrow?"

After the crash, I was whisked away to Beacon County in California almost immediately. During that time, I didn't go to school for about a month. Time to grieve, my auntie called it. I called it an excuse. I didn't mind, though. I was a bright student and a little bit of time away wouldn't affect my grades too much.

Tomorrow is my first day at Devenford Prep. As if a new school wasn't hard enough, this is my first time at a private school and I'm unsure of what to expect of this foreign territory. For one, I now have a uniform, which is uncomfortable and makes me look shapeless. And if the things I've heard about Devenford are anything to go by, they all sounded like snobby Porsche driving teenagers.

"Very," I say. I slide my bag up onto my shoulder and make my way up to my room. I throw my bag onto my bed and stare long and hard in the mirror.

My eyes have faint blackish lines under them. Veins? I wonder nonchalantly. Maybe I need some more sleep. My mind shifts back over to the sight of the fanged person I hallucinated during the crash. I feel a shiver run the course of my body and I turn away promptly.

That night, I'm too distracted by my strange reflection in the mirror to even cry.