I woke up.

I felt horrible – groggy – and my head felt... dizzy? It was hard to describe.

I looked around but lacked the energy to keep that up for long. All I knew was that I was not in my normal room. I also found the Black Knight chess piece clenched in my hand and wondered if it was given back to me or if I never really let go of it.

I lay there, in the bed, for an immeasurable amount of time until I heard knocking and then beeping; I turned to the door. I saw it open which was when I noticed the keypad on both sides of the door above the doorknob.

I was being locked up. Awesome.

I saw my doctor/therapist/whatever-you-want-to-call-it walk in. She was fairly new and was the only person in the whole place that insisted on calling me Theresa, which I hated. I got transferred to her after I greeted my past doctor with a, "What's up, Doc," and she got mad and morphed into a bunny thing. We both freaked out, and the staff didn't fully understand what happened, but I know that we both got assigned to new people to keep both of us from freaking out again.

Anyhow, my new doctor was nice, but she was stubborn. A lot of the time it seemed like she was making me mad on purpose. I know now that she was just trying to challenge me in hopes that it would help my recovery by making me come to terms with my situation.

She was nice, but when she walked in she was... definitely not looking nice. I mean, she looked fine, but she was definitely mad, or nervous, or worried, or something. She was trying to keep it together, but for a shrink, she was doing a pretty crumby job. She looked at the bed like she was going to sit down next to me, but decided that a chair next to the bed would be a better option. Whether it was because she didn't want to seem too casual or because I made her nervous, I couldn't tell.

"Hello, Theresa."

"Call me Trubel. Everybody else does."

"Theresa," she answered. This has been a really crappy day, so far, and it didn't look like it was getting better anytime soon. "That name doesn't promote improvement or recovery," she continued.

"It's my name," I said even though we both knew it was more than that. It was a warning to other people, it was a reputation.

She was frustrated, for sure, and gave me a disapproving look.

"So...?" I asked, raising my eyebrows.

The doc looked confused, and I guessed that she didn't know where to start, so she just kind of blurted out, "You woke up twice as fast as we expected, especially considering the dose we gave you."

Good to know, I mentally rolled my eyes.

"How do you feel?" she asked.

"Can you just tell me what's going on?" I asked. She waited, so I sighed and answered, "I feel fine."

"Good. Now, do you remember what happened?" she asked. I didn't answer her, and I didn't know the answer that she wanted to hear. I ended up watching the Black Knight move in my hand as I twisted it around with my fingers.

She decided to answer for me. "You had another episode."

An episode.

"Now that's a name that doesn't encourage recovery," I mumbled mostly to myself and my chess piece. The doctor heard it, though, and made a frustrated expression.

"How did you know that I saw...?" I began to ask.

"You were yelling about how you were attacked by a monster when security guards sedated you."

"Oh." Well, that was embarrassing. At least I found out what I was yelling.

"Tell me what happened," she said more vehemently.

"You already know what happened," I almost whispered.

I had an episode.

"I want to hear it from you," she demanded.

I told the doctor everything – coyote, chess piece, teeth – everything, the whole shebang. The doctors are supposed to be good listeners and most of the time they are, but when I have to question, not only what I think happened, but whether or not they believe me, it makes it hard to tell my stories. It's especially intimidating not knowing what the consequences are for being honest because, for me, they could end in medications, surgeries, foster homes, a prison sentence, or worse, though I'm not really sure what could be worse than that. Honestly, I think I have nothing to lose because I've already lost everything I've ever had or loved, but then I get institutionalized, or I hurt someone, or I get arrested again. Maybe the worst part is that I have to tack on the word again to those scenarios.

But whatever the consequences, I told the doctor the truth. And then I realized that I was missing something – someone.

"Where's Kevin? Is he okay?" I asked.

"He will be fine," the doctor assured

"So, he's not fine now?" I hedged.

"He's recovering. That is all that you need to worry about right now," she said, confirming my beliefs.

I mean, I was relieved, so relieved, that I didn't kill him because, looking back, the whole thing was just some kind of misunderstanding. But I was very disgusted with myself for even hurting him in the first place.

I was pissed. "That is not anywhere near the end of my worries! I hurt him!" I paused. "So, now what?!" I demanded.

"Theresa, you need to relax." The doctor warned.

"And how am I supposed to do that? Huh? And stop calling me Theresa!" I was yelling and almost slipping into hysterics. "I need to know what I'm supposed to do so I don't keep hurting people!" I stood up from my seat on the bed, and that made the doctor very nervous.

"Theresa, if you don't calm down, security will have to come in here and sedate you again. I told them to let me talk to you alone first before they did anything drastic because I am trying to help you, and I knew you would want someone to know your side of the story. Now, sit down so we can talk about what to do next. I suggest that you behave yourself because there are plenty of people out there who are NOT happy with you, alright?" I didn't have to look "out there" because there were plenty of people who were not happy with me in here.

"My side? What's Kevin saying? Can I talk to him?" I asked, rapid fire,

"Kevin is receiving medical treatment, and he has asked us not to let you talk to him or tell you where he is," the doctor announced casually.

I sat down, defeated. I was embarrassed, so I couldn't look at the doctor when I said, "Nothing I try works. I need to know what to do because I can't keep doing this," I could tell I was about to start crying, so I turned away from the doctor and let the tears roll silently down my face.

"He should have killed me. The world would be a better place for it. He should have just, freaking, killed me."