There was a time when I was deeply interested in Psychology. Not from an academic point of view, it was my idiosyncrasy to understand in-depth what I felt. 

I wanted to understand the path my mind chartered while navigating through loss and grief.

Books on theories of mind, behaviour and therapies decorated my bed, the floor and even my loo. 

I had spent many sleeping hours and waking moments, trying to comprehend the part of my mind that made me feel weak and vulnerable. 

I wanted to justify with theories, I wasn't going insane. I wanted to convince myself, I was doing the right thing by asking for help.

Usually, as interests do, my interest in psychology didn't survive the ordeal of time. 

Those books and research went back into the top abandoned part of my bookshelf where they gleefully embraced the dust and finer cobwebs. 

But today, as I sat in the bleak classroom, listening to the white noise of the professor, all I could think about were those books. 

Gritty, cobweb-laden books, which somehow pinioned my conflict. 

From their perched view, they could observe my wandering thoughts about the violin girl. 

Her haunted stares, the way she irked the serene flow of the meeting.

Those books pleaded with me to let them free and in return would help me understand the reasoning behind why a stranger's entry at my meeting had me worried. 

Why the violin girl's healthy state of mind was a reason for my jealousy? 

Why her smile, her understanding of the pain we suffered didn't drape me with peace but spilt turmoil in my head.

It was easy to blame someone for not understanding. It was as easy to detest someone for doing so.

Dr. Murphy and some others were bowled over by her empathic conduct. Her talks.

I detested her encroachment. 

It would have been a lot easier, had she gone her separate way upon knowing she entered the wrong classroom. Walked out, never to return. 

But no. 

After she pondered, she walked back.

What was so fascinating about broken people that made her walk back? 

What allured her to stay? 

Was it sympathy? 

Was she getting off on the pain of others?

I don't care if you think I was being a dick. 

I was.

Like other times, wherever the group needed to make a decision, the Doctor would propose for a vote. This time, there was no unanimous vote for the Mia to stay. 

The doctor took that call herself. 

I was sure, many others felt the same. 

After all, it was an exclusive club we had. Members with mental ailment only. 

Mia was the backdoor entry.

I detested every time she smiled, being completely out of place.

Imagine, lifting bars or randomly sprinting around a handicapped person. 

No matter how well-adjusted they may seem, a part of them would always long to do all of it. 

They too would want to run and hang from trees like baboons, do everything which now by no stretch of the imagination would be possible.

It was the same with the new girl. 

She was a potted plastic plant in a room full of uprooted, bent trees who attempted every day to brave the tornado of mental illness. 

She was a deflated lifeguard tossed in a sea of those drowning from the weight of their actions since the affliction. 

Altogether she was wrong for us.

Don't read me wrong. 

Mia's personality was perfect to uplift someone who suffered the Monday blues or the gloomy, overcast Oxford's rainy days. 

But she was not equipped to handle the meeting, the talk. 

She was untrained to navigate the avalanches of tears and tribulations, the quakes on the soul resulting from losing oneself or a loved one. 

Worst, Mia was unskilled to hear the silent wails of someone who stood on the cliff of life. Before ending it.

If you think I was being harsh on Mia, I wouldn't fight you. I was.

Whenever I would share, whenever that day would arrive, I would want to narrate my life, bare it open to someone who could understand what I underwent when I lost my mum. 

To the people, once boisterous but now a wallflower. 

I couldn't comprehend painting my word portrait with a misfit sitting in a corner, watered and nurtured all her life. And having no comprehension of what we bleed.

Aqangered by Dr. Murphy's decision, I tried hard to push away my reservations for the time. 

I may have escaped the hold of depression, but it still scared me. Petrified to be victimized again like my past two years. 

On an occasion when someone mentioned their relapse, my blood curdled and my spine dug into my skin, inching upwards to split me in half. 

The 'what ifs' rose in my mind and let me tell you, they were the worst.

What if I wasn't lucky enough to make it unscathed this time? 

What if depression took hold of me, deciding I'd be the toy it would play with for the rest of my misery-stricken life?

Thoughts - the powerful ones were like anchors of a ship. 

It had the power to latch itself on one's feet, dragging under its weight, the whole person into the depth of despair-whirled ocean. 

My head dipped with the unnerving tussle in my mind, seeking solace behind the blank laptop screen. 

It fortified my revetting thoughts from the annoying glances of my classmates and the unyielding, skin-burning stare of the professor.

"Care to explain, Ivan?" A grunt hit me.

Too late.

Professor Metcalfe was a scary being. Scarier with his voice and demeanour. 

With a walking stick in his hand and a limp in footing after an accident, he commanded my attention with his reverberant voice. 

The thing about his administrative law class was that one had to sit with the attentiveness of the 'god creating universe' level to escape any repercussions. 

With my therapist's decision to bring Mia into the meeting, I didn't realize when I began daydreaming.

I straightened in my chair. 

The chattering of my fellow classmates died down. Every eye remained glued to me.

"No. I..." stuttering, decided truth to be the Hail Mary pass. "Sorry, I phased out."

His stare boiled my blood, my insides and even had the power to penetrate my bones and cook my marrow. 

What everyone was witnessing was my public execution. My head lowered into my chest with every passing second. 

I heard his limp leg dragging on the tiled floor, his stick clicking with each step. 

I didn't dare to look up at the man, whose lectures were rather inspirational for me. 

This was my first act of transgression. My first slip.

The professor picked up his talking cards, stacking them with gentle taps on the table near me and walking across like a pendulum swinging to the extremes. 

With a lowered stoop, he tried to meet my gaze. 

I surely was digging my way into my chest, my chin already resting over my shirt buttons.

"Disappointing." He breathed and walked away, dragging his limp, and clicking his stick. 

I slumped into the chair, sliding into it as my body melted with embarrassment.

The only respite was the lack of exams this year. 

With my next law school year study in Europe, I hoped the bitterness of today's interaction would dissolve from Metcalfe's memory.

The great orator continued his talk. 

For the rest of his lecture, I tried concentrating. 

Thankfully, the next half an hour was a smooth sail.

Once the class was dismissed, I walked out with Felix chasing me behind through the crowded corridor.

Felix wasn't studying law to join the bar. 

Ironically, he was doing it to own one himself; many bars, to be precise. 

Felix Krupin, the heir to the Krupin distilleries dreamt just like his father, to own a Michelin-starred restaurant and bar in all countries of the world. Currently, they have four. 

When his father forced him to join their business right after successful schooling, vengeance took hold of my skinny friend. 

He studied and cracked the admissions test for law. But as with most challenges, his passion for law faded away. 

Now, he was a lost duck in a slew of students, waddling his way to pass and graduate.

Clobbering his way through the students, Felix panted upon approach. 

Holding onto my shoulder, he wheezed like a tired engine, coughing out soot. He held me to my sides and exhaled the war his lungs undertook.

"Yes, Felix. What's the news?" I asked, eying him. 

He tried standing straight but with an instant growl, held onto the sides of his torso and leaned lower. 

Having never moved a muscle other than when he danced pissed at parties, Felix was imbibed with the hard truth about running for the first time in years.

When I pulled him up, straightening his posture, his eyes twinkled with an oddly familiar glint. 

There was a fire somewhere and I knew, my friend danced around it.

"I heard you'd punched the Professor," he gestured towards my empty class and back. 

Felix didn't attend the lecture to know the truth.

My arms crossed over my chest, intrigued by his side of the narration. 

You see, Felix was one of those who could contribute consignments of information to fill the gaps, even if he was in another country altogether to know the truth about it. 

And they thought that tabloids were the worst thing for Britain.

"What did you say for it?" I asked. I was curious.

Leaning onto the cemented wall, he crossed his legs, one behind the other. His voice vibrated, and excitement peeked through it. 

"I told them you made him bleed."

Told you, adding fuel.

My palms flew to my face, rubbing the new reality of misinformation into my skin. 

An idiot was a man who retained another idiot as a friend. 

I was an idiot.

Before I could state my peace, someone called my name. 

I knew that voice, the shrill nasal intonation. Without my knowledge, my hands veiled my face.

Felix pulled it off, nudging me to look at her.

Katarina - the devil stood in front of us. 

Thrashing her arrow-ended tail on the pale tiled floor. Her four horsewomen stood on both her sides, wielding her imaginary pitchfork.

If I didn't know any better, I'd concluded it was doomsday for us. 

All of us.

~

Babies

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Love

Z