*Eleven Months Prior*

"She thought of everything, she thought of suicide
Breathing in the wrath of lies, oh
Can you even hear me through the pain?
Oh, can somebody save Miss Laura Rain?"

A boy no older than seven years old faced me with an eyeless gaze, his bare chest littered in carefully placed scars.

"I can't believe you'd gone and hurt yourself
Drowning away in someone else - oh no
Am I just a run-down fake facade?
Are you sure you want to run this race?"

"You promised, Tria," I could hear him whispering, choking on pent-up tears. No matter how many times I shook my head, I heard him, always seething in the back of my mind. Sometimes he'll laugh, desperately holding his neck together because an evil bastard had tried to do away with it. Sometimes . . . Sometimes he's just like this. Staring at me with non-existent eyes, although lately my mind has been filling the gaps with a pair of eyes I'd only ever see in a mirror.

"Is anybody out - oh, is anybody out there
To save this broken girl
Because she's been dragging me to hell (dragging me to hell)
Don't want her to let me go!"

"Oh, is anybody out there (anybody out there)
To tame this heart of mine
Because I've been living with this girl
Who's ready to give up on this world
And she's pulling me for the ride-"

"Hey, Tria?"

I opened my eyes upon feeling a hand on my shoulder. Seeing that the car was stopped, I glanced over to see a concerned Hadi attempting a smile. I paused the music playing on my little mp3 player - probably the only new thing I've received in the past three months that I used.

"We're here," she explained once I took an earbud out.

I sighed, glancing out the car's window to the unassuming office building directly in front of us. Wordlessly, I unclipped my seatbelt, shoving the little music device in my pocket.

"What were you listening to?"

"You wouldn't like it," I muttered, then opened the door without giving her a chance to respond. Three months ago, I wasn't even a fan of The Little Cares - an alternative rock band most commonly listened to by angsty teenagers. Still wasn't a fan, but there was something about listening to a frantic, desperate voice on the verge of an obvious mental breakdown that made my head feel a little lighter.

Hadi wouldn't understand. If she found out what I was listening to, she'd never let me be alone. I glanced up at the lone office, feeling my fingers curl into fists while in reality, my chest was ready to cave in on itself.

"Hey, Tria-" Hadi called after me. I shrugged it off.

"Let's just go."

-.-.-.-.-

"How are your classes coming along, Tria?" asked a small, middle-aged woman with short, curly blond hair and widespread green eyes that made me wonder if I could fit my palm in between them. She had her hands folded in her lap, gazing up at me from her armchair that seemed to all but swallow her whole.

I shrugged, leaning back in my seat.

"I'm passing," Barely. The woman, ever the telepath, seemed to sense my unspoken thoughts.

"Do you think going to school in person would help-"

"No."

"It wouldn't need to be-" she tried again, then stopped at my unamused expression. "Maybe next time, then."

I snorted. I had two months until graduation. Going to a new school would be useless, and going back to the one I used to be in would only get me into trouble. It was best to just take the courses online.

Even if I did come close to snapping the laptop in two three times a week.

"Do you want to be here?"

She was getting annoyed with me, now, even if she did try to hide her tone. It astonished me, really. She's been on my case since I got my ass landed in the hospital, and the only thing we've really accomplished was seeing how long it would take before I inadvertly ran her patience thin. I wondered if that was just because she had Gallin roots, where even therapists won't put up with their patients' bullshit, or if I was just that good at getting people on edge.

Maybe it was a bit of both.

"No."

There was a sigh.

"Tria, I can't help you if you don't give me something to work with-"

I'm not giving you shit.

"Can you convince them to let me shave by myself?" I levelled her with a stare of my own. She returned the look with an equally sour question.

"Are you taking your medication?"

I didn't mean to laugh.

"Every. Damn. Night." Between the occasional pain in my side and the screaming within my head, I'd never fall asleep without it. Who knew getting impaled by a medieval dagger had so many drawbacks.

"And are you feeling any different?"

"I made a mistake, Miss L.," I snapped. "Okay? I woke up in a damn hospital after being snatched by psychotic thugs, and I panicked. You already had me drugged up in a fucking asylum for two months. What more do you want?"

"I want," she said slowly, sternly. "To ensure you will not be planning your own burial anytime soon."

Miss L. was very . . . witty . . . for someone that's supposed to be an unmovable piece of calm in my freak show of a life. Perhaps this was her way of trying to speak my language.

Again, there was that sharp, horrible laugh.

"Oh, don't worry," I remarked. "I won't be getting buried. Fuck that expense. I'd rather be cremated."

"Tria."

I smiled, then took in a breath.

"I take it that's a no, then? To my question."

When she didn't respond, I rose to my feet with a scoff. I would have walked right out of the small, dainty little office if the therapist hadn't reached out to grab my arm.

"Tria." There was something about the seriousness of her tone that had me stop to face her.

"Yes, Miss L.?"

"Do you intend to hurt yourself? Have you been thinking about it?"

"As I said, Miss L.," I jerked my arm away. "That was a mistake. I just want to shave my damn legs without having to ask."

"You didn't answer the question."

I stilled for a moment, torn between the frustration building up in my chest and an uncomfortable need to scream.

"No," I said finally. "To both of those."

Amazingly, she nodded.

"Okay." She, too, rose to her feet, even if she barely reached my shoulder. "I'll talk to Hadi. But until then, do sit down."

I groaned.

"Seriously?"

"Do you remember the terms of your release?" She countered.

"So you do admit that I'm being treated like a prisoner?"

There was that no-nonsense look I oh so much enjoyed.

"One hour of counseling once a week for six months, minimum. That was what you agreed to for wanting out of the asylum."

And of course, these stupid sessions started a month after my release from the special hospital.

"I just got out of being held captive, and the fucking government thought the best thing for my 'mental health'-" I began, not at all concerned with holding back a bit of snark. Miss L. interrupted me.

"Which is why we are here," she gestured to the office. "You are not being held anywhere against your will."

I snorted.

"Yeah, unless I skip out on therapy. Then you'll lock my ass up."

She shook her head.

"You do understand why you have these requirements, don't you?"

I plopped down in my seat, throwing my arms back over my chest.

"You wanna make sure I don't go ape shit on people."

"We want to help you overcome any and all potential drawbacks that you are going through," Miss L. corrected.

"Which includes making sure I don't go ape shit on people." Then, at the furrow of her brow, I threw my hands up in the air.

"Fine. We'll go with whatever you said. An hour a week. Got it."

She stared hard at me for a moment longer, then gave me a brief nod.

"Good, now that that's settled-"

"So how long do we have, now, anyway?" Yeah, I definitely meant to be an ass, but to be fair, I did want to know how much longer I was to be cooped up in here. She, in turn, made a show of checking her watch.

"Forty-seven minutes."

Oh, fuck me.

~ 1439 Words ~