The Difference Between Fear and Terror

Untitled Part 20

"Good morning Miss Sang." I am so not mentally prepared for this at the moment. "G-good morning." He is weirdly staring at my face and I know I look exhausted. I feel exhausted.

"Did you sleep well?" Obviously not. I shake my head. I don't really see the point in lying to him. I have nothing to lose. Unless, of course, he is going to tell the boys. Then I have everything to lose. Is he going to repeat what I say?

"Why couldn't you sleep?" I can't tell him if he is going to tell them. They'll leave me. "Are you g-going to t-tell them w-what I say?: A look of confusion briefly crosses his face but he promptly blanks it. "No, any conversation we have is bound by doctor-patient confidentiality." Good to know. "The dark."

Realization hits him. "Were you always hooded?" I wince at the way he said it. I can't look at him and I mumble, "yes."

Shame brings color to my face. I spend a year blinded and now I'm afraid of the dark. It is ridiculous. I'm lucky I'm still alive, plenty of others aren't. Other have had worse. At least I wasn't raped or murdered. I am being petty.

I am drifting off into my thoughts. There is a snap near my head, bringing me to the surface. "Sang?" I must have lost focus. "Sorry, I'm fine." Fine probably isn't the best way to describe me.

"Whatcha thinking about?" More blood rises to my cheeks at being caught drifting. "N-nothing," I stammer out. "In my experience, people tend to be think of something when they stare off into space," he says with a small smile. "It's stupid." Can he please not pry? "What's stupid?" Oh wait, prying is his job. "I'm stupid. I'm a-afraid of the d-dark like a four year old." 

I tear my gaze away from him toward the window. I can't do this. How those people spill their guts to anyone who asks, I have no idea. I don't want pity. I don't deserve it. I don't even really want to be alive anymore. What's the point?