Fear

9 • James, the therapist

A voice woke me up, softly spoken, kind, and unfamiliar.

I'd slept surprisingly well despite the horror Dylan put me through the day before. The blanket had helped; it kept me warm. I groaned as I awoke, squinting my eyes to adjust to the bright light above me. The main light had been turned on, and I was so used to having the dim lamp on that the main light on the ceiling blinded me.

The voice spoke again, and I tried to focus on it.
"Emily, I need you to respond to me. Can you hear me?"

I nodded, furrowing my brows. I followed the voice until I saw the silhouette of a man sitting next to me.

"There you are," he said, "How many fingers am I holding up?"
He held up three fingers, so I groggily replied with the correct answer.
"Good. How are you feeling today?"

The slash on my cheek was still sore. I brought my hand up to it, noticing it had been dressed with a bandaid. I groaned.

"Who are you?" I asked, staring at him uncomfortably. He was unlike the others; he seemed nice, but I still couldn't trust him until I knew fully who he was.
He smiled and walked to the cabinets.
"I'm James. I'm going to be your therapist while you're here."

James was tall, His auburn hair was neatly cut, the rich, warm tones catching the light in the room. Soft green eyes met mine with a reassuring calmness that contrasted sharply with the harshness of this place. His face was clean-shaven, and there was a gentleness to his features, a kindness that seemed out of place.

He was dressed casually, which added to his approachable demeanor. A light blue button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. The shirt was untucked over a pair of well-worn Levi's.

Everything about James seemed designed to put me at ease, from his soft-spoken manner to his casual attire. It was a stark contrast to the cold, clinical setting and the menacing figures I'd encountered so far.

I blinked, trying to process his words. A therapist? In this hellhole? It seemed almost laughable.

James continued, his voice calm and reassuring. "I know this is a lot to take in, and you've been through more than one traumatic experience so far."

I watched him warily. "You're different from the others," I said, my voice hoarse. "Why should I trust you?"

He paused, considering his words carefully. "Because I genuinely want to help you, Emily. I'm not here to hurt you. Plus, it's my job. My job is to make sure you're as safe and as comfortable as possible under the circumstances."

I wanted to believe him, but trust was a luxury I couldn't afford. Still, something in his demeanor made me feel slightly less on edge.

He returned to his seat next to me, holding a clipboard. "I know it's hard, but can you tell me how you're feeling, both physically and emotionally?"

I hesitated, then sighed. "Physically, my cheek hurts. Emotionally... I don't even know where to start. I'm scared... and confused. I don't know who to trust."

James nodded, his expression sympathetic. "That's completely understandable, given what you've been through. We'll take it one step at a time. For now, let's focus on your immediate needs."

He handed me a small cup of water. "Drink this. It's important to stay hydrated."

I took the cup with a trembling hand and sipped the water, feeling it soothe my dry throat. James watched me patiently, giving me the time I needed.

"Is there anything you need right now?" he asked gently.

I shook my head. "Just... some answers. What is this place? Why am I here?"