Fear

10

It was the sound of shuffling papers that caught my attention next — quiet and methodical, like someone trying not to disturb me.

I remained curled up on my side from the night before, still clinging desperately to the thin blanket Tyler had given me, the table biting into my bony hips. My muscles felt stiff from staying in one position too long. I turned my head and blinked slowly, my eyes squinting to adjust to the harsh ceiling light, making my head ache. My arm instinctively rose to shield my eyes.

As I slowly rolled onto my back and swept my gaze around the room, I noticed someone there, to my left. An unfamiliar man sat beside the bed, holding a clipboard and tapping his pen against it with a slow rhythm.

My body immediately recoiled, expecting the worst. Part of me still expected Dylan or Tyler to be sitting there. But this man wasn't like them. There was no immediate sense of danger radiating from him. Just calm. Measured.

My arm stalled mid-air in front of me, a shield in case he moved to hurt me. I eyed him warily, my face taut with caution.

"Emily," the man said with a small smile, his voice gentle but firm. "Are you okay?"

I moved my arm, letting it rest over my chest. Now I was more curious than scared. This man seemed different from the rest.

He looked out of place, almost. He wasn't in any kind of uniform like the others. He wore a soft blue shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbow, untucked over a pair of faded jeans. His auburn hair was neat, his face clean-shaven, and a pair of thin-rimmed glasses sat low on his nose, catching the light. His bright green eyes met mine with a disarming gentleness, like someone who'd read the manual on being safe and approachable.

I gave a small nod in response.

"Good. How many fingers am I holding up?"

Three. I mumbled the number, my voice raspy through a dry throat. I coughed, wincing at the sting.

He offered a small, almost reassuring smile, his lips curling upward. "That's good. You're lucid, at least. How are you feeling this morning?"

The ache in my cheek reminded me of yesterday. I reached up to touch the raw edge of it, flinching slightly.

"Sore," I croaked out in a whisper. "Where's..."

I stopped myself. I didn't actually know what I was asking. Where's Tyler? Where's Dylan? Where am I? Where's home?

He stood and walked over to the countertop.
"My name's James... Dean," he said over his shoulder with a slight, bitter laugh. I didn't return it. "My parents had a sense of humour... Anyway— I'm going to be your therapist while you're here."

That made me sit up straighter. I pushed myself up onto my elbows, a disbelieving scoff catching in my chest. "A therapist?" My voice cracked. "In this place? That's fucking ironic."

He didn't take offence. If anything, he seemed to expect my scepticism. He nodded, his gaze turning to the floor.

"I get it. This isn't the environment you're used to. Nothing about this is normal," he said, gesturing vaguely with his hands as he spoke. "But my role is to support you. To help you cope with everything that's happened and will happen."

"Why the hell should I trust you?" I questioned, fully sitting up now, folding my arms across my chest. "Everyone says something different. In my book, you're all the same. Fucking dangerous."

"Because, Emily," he said without missing a beat, "I haven't lied to you. And I won't." He returned to the chair, settled into it slowly. "And if I ever have to tell you something you won't like, I'll still tell you the truth."