Crazy About You - Lydia Martin

| 35 |

Oliver gnawed at the skin of his flaking lip, pulling with his teeth until it separated, leaving but a red and raw spot that stung as blood seeped through. Waiting just a moment, he ran his tongue over it, soothing the ache and capturing the metallic tasting substance on his tastebuds as he swallowed. It remained even after minutes had passed, as a bitter aftertaste so strong his nose crinkled in disgust.

He stared. At the wall, clock, and cluttered - yet organized - mess on Ms. Morrell's desk. In his lap, his fingers twitched, aching for something to pick at. His cuticles would have to do for now until he could leave the cramped office and tear small pieces of paper from the corners of his assignments when the teachers turned a blind eye.

"How are you, Oliver?" Ms. Morrell asked, her voice smooth as she intertwined her fingers on the desk in front of her.

Snapped out of his daze, Oliver's eyes flickered to meet hers, finding nothing but the genuine care and worry of a guidance counselor displayed in their brown depths. He swallowed, taking a moment to let the question sink in.

And then he forced himself to reply; to be polite and smile, even though he wanted nothing more than to run home and glue his eyes open so he didn't have to see the horrifying picture of his sister - terrified and helpless - with Matt's gun pressed to the back of her head every time he blinked.

"I'm fine, I think," Oliver said, looking at his fingers as they picked and pulled at the dry skin around his nails. The nightmares seemed to have subsided, but he was still paranoid and anxious, jumping at every moving shadow in fear that it would attack him.

Raising her eyebrows, Ms. Morrell grabbed the pen neatly tucked under the file he knew had his name on it and clicked the tip out, sketching messy lines on a nearby post-it just to make sure the ink hadn't dried down. Then she took the notebook that rested to the right of her keyboard and began scribbling down notes, notes about him and about how he was feeling.

Oliver wanted to ask what she was writing, what she felt necessary to remember about the four words he'd said. But he knew she wouldn't reply. He'd tried before, and Ms. Morrell had only smiled - soft and kind, yet stern enough for him to instantly back down and deflate in his seat with a sigh.

"You think?" Ms. Morrell queried once she was finished, one of her eyebrows quirked curiously. "You're not sure whether you're fine or not?"

The wordplay had begun. The questions were worded in just the right way to edge him into talking even though he might not want to. It was like magic, Oliver thought. How he could go from swearing he wouldn't utter a word to babbling like his life depended on it just because he felt the need to explain himself.

"Oh, no." Oliver shook his head. "I know I'm not fine," he admitted. When he shrugged his shoulders, sinking further down in his seat, he knew Ms. Morrell could tell he felt self-conscious speaking about himself in this way. "It's just hard to say. Especially since I know some people have it harder than me and are managing just fine."

"Well, how do you know they're having it harder than you?" she paused momentarily, looking up from his file to gauge his reaction. "Did they tell you? Or did you decide that for yourself?"

Oliver hated it when she made him feel better about himself. It infuriated him to his very core.

When the nightmares first began, haunting his dreams and waking him in the middle of the night with his heart palpitating and his clothes drenched in sweat, he told himself it was fine. That he could handle it and that it was nothing to worry about. Gabriela hadn't died that night. Matt had spared her life, choosing to put the bullet in Scott's abdomen instead - something Oliver was forever grateful for.