Fear

17

I didn't say anything after Sam left.

James didn't either, not at first. He stood in place for a moment, clipboard in hand, then pulled the chair from the corner to sit beside the table. His movements were methodical, almost too quiet, like he'd done this dozens of times and was trying not to rattle me.

When he looked at me over the top of his glasses, he didn't smile. His expression remained. He looked tired, and concerned, and... pitiful. And that angered me.

I almost opened my mouth to speak that thought aloud, but he cut me off just before I could:

"We need to do a mental health assessment," he said.

I blinked. Once. Twice. Before my face contorted into a scowl of distain.

"It's okay, we'll take it slow. I just need you to answer a few questions. That's all. This is just to understand where you're at, so I can help you."

He spoke so gently, as if it would dampen the growing flame in my chest.

I turned my head away, looked at the wall, at the dent where Tyler had thrown the tray. "Do I have a choice?" I said, my voice flat and almost resigned.

James nodded. "You always have a choice. But silence is still an answer."

'Fuck you,' I thought, but bit it back. My arms wrapped tighter around my chest, fingers digging into my ribs in forced restraint.

I was trying so hard to keep it together.

"Fine," I muttered.

He crossed his leg over his knee, pen poised. "Okay, let's start simple. How would you describe your current mood?"

I exhaled, long and bitter. "Like I've been ground into paste and stuffed back into a skin suit."

A beat. He wrote that down.

"That's... oddly specific. Could you elaborate?"

"No."

He kept writing. His face was unreadable, but his eyes flicked back to mine now and then-always watching.

James adjusted the clipboard in his lap. "Do you think there's been any... sense of improvement since you arrived here? Any moment that felt... even slightly better?"

I slowly turned my head and glared at him, my jaw tightening. "Are you fucking serious?"

And then I laughed - loud, bitter, angry.
"You mean since I was kidnapped, starved, cut up like a butchered pig, and bandaged like some fucked-up science experiment?"

He didn't flinch.

"No!" I snapped. "Absolutely fucking not!"

He paused again, slower this time. His hand hovered before he wrote, as if he were choosing his words carefully.

"Okay..." he whispered. He looked - hurt? Just for a second, and then it disappeared as he rubbed the end of his nose with the back of his index finger.

I sat there, seething. Chewing my lips. Breathing slowly.

"This therapy doesn't mean shit," I muttered through clenched teeth. My stomach turned. "It's like you've handed me a bucket in a sinking ship and said, 'Good luck.'"

He scribbled something shorter this time. Paused. Sighed. Took off his glasses and pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose. I knew what he was thinking. That I wasn't going to be as easy to deal with as he thought. Or maybe that I was an annoying bitch.