Fear

27

I was still lying in the same position Vincent had left me in, strapped by my wrists to the cold metal table, the hard surface biting into my spine. The dress did little to keep me warm, and for once, I actually missed those awful grey sweats. But that was the least of my problems now.

James walked to the back of the room, dragged the visitor chair over, and sat beside me. I didn't look at him. My eyes stayed fixed on the ceiling, tracing the cracks in the tiles and making out shapes.

"I'm guessing you're not thrilled to see me," he muttered as he sat down, more to himself than to me.

My fingers twitched. Part of me wanted to scream.

He let out a breath — could've been a short, disbelieving laugh or an exasperated sigh. Wasn't sure which. He adjusted the chair. Sat back, crossed his legs, and tried to settle into some therapeutic rhythm, like he hadn't just walked into a room with a ticking time bomb strapped to the table. I could tell he was nervous.

"So, stupid question, but... how are you feeling today? On a scale of one to ten."

I chuckled bitterly. Didn't answer.

"Come on, Emily. Work with me here. I can't help if you won't talk."

"I don't need your fucking help," I retorted, finally speaking.

He didn't press, just exhaled slowly and nodded, like he'd expected it.

Yes, I was being stubborn, but I wasn't in the right mindset to be "helped." I'd already made up my mind, I wasn't going to tell him anything.

"Alright," he said, his voice carefully neutral. "No help then. Just conversation."

I gave a short, dry laugh. "Same thing."
He ignored it.

"I heard you've had quite the week. Dr. Thorne filled me in on your recovery, and... I heard what happened with Dylan."

I hummed.

He waited. Gave me a full ten seconds to say something before continuing. "Look, Emily, I'm not here to interrogate you. I know you're not going to spill some great secret. But I'd like to understand..." he gestured vaguely, "this version of you. The one that came back from the ward. Because this isn't the Emily I knew before."

I let the silence stretch long enough to become hostile. Then I muttered, "You're wasting your time."

"Maybe. But I'd rather waste it here than pretend everything's fine on paper. Dr. Thorne thinks we should resume therapy. And I agree."

I rolled my eyes.

"Emily," he said, gently now. "Last time we spoke, you had a full-blown panic attack and were terrified of what was happening to your mind."

My silence answered for me. What was I supposed to say? That I wasn't scared anymore? That I was past that, even though I wasn't?

Truth is, I was scared. Underneath the tough exterior, pretending to be okay, and the reckless determination. The whole situation scared me, how could it not? I was still myself, somehow. Just not the same. I'd built walls, and he could see that, even heard it in the tone of my voice and the sarcasm.

"You're different now," he said.

He glanced at the strap around my wrist, probably thankful I was restrained. He folded his hands, sat still for a beat, and looked at me over his glasses. "Fear's not the enemy. Recklessness is. And the way you're going, it'll be your downfall."

"Oh, save it," I snapped, finally turning my head towards him. "I've lived in fear my whole life! My father, Tyler, this place! And what did that get me? It's about time I fought for once!"