The detective called me into the station for a little chat the other day to give me an update, which was basically so he could inform me that Mira was being an uncooperative pain in the ass. He’s kept looking down at my casted arm and then suggested that maybe I should go see a therapist to help me go through this. I’d told him I was fine, since the idea of going and spilling my thoughts to someone is something I never wanted to go through. I remember the looks people used to give me when they found out I’d spent twenty-four hours in the house with my parents’ bodies.
Pity.
Horror.
Fear.
But it turns out I might not have a choice. The publicity of the entire thing has got the University involved and it was ‘recommended’ by my school advisor that I talk to their counselor. Already being on thin ice, I agreed and I have my first appointment today.
The woman sitting behind the desk when I walk into the office is a bit different than what I expected. She’s got fiery red hair, the kind you have to dye to make it look like that. And I can see a tattoo peeking out from the collar of her shirt. She’s dressed in a pant suit though and her hair is pulled up into a bun, like she’s half-business woman, half rebel, which kind of matches the dark but beautiful artwork she’s got hanging up on the walls.
‘Oh hey,’ she greets me when I walk in as if I’m a friend not a client. ‘Violet Hayes, right?’
I nod. ‘Yeah, that’d be me.’
She smiles then leans over her cluttered desk to shake my. ‘I’m Lana. Glad you could make it. Have a seat.’
I plop down in the chair and drop my bag to the floor, a bundle of nerves as I pick at my fingernail polish then start biting at my nails. I’m telling myself to put my walls up, be tough Violet, because this isn’t a safety zone – this isn’t like the time I spend with Luke.
‘So what brought you in here today, Violet Hayes?’ Lana asks as she sorts through a file on her desk.
‘You don’t know that already?’ I put my hands on my lap. ‘Because I’m guessing you do. Everyone knows me. Violet Hayes, creepy girl who lived while her parents were murdered. Stayed in the house for twenty-four hours.’
She smiles up at me, surprisingly not annoyed by my bitchy attitude. ‘Sounds like you’re a tough chick.’
‘No, just blunt.’ This is going to be harder than I thought.
‘Hmmm … maybe … But maybe not.’ She looks down at the folder again, reading a paper that’s inside it. After looking it over briefly, she shuts it and slides it aside before overlapping her hands and putting them on the desk. ‘So other than what the news says about you, what do I need to know about you?’
I give a relaxed shrug. ‘Doesn’t the news tell you enough … tell you what’s wrong with me.’
She gives me a soft smile. ‘I’d like to hear what you think about you, not anyone else.’
I honestly don’t know how to answer her, not used to this kind of situation. ‘There’s not much to know.’
‘Do you have a job?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you go to school. You’ve been really good with attendance up until a couple of months ago. Do you want to tell me why?’
I shake my head. ‘Nope.’
‘Okay then.’ She lets it go easily and I’m relieved that she does – I’ve already heard enough about that from other people. Maybe this won’t be so bad after all. ‘And what about boyfriends. Do you have one of those?’
I shrug, the walls I’ve put up starting to chip away. ‘Maybe.’
She appears lost. ‘Maybe?’
‘It’s complicated.’
She nods like she understands, but how could she when I haven’t told her anything. ‘What about friends?’
I fold my arms across my chest. ‘I might have a few of those.’ Maybe.
She mulls over my answer then picks up a pen and grabs a notebook from her drawer. ‘And what about family?’ She starts to write something down.
‘Dead.’ The walls crash down. ‘I’m a foster kid.’
I catch her hesitating, but she quickly recovers. ‘Are you close with any of them?’
I almost laugh. Not by choice, I want to say. Because one won’t leave me alone. ‘Again, no. Adults really aren’t a fan of this.’
She glances up at me. ‘Of what?’
I point at myself. ‘Of a girl that scares the shit out of them.’
She writes one more thing down, then sets the pen and paper aside and focuses on me again. ‘Why do you think everyone’s afraid of you?’
‘Because that’s what they say.’ I’m uncomfortable, my inner demons and addiction clawing to come out and regain control over the situation the only way I know how. ‘I don’t blame them either. It’s creepy what I did.’