Page 87 of Pucking Them

---

I stagger to the door.

I can’t think.

Can’t…

She thinks that I’m bad, right?

But I am.

They all say it.

I shake at the memory of my brother’s fury and my parents’ coldness. The terror of solitary confinement with only my circling, intrusive thoughts.

“I’m not,” I storm to the door, “talking about anything with you.”

My hands are shaking so hard, however, that I drop the paperwork. It scatters across the floor.

“No,” I gasp. “No,no.”

Now the men will come and take me away for making a mess…

I must be neat and good and then I won’t be sent away again.

I won’t be punished.

I can be good.

Frantically, I drop to my knees and gather up the papers.

“Leave those,” Olivia says, coolly. “They’re my copies. Remember that I’ve read your private therapy notes. I know about your unhealthy coping mechanisms. Aren’t you at least going to talk about the reason that you never truly hit your true potential until this last season, instead hiding behind drink, partying, and BDSM?”

“Don’t,” I whisper, covering my ears. “Don’t.”

“All to escape what happened after that day your brother came home and found you kissing a boy?—”

“This session is over.” I abandon the paperwork, launching myself to my feet.

My thoughts are circling. I can’t stop them.

Can’t stop.

My heart is thudding. This is my fault.

I tug on fistfuls of my hair — once, twice, thrice.

I’m suffocating in my own mind.

One. Two. Three.

Panting, I tug on my hair three times again.

Then I wrench open the door, throwing myself out into the corridor.

My mind is still spinning.

I can’t escape.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

---