Page 43 of Wicked Vile King
The guards don't seem to care.
Me, though, I'm just glad he's gone, or that's what I tell myself anyway, because what's the alternative? To give into the craving for his attention, his safety, and to let him protect me from all the monsters that go bump in this place? I can't. Mama would be ashamed if I did.
"Willow?" Dr. Cross says, pulling me back to the present, and I look up from my lap where I've been rubbing one of the scars again with my unbandaged hand. "You with me?"
I nod, though it's a lie. He's insisted on daily sessions for now, where I am escorted at odd places and times up to his personal office for therapy. It's probably the nicest room at the Academy, everything black, white, or gray, kept spotless and almost pristine. I sit on a black leather chaise across from him, next to a potted plant that's fake but looks real from a distance. It may not be the nicest room at the Academy, but it's the nicest one I've seen, at least.
It doesn't feel like a punishment to be here with him either, only a brief reprieve from the guards who don't care and the teachers who somehow care even less. Maybe it's because it isn't outdated like the rest of the school. It's a modern space that reminds me of home and the place outside these stone walls and before. Plus, Dr. Cross is kind, unlike almost everyone else, so I don't think I'd mind being here, even if it wasn't so nice, because all I have to do is sit, spend an hour with him, and talk about myself.
"I said," he offers, his tone kind but firm, "that I'd like you to start attending group therapy sessions with the rest of the students. Many of your classmates benefit from them, and it's the one place in the entire school where many of them feel safe and heard. Understood?"
I shift in my seat on the leather chaise and nod.
He gifts me a small smile and asks his next question.
"Willow, the last time we spoke, you weren't sure about the medicine. We never finished that conversation." He flips through a manila folder in his lap. "You were on a low-dose antidepressant after the attempt last October. Why did you stop taking it? The notes from your prior psychiatrist are not clear."
I shrug and look at him, my thumb catching my scar again.
"I don't know," I say. "I guess I just didn't feel like the pills worked."
"Maybe we should up the dose then?"
"No." I shake my head quickly, and he frowns. "I mean I'm not sure I need it."
His lips purse together as he shuts his folder and looks at me for a long moment.
Then he points at my wrists, and the scars itching beneath my sweater.
"I'd say those marks on your wrists would beg to differ."
My face flushes, shame reddening my cheeks.
"I just mean," I explain, hooking my thumbs inside my sleeves and drawing them down over my hands, "that the small dose is fine."
"Okay," he finally agrees with a nod, marking something on my folder. "For now, we will try it. Do you agree?"
Do I have a choice?
"I agree."
He finishes his note and looks at the clock on his black wooden desk. "Our time's almost up for today. Is there anything else you would like to ask me?"
I shake my head quickly. I already know the answer.
"Are you sure?" he offers, and I know he's giving me an out, a chance to bring up the question that swells inside of me, expanding until it makes me feel like I'm going to explode.
Why should I ask? It's not like it's going to change the outcome.
"Willow . . ." he gives me one last chance.
Fine.
"What did he say?" I blurt, looking up from the floor at Dr. Cross and finding his patient gaze already on me. "Did he change his mind?" I swallow. "When can I go home?"
I don't know why I bother to ask. I already know the answer—Papa shouted it at me when we spoke after the incident with Saint and Headmistress called him to inform him about my injuries. I'd begged him to change his mind, to let me live the dream of escaping this place and returning to normal, but he'd ended the discussion with four words.
You cannot come home!!!
