[READ Have Vengeance FIRST]
"Long time no see."
"Fuck you."
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After three years, Alyona finds herself back in New York after fleeing from the memories it left behind. With the killer of her best friend still not brought to justice, Alyona w...
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•°. *࿐
DRAW A PICTURE that defines your current state of mind.
You have got to be fucking kidding me.
In a perfect world I might have been able to draw some nice flowers. The sun or anything lively and bright. Maybe a happy memory. But this isn't a perfect world, and I don't have enough memory or artistic skills for any of those visuals.
Sitting at the edge of the table, a brand-new, unopened pack of markers taunt me.
If only I had the skill to draw myself being burned to the ground. A headless mother, my father without a face; a portrait of their lovelessness - or my new therapist, the smug fucking bastard, with her organs opened up on a dining table in front of me.
There you go, I'd say, it's important to 'open up' as you like to put it.
But with all the medication I'm taking, I'm not meant to be acting like that any more. Instead, I just stare at the cheerful faces staring back at me, because I'm not that good at sketching anyway.
The printout contains eight smiley faces in total, two in each corner, enticing me to produce more to join their tiny gathering. I believe that right now, I would rather die than make any sort of pointless smiling face or, put simply, do anything that would make me take part in this illogical assessment.
It's convenient they aren't letting me use red. That colour is missing from the packet. I'm sure they thought I'd take the piss and draw a rotting corpse like I did last time.
I can't do that this time though. I'm better. Apparently.
"Viria?" My therapist asks. Her name is either Amy or Amelia. Or neither. I don't pay attention to her most of the time.
"Mm." I sound.
"I think this could be good for you. We could keep it like a journal to try and see your progress." She tells me.
"Mm." I say again, reaching out and grabbing the black marker before sliding the sheet closer to me.
I've been in here for two months. It's fucking terrible. I wish they just put me in prison instead of some psychiatric cell. At least then I wouldn't have to talk all the time.
Using my artistic skills, I draw out a massive black cross that spreads across the pages from corner to corner, before simply handing her back her paper and markers.
Amy/Amelia sighs as if this was expected and stands, "Next week we'll try and get something happier, yeah?"
"Yeah." I agree. Because the sooner you agree, the sooner they let you out.
"You're also having your psych evaluation today, so remember to be honest, okay darling?" She adds.
Right. The real one that they do every week. Bringing in some university student who daddy and mommy had enough money to allow them a close up look at a schizo.
