Trainwreck (Camren)

1. Introducing

The skin of my wrist burns under the fresh bandaging and I have to remind myself not to scratch at it too roughly, overly mindful of the wary eyes glancing up every now and then from the mahogany desk in front of me. My fingers graze over it lightly, as if they have a mind of their own—they seem to anyway lately—and when I look up I'm met with a reproachful glare.

"Lauren," he warns, knowing my intentions. Perhaps he could enlighten me. "Leave it alone."

I remain silent, keeping my eyes in his staring contest. I never lose, and he knows this. Briefly, he averts his gaze back down to his notes, horribly abused sheets of paper litter the desk and I wonder if he is always this unorganized. Or am I just that special? I almost snort at the thought, but refrain and successfully avoid any further inquisitions.

For now, anyway.

My fingers dance across the slightly raised flesh, gliding over the veins that I can see too clearly, until they disappear under the white bandaging. I'm too aware of the eyes on me, never leaving. And I look up to see more notes being written.

"What do you think he's writing?" a voice asks from the chair beside me, so innocent and curious. I shut my eyes tightly and fight the unwelcome churning in my stomach and force myself to keep from turning my head to her. "Lauren..." she says softly. Something burns deep at the back of my throat.

"Everything alright, Lauren?" he asks me, and I realize my fist is clenched—my face still emotionless. He pushes his frames up his nose, the action ages him considerably but his strong facial features are handsome and young. He places his pen down beside his notes and, clasping his hands together, he leans forward on his desk. "You haven't said much today, considering..."

"I know," I finally say after a minute of deliberation. He retracts a moment, pushing his large chair back and fishing something out of the side drawer of the desk. After a moment of fumbling around he sets down that same archaic tape recorder I've seen him use multiple times before. He sets it equidistant from him and myself and pushes a button. The tape inside comes to life and starts turning. I never understood why he liked such old fashioned recorders. He leans over his desk again, hands neatly folded.

"How are you adjusting to being back at home again?" He's cautious this time. I can sense his apprehension and I narrow my eyes.

"Fine."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"Well after what we discussed at the hospital you can't blame my being curious. We've been here before, Lauren."

"I know."

"Have you been taking your medication?"

"Yes."

"As prescribed?" he asks. My eyes narrow once more.

"Yes." Pursed lips and an amused glare appear in my peripherals. I don't look at her.

"Lauren, Lauren," she sighs, almost sings, shaking her head. I see her hair flowing from side to side from the corner of my eyes. "Dr. Collins is a wise man." I can't decipher the tone of her voice.

I chance a quick glance to the chair beside me and involuntarily clench my jaw when I see her sitting there, blue shorts and grey t-shirt; I hate it when she wears that. Her hair is slightly unkempt and in a perfect world I would reach over and run my fingers through it, reveling in the softness of the dark brown locks. But in a perfect world, I wouldn't be here in the first place. Against my will, my good hand is balled in another tight fist.

"Relax, sweetheart," she whispers in that sweet, breathy voice of hers. I stare at her a moment and she tilts her head to the side like she always did. Large finger-shaped patches of purple and blue are revealed as her hair falls away, wrapping her neck in disgusting, horrifying lines. I shake my head to keep from throwing up.