Deception. Betrayal. Mistrust.
It seems the closer Rayne gets to the truth, the more she finds herself wanting to run away from it. It's complex and terrifying-more than she ever fathomed.
New family members, good and bad, pop out at her like a br...
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𝗘den did not want to be here.
She ran her fingers over the thick leather of the couch she was sitting on; the bottom of her thighs were pooling with growing sweat, as the stupid black thing was sitting directly in front of the only window in this office. Her fingers rose and dropped on the surface in a repetitive pattern; she allowed the noise and movement to be her tie to her reality – without it, she would be floating in a mindless swamp miles away from this place.
Her eyes felt like they weighed a million pounds; she slowly blinked, focusing on the way her vision went from clear and wide to a bright red in reflection of the sun against the skin of her eyelids. She licked her lips and tasted the air in hopes of ridding the dryness of the inside. When that failed, she swooped a hand up and brushed away her locks of curly blonde hair; it had grown so irritating over the past week during withdrawals, that she found herself standing in front of the mirror with a pair of scissors so often that she wound up here.
In therapy.
Real therapy, too – which is much different from speech therapy.
In here, it felt like she was boxed in – as if she were a dangerous animal incapable of being let out of the cage without a proper consolation and evaluation. From the assorted pens in a cylinder cup, to the black leather couch, to the brown chair before her, to the therapist perched within it with her perfect little loafers and dramatically long, modest skirt, this entire place was overstimulating.
Way too fucking perfect; something humanity could not grasp.
It was like she was forced to partake in this theatrical show starring as the main character. All eyes were on her. They wondered with zero careful consideration if she would fail – fall on her face in front of the lights, cameras, and crowd. They bore their moronic eyes at her with the smallest flames of hope for her recovery, knowing that one breath would be all it'd take to blow it out.
And behind her – like a nightmare she never wanted, was her boyfriend. Shoving her. Pushing her. Wanting to fix her back into the person she used to be – the sober one. The quiet girl. The one with the pathetically cute stutter. The one that never triggered her kill switch; only did so when she wanted to. The one with control and the one who was less of a mindless zombie and more of a miserable barbie doll.
Too bad most dolls were made of porcelain, and no matter how much tape, or glue, or plaster of Paris they threw on her to fix her, the cracks would still show up like a haunted picture.
Just this time?—she didn't mind them.
What was the point in getting sober when being high felt a million times better?
"Eden?" Sarah's voice snapped her out of her internal thoughts.
She turned her head to the side, letting her eyes be torn from the hands on the clocks. She found that time here went by much faster when she was counting the seconds and staring at the way time moved. From her perspective, if she had to sit through an hour of idiotic chit-chat to be left alone by Blaine, then so be it. As far as he knew, she wasn't taking pills, and she was getting better.
