Maroon Escape to Meadows and Bees (Part One)

Chapter 11 (unedited)

"You two's arms are full of burns and scratches! What kind of Grimm did you fight?" The school's doctor and medical professor, Dr. Rosemary, checked on Jeane and I's wounds from fighting the group death stalkers.

"We fought a mother death stalker and a few smaller ones. I'm sure it's just from Jeane's use of fire dust. It gets everywhere," I lie. Well, it's partially true. Jeane doesn't use any dust in her weapons because it would dissipate everywhere  when she first tried using it. It doesn't help that when mixed with her semblance, any dust would basically burn into a powder and act as a drug when inhaled.

"Sheesh. No more fire dust for you until you get a better control over it." Dr. Rosemary pointed at Jeane. "You should know by now dust burns can often times cause irreversible damage!"

"Yes ma'am. I'm sorry." Jeane still had a solemn, tired gaze from earlier.

"I need to use the restroom." Jeane abruptly announced as we made our way back to the school grounds.

"Ms. Crimson, you need to visit the infirmary!" Professor Goodwitch stressed.

"I'll only take a minute. It's an emergency." Jeane dashed off with her head down, the silver-plated artifact still tucked under her arm as if it were a familiar book she was protecting.

The professor sighed in exasperation. It was a sorry excuse that Jeane made, but could anyone really blame her? She just went through a panic attack or two, and she always hated showing any weakness in front of anyone—that is, anyone outside of her personal circle.

"I'll go check on her. She's...been through a lot," I told Professor Goodwitch.

She hesitantly nodded. "I know." She crossed her arms over her tablet as I followed in Jeane's direction.

Upon entering the bathroom, I could only hear the faint creaks of plumbing along with the occasional rhythmic droplets of water from the showers in the back. Only the slight hitch of breath confirmed that Jeane was in here.

"Jeane, it's me," I walked closer to the stalls until I knocked on the one she occupied.

She let out a held breath. "I know," she croaked.

"You can talk to me; I'm right here."

"No, I..." she drew another shaky breath. I hear her shuffle around for a moment. The click of a case suggested she had earbuds plugged in. "Don't wanna talk about it."

It must be about her past. It's the one thing she always refuses to speak of. Every now and then though, she'll get a dream or feel comfortable enough to write a letter or draw about it. Her letters were always much more effective at getting any ideas across though. "Can you text or write about it?"

"I was just afraid. That's all. I don't wanna talk about it." She always texts she's 'afraid' when she has an anxiety attack in public. It's basically synonymous with anxiety for her at this point. "I just need some time. Please."

"Alright. I'll be sitting on the bench waiting for you if you need me." I move past the stalls and to the locker rooms. It's not like I can force her to stop her momentary self-isolation.

"..."

The bathroom stall door screeched open as Jeane walked out, looking down at the ground. She had her arms crossed as she briefly looked towards me.

In a few hushed steps, she slumped down, crossed her arms over her knees, and leaned onto my shoulder. She opened her mouth to speak, then closed it when nothing came out. Instead, she let one of her wolf ears rest on my shoulder to signal her appreciation.