Becoming Scarlett | ✓

Chapter Two: Missing

I pulled my left leg up under me, so that I sat almost cross legged on my bed. I winced for a second when I moved my right leg, which was still encased in plaster. I sighed. "A bad memory. A really bad one."

She nodded. "Okay. So what exactly happened in this memory?"

I reached over to my table and picked up the cup of coffee she must have set there when she came in. I clutched it in my hands. "I was in the basement... At the house in the woods. I was sitting on my bed- this old army cot with lot of holes in it," I paused, taking a breath. "Anyways, I heard Him coming down the stairs. I was so scared... You woke me up just as He was coming through the door."

I looked down at my hands, admiring the faded scars that circled my wrists like bracelets.

He always tied the ropes so tight.

"I'm glad you told me this Scarlett. It's important you not keep these thoughts bottled up." Her hand rested on my arm, drawing my attention away from the scars.

I looked up at her, doe eyed. "You don't think I'm broken?"

She shook her head and offered me a warm smile. "I think you are brave. Thank you for trusting me with this."

She took a sip of her coffee, letting her hand fall from my arm. She leaned back, crossing her legs. "Now, since you've recovered from surgery, the police are sending a sketch artist in to meet with you today."

I sighed dramatically. "I guess no more Jell-O and princess treatment, eh? Back to real life."

She chuckled at that. "Sorry hon, they need this. But, we can still give you Jell-O."

"Thanks, Doc," I smiled.

Her pager beeped, and she looked at it. "Ah, would you look at that. The artist is here." She stood up, returning the chair to its spot. "Ready?"

I bit into my lip. I didn't like being around strangers, I still wasn't ready to trust everybody. "Um... would you mind staying with me? In the room? With the person?" I asked her.

She nodded, without a second of consideration. "I will do whatever makes you comfortable, Scarlett."

I exhaled, grateful. "Thank you, Dr. Michaels. I know it may seem silly but..."

"It's not silly," she cut me off. "Victims of serious traumas like yourself tend to get overwhelmed easily. You don't trust many people because of what's been done to you."

"But I trust you. And Carrie," I pointed out.

She nodded. "Because you've become attached to us. Because we were the first to really help you and comfort you. However, over time I promise you will come to trust people and blend into daily life."

"You promise?" I asked. 

"I promise," she told me, sounding genuine. "Now, are you ready to describe your kidnapper to the sketch artist?"

I sighed, swinging my legs over the side of the bed and retrieving my crutches. "I'm ready."

She smiled, offering a hand to help me stand up. "I'm glad to hear. Now let's head to the conference room."

I carefully positioned my crutches under my arms and hobbled out of the room after her.

We walked down the halls to a set of office spaces. We arrived in front of conference room S328 and she unlocked the door, holding it open so I could hobble my way inside.

At the far end of the table, a woman stood up. She looked to be in her twenties, with narrow green eyes, surrounded in eyeliner, red lips and long, straight, bright green hair. She wore a zebra print shirt under a tight black vest, a short black skirt and fishnet leggings.