Haunted Rayne

8 - The Shrink

Inside the psychiatrist's office, the headteacher was already waiting for Rayne. The flyaways of her gray bun mirrored the erratic flailing of her arms. "You!" Miss Wilson squawked, reaching that shrill pitch reserved for the elderly. "Where have you been? Do you even understand the consequences of your actions?"

The old woman was flanked by the security guard Rayne met the day before. His muscled forearms folded over his chest, just beneath the nametag that read "Jason". The curl in his lip balanced somewhere between intimidation and amusement as the headteacher explained how long the guards had canvassed the campus searching for her.

Ever since her arrival, Rayne had been drilled with the threat of security so consistently, she'd honestly expected more. But no guard had found her or dragged her into the administration office using brute force. Quite the opposite, in fact. Rayne got away with it. A sense of invincibility swept her teenage bones, a childlike grit that assured her she was smarter, better, and faster than any guard here. As if sensing this, any touch of amusement fled the guard's smirk, and anger was all that remained.

Miss Wilson thanked the English instructor for finding the girl, Mr. Matthews assured her he merely kept Rayne company on her way to the office, and Red was still trying to calm the old woman's unending storm.

"Miss Wilson, it is very important that I have my session with Miss Foster today," said Red, buttoning his brown corduroy jacket. "I would implore you to allow her to complete her counseling session with me in lieu of attending her History lesson this afternoon. Is this permissible?"

The headteacher ignored him as she eyed Rayne's shoes. "Is that mud?" she spat.

Rayne looked down. "Uh . . . nope. No, it's not."

"Why is your hair wet?"

"I showered after gym class. That a crime?"

The blatant lies boiled the old woman's cheeks. After being drilled for ten minutes, the headteacher finally gave Rayne two weeks' worth of detention, leniency contingent on her willingness to supply her whereabouts for the past hour and a half. But Rayne would never tell.

Mr. Matthews gave Rayne's shoulder a gentle squeeze before he left, almost as if to say, "You've got this, kid. Don't worry."

Instead, Rayne heard two boys giggling; the sound was melodious, like a waterfall of clinks down a wind chime. She saw a ray of sunshine over an open book, and then, beneath the light of a blood moon, she saw a streak of scarlet staining the crust of an apple pie.

After everyone took their leave, Rayne was left alone with Red in his stark white office. His desk was metal with a marble-topped surface. In the corner, there was a wooden chair with plush white cushions and a floral-printed pillow. Adjacent to it rested a cozy matching sofa. Rayne took a seat on the couch, both hating and loving how soft the cushions were; she sank into them like a waterbed.

"Miss Foster," the psychiatrist began, taking a seat in the chair beside her. "I'd like to start by asking you what medication you're taking for the headaches."

Her voice dripped with sarcasm as she muttered, "I'm doing well, thank you for asking."

Red laughed. "Oh, forgive me. I like to jump right into the nitty-gritty sometimes." He placed a hand on top of his metal portfolio-clipboard and gave her a welcoming grin. "How are you, Miss Foster?"

"Fine, I guess." She eyed the clipboard. "Why did you ask about my meds? Shouldn't you already know what I'm taking for everything?"

"I do, but I'm asking you. It's more pleasurable to converse with another human being instead of a stack of stapled papers, wouldn't you agree?"