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"YOU REMEMBER TOO MUCH," Dr Paige tells Violet on their third meeting. Like always, it is Thursday afternoon, the psychiatrist's office is white walls and splashes of colour that don't quite stab you in the eyes. There is a couch pressed against one wall, a potted plant sitting dead centre on the glass coffee table, and a desk fitted against the opposite wall with nothing besides a handful of thick, hardcover volumes sitting erect in a corner.
Violet lounges with leonine arrogance, not quite ready to melt down all her defences—including her cool exterior, inherited from her father—in front of the dark-skinned woman sitting in the chair opposite hers. Even if she's taken a liking to Dr Paige, whose voice is tempered wind and who says things as they are. The rare kind of candid Violet appreciates. But liking the doctor doesn't mean she has to trust her. Not yet. Not completely. There's still the unspoken question: do you believe my story? Everyone thinks I'm crazy because of what I saw that shouldn't have been possible. Do you think I'm crazy? Do you think I'm just another girl who cried wolf? Dr Paige has done a commendable job of elegantly dodging the inevitable.
At the moment, Dr Paige has a tablet balanced on her knee, little notes inscribed on the digital page. "You remember your brother's death—"
"Taking," Violet rectifies. Her posture is one of relaxation, one that takes up the room and makes gravity revolve around her presence. She got it from her father. Years of wanting to be as powerful as he is, years of wanting to make him proud. Now, that want is buried under the avalanche of rage. But she can't shake the conditioning. Her spine remains poised.
"Taking," Dr Paige concedes, nodding, and jots something down. "But you remember things that weren't there. Like the guilt you've mentioned in the last session. Correct?"
"It's a little hard to forget your own feelings."
"Do you think it was your fault?"
Violet thinks on it. "Yes," she admits, tapping her fingers against her knee in a familiar rhythm. Somedays she felt transparent; a greenhouse filled with ghosts. "If I hadn't insisted on lingering after dark just so I could get my kick flip right, Luka would still be here."
—IT'S ALL YOUR FAULT IT'S ALL YOUR FAULT THE LEAST YOU CAN DO IS FIX IT—
"How could you have known what was going to happen?" Dr Paige asks. It's the first time Violet's had to pause. Really pause. Erase any answer she has prepared on her tongue because this was not what she was expecting.
"I—" Violet chews down on the side of her tongue. The sting of molars digging into the sensitive flesh so hard it almost crushes it sharpens her mind. Her gut lurches. "I don't know," she says, "it just feels right, taking the blame."
