^ our babyface Sky (and there's a video if you swipe > 💃🏼) ^
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H o l l o w s   I n
T    I    M    E
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27/08/16
Twelve months and two weeks ago

After that, I became a prisoner in a life I couldn't even recognise. I had a therapist; my parents thought I was dealing with post traumatic stress—it could've been that, or it could've been the fact that my best friend died at the hands of the man I loved, and then that life was stripped away from me. I was bare and alone, the cold winds of a warm September chipping away at my iron resolve.

I hadn't been allowed to go back to school yet—my parents and therapist had discussed this matter and came to the conclusion that the right thing to do was to let me have my time to heal before I was thrown back into a social situation.

Alexi was always at our house, she got here before and after school and lurked in the corners of every room I went into. She even made the effort to get up early on the weekend mornings, just sitting in my room as I awoke.

It was Monday, four days after my birthday, and after the death of a part of me I had kept so close, without knowing it'd be torn away so quickly. Lexi had made me breakfast. I wasn't hungry. Lexi sighed and started picking at my bacon, eating my meal. I watched her, then realised there were only three slices of bacon left. I swatted her hand away and she frowned at me, a curious glint in her widened eyes. I sighed and picked up my cutlery, digging into my meal—I have a therapy session to get to.

Lexi grinned at me, and then, twenty minutes later, off she was to school, which, I thought, was much better than therapy.

During the drive to the shrinks lair, I didn't speak a word, like I hadn't the other three times we'd driven there. My parents took turns in driving me there, and I stared out the window as my mother sat in the drivers seat, her finger tapping the wheel as she drove.

Then we reached the car park. Getting out of the car, I really considered making a run for it, but I knew I'd never get far at all. I dragged my feet to the entrance, watching my mother get back into her car and speed off.

I regretfully trekked over to my therapists room and pushed the door open without a knock; he knew I hated him anyway. Yes, a he. And surprisingly enough, my parents allowed him to council me despite his gender. I really had no issue with it, although the youngest therapist I've seen—maybe even fresh out of university or something—he wasn't really my type.

"Sky," He addressed me, taking a seat on his office chair and offering me the couch. I sat upon the leather dressed sofa, placing my left hand over my right on my lap.

"How are you feeling?" He asked me first, pulling out his notepad and pen from the table beside him. There was nothing but distance between us.

"You ask me that every session." Was what I responded with, watching him flash me an amused smile.

"So can you remember what you told me last session?" He raised his eyebrows at me and I frowned.

"No." I told him; why did I need to remember what I said? Surely he was the one that needed to remember what I said.

"Then tell me, how do you feel today?" He had caught me out. The persistent bugger. The question could be answered with a word, or with a whole essay, yet I felt like I wouldn't be completely satisfied with either answer.

So I shrugged. That was my answer.

"Would you prefer if I gave you silent questions too?" He asked me next and I was instantly amazed by his sharp toned, and very quick, question.

"Isn't this supposed to be therapy?" I asked him, "Don't we do whatever's best for the patient, or whatever?" My answer was scruffy, but I was annoyed—it happens.

The man frowned, tapping his pen against the edge of his notepad. "Sky, talking is what's best for you." He told me.

Now, it was my time to frown, "And why do you say that?" I asked him.

"Why would I say that?" He answered my question with another question. Typical shrink attitude.

I stared, "Because.." I trailed off. "I don't know," I was losing the will to live with this guy, "Maybe you know me so well that you already have our next thirty sessions planned out." I over-exaggerated, seeming only to humour the man.

"That's half true, but, actually, I only know you a little. I only know of you, but you should know more than anyone how the media can distort someone's image." He explained but I just furrowed my eyebrows.

"And how would I know that?" I asked him.

"Have you watched the news?" He asked me.

"Yes."

"Have you seen the reports on you on the news?"

"Yes." I looked away, "Most of them, anyway." I reworded.

"And what did most of these reports tell us?" He asked me.

"That a missing girl came back."

"Is that all they said?" He was testing me on my own story.

"Kind of," I pulled a face, "I guess, well, they told everyone I had been kidnapped, and that they have a witness, but they have no suspects, yet." I continued.

"And how do you know that they're going to get suspects?" He asked. Another bloody question.

"Because it was a crime." I nearly shouted, "Because the police work in that field of work." This time I threw my hands up in the air.

"Some people don't get caught for their crimes." It wasn't a question. And instead of being relieved, I was just put more on edge.

"Yeah, well, most people do. And this is a pretty popular case, I'm sure people will be turned in soon." I told him. And then the subject was dropped. Kind of.

"You can talk about your kidnapping so easily, how is that?" The question stumped me. What?

"Are you accusing me of something?" I asked back, happy I could counter his question with one of my own.

"Should I be accusing you of something?" Crap. Not only had I failed in trying to beat him in the question quarrel, but he had just suspected something about me that he probably shouldn't have.

"Accuse me of whatever you like—they're only accusations." I folded my arms over my chest, and watched as my therapist got an answer he wasn't expecting. I wasn't about to plead for my innocence when I knew I didn't have any. My therapist regarded me with a steady—but not judging—gaze, as if trying to figure out my mind.

Then, finally, he gave up, and proceeded to talk to me about what he thinks of today's session; the same conclusion he does over and over again, as if he wants me to memorise it—

"I think we've made some progress, but I think you should try to open up your mind more, your parents insisted you needed help, I'm here to provide it. Let me help you. Pretend you've got nothing to hide, with nothing to lose, then next time, tell me everything and anything you want."

But I never came back with anything to say. I had everything to hide and everything to lose. I couldn't suddenly just pretend that I'm a normal girl with normal mental problems in need of normal therapy. Because I'm not normal, and my problems are far from normal...do I even need therapy?

Despite this, I stood up and nodded before leaving the room, self-consciously re-covering my body with that secretive shield—I could feel my naked honesty starting to show.

I walked out into the reception, sending a text to my mother that I was finished and needed a lift home. The receptionist looked up at me, and despite the fact that we had only really just met, she displayed me a big grin.

"You're not going home alone, are you?" She asked me, her fingers hovering over the keyboard she had been previously tapping at.

I frowned, "No, I'm waiting for my mum now." I told her, hitting my phone against my knuckles, an old habit of mine.

"That's good," She told me, her eyes quickly flitting to the computer screen as she clicked her mouse. "Leaving yourself unprotected is generally a bad mistake." She continued, but her words rang out into the depths of a dark tunnel that encaged all my secrets. She didn't know it, but the receptionist had just summed up my life at the academy. And, now, I pondered on how this new kind of protection would help me. Was this a mistake?

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I mean

Possibly
Maybe
Kind of
There's a good chance
Probably
Fairly ??
Okay

I mean

I want to be the receptionist

Such a great life she leads

Summing up lives almost like she knows a lot 🤔

Okay I'm curious about this receptionist I gotta do some research on her catch you later

-caught

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Next update: Wednesday
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CHAPTER SEVEN SPOILER:

We continue to watch Sky's life play out in the past.

And Sky is far from okay.

In chapter five we became aware of Sky's feelings after everything that has happened.

But what if we got to see first hand, from Sky's point of view, the damage that the 23rd of August caused?