5. Deargán
DEARGáN
The crimson Rorschach inkblot painting tilted three degrees to the left. I left it there.
The diffuser carried the faintest thread of sweet almonds beneath the antiseptic. It would unnerve her before I did.
I turned the patient’s chair toward the window, but not directly. Close enough to see the bars. Not close enough to see past it.
I nudged the rug with the toe of my shoe until the line no longer aligned with the desk. Then I stepped back.
Good. This room would unsettle her before she understood why.
“Let go of me,” she snarled somewhere in the corridor, her voice scraping against stone. “I’m not crazy.”
I heard the scuffle before I saw it, the shuffle of shoes against floorboards, the muted thud of resistance.
Nurse Murphy’s tone cut through the noise, sharp and impatient. “Behave, Rua.”
They dragged her into my office without ceremony and shoved her forward.
She stumbled into the center of the room, fury bright in her eyes, breath coming hard.
Barefoot and cotton-dressed, she looked younger than she had in the corridor, but I knew better than to mistake softness for weakness. She would fight before she broke.
There was something raw in the way she held her shoulders, something stubborn in the set of her mouth. Her lips were swollen from being unconscious, parted slightly as she took in the room. Then me.
I looked away first.
Murphy nodded at me once before she shut the door behind her, the lock engaging with a soft, final sound.
“No, don’t leave me…” She spun immediately and lunged for the handle, yanking it once, twice.
I did not have to glance at it to know it was locked.
She slammed her back against the door, trapping herself against the wood. Her eyes narrowed as they landed on me, sharp with quiet calculation.
Her distrust was still intact. Good. Suspicion kept her sharp. Sharp minds break cleaner.
“Good morning, Rua,” I greeted her gently, watching closely for the flinch I knew would follow.
There it was, a slight press of her mouth, a flicker in her eyes.
“My name is Liath,” she snapped back. She met my gaze without blinking. Not afraid. Not yet.
That would have to change.
I kept my face neutral. I didn’t argue. I simply nodded and gestured toward the patient’s chair near the window, the one I had angled just so.
She looked at it, then looked at me before she deliberately crossed the room and sat in the doctor’s chair instead.
I let her keep it. Seize control too soon and they fight it. Let them believe it’s theirs, and they lean into the trap themselves.
I crossed the room without haste and took the other seat, folding my hands loosely over my knee as if this had always been the plan.
She sat stiffly, arms crossed, chin tilted.
I didn’t speak. I didn’t move. I let the silence stretch long enough to become uncomfortable.
Then longer still.
Some people filled silence with useless chatter. Others with questions. I waited to see which instinct would surface first.
Her fingers twitched on the armrest.
I watched the battle behind her eyes, the urge to speak, the refusal, the creeping frustration.
Finally, she snapped. “Are we just going to sit here?”
I leaned back in my chair and let her hear her own impatience.