Chapter 5
So, tell me about yourself,” my new therapist said, attention never leaving her clipboard.
I shifted in my seat. After visits with four different therapists throughout the years, you’d think I’d have gotten used to it, the whole let’s get to know each other better bit.
But I hadn’t. My hands still jittered. My gaze still searched for a place to land to keep me from the ever-dreaded eye contact.
“Feyanna, is it?” Rita Aberdeen prompted gently, glasses gleaming over her rich, brown cheeks. “Such a unique name: Feyanna. Did your mom pick it?”
My fingers clenched. Family questions already? I had to hand it to her; she didn’t beat around the bush. “Yeah. My birth mom.”
She raised an eyebrow, her fifty-some-odd years showing in the smile lines creased around her lashes. “Birth mom? Why do you word it like that?”
Simple. Because she’d given me up, lost in the thralls of her own waning mind. Of course, I couldn’t say that. Or rather, wouldn’t. Instead, I opted for, “Because Glenda and Jack took me in. No sense in dwelling on old wounds.”
She referenced her notebook, glasses slipping to the brim of her nose. “Oh yes, I see that here in your chart. And how is your relationship with them then? Your parents, I mean?”
An internal snicker almost escaped me. Parents, ha.
The notion was absurd. Aside from a roof over my head and some Michelin-starred meals in my belly, I was on my own.
I’d always been. Hell, I’d had foster parents show me more affection in a weeklong stay than Glenda and Jack had given me in the years I’d spent with them.
That’s why I’d darted at eighteen, even if it had been in a direction Jack carefully curated for me.
It was freedom, nonetheless. Part of me believed that had been their plan all along: adopting an older child simply to be able to call themselves parents—a social construct in their circles—knowing I’d run the second I had the chance.
But, all things considered, I had it good in comparison to many, and the distance made it all the easier on my part. “It’s fine.”
“Just fine?”
I sighed. The prying, I’d forgotten what it felt like. “Yeah. They have some strong opinions about my future, but they’re good to me.” Mostly.
“What kind of opinions?”
“The usual, I guess. They want me to be financially secure”—insanely rich—“find someone to settle down with”—also rich—“and start a family”—who I can then leave said riches to and ensure the prestigious family legacy lives on.
“Mhm.” She referenced her papers again. “So, they were supportive of your change in majors then? Business to the arts?”
“For the most part. After some convincing, anyway.”
“I see. I’m glad you have their support.”
I internally rolled my eyes. Right. Support.
“Are they the ones who referred you to Saint Peter’s?” she asked.
The day I’d found my lifeline to a new start floated back to me in vivid color.
Wandering around town in the early morning light, the scent of fresh rain heavy in the air, I’d stumbled into the magical world of the PNW Art Faire.
Eager as always to avoid sleep, I’d woven through the makeshift halls between tents, my heart growing fuller with each painting, sketch, and carefully knitted stuffy.
By the time I fully registered the song in the distance—muffled, thanks to the dented gold projection cone on an old record player—I was already mere steps away from the Saint Peter’s booth.
A few well-played questions by the dainty woman running the stand, and I walked away with application in hand and a renewed sense of meaning, like the universe itself had orchestrated that morning just for me.
My brows pinched. “Referred? No, I found Saint Peter’s on my own.”
Or rather, it found me.
“On your own?” Rita sat up straight. “How might that be?”
“An Art Faire,” I stated plainly.
“Hmm, well … glad to see the institute has taken a new stance on their enrollment process. I’ve been telling them for years it was time to leave that old-school referral program nonsense in the past.” She offered a smile.
“What made it feel like the right place for you? If you don’t mind me prying, that is. ”
I’d been sold the second I heard how off-grid the institute was.
Away from all the noise, away from Jack and Glenda, away from …
everyone. But once I’d learned of the alumni’s overwhelming successes in landing remote internships after graduation, I knew it was my chance at the solitude I’d always craved.
A steady job and the potential to hide away from the world?
Well, that took the whole “unrealistic expectations” conversation that’d followed me my entire life off the table.
After all, there’s nobody to disappoint when you’re alone, right?
But instead, I went with the simpler, less woe-is-me answer.
“I liked the connections they offered. After graduation, I mean.”
“Saint Peter’s does offer some unique opportunities; I can see why that’s appealing.” She returned to her clipboard. “And how about your nightmares? How have they been as of late? Your previous therapist strongly recommended that I check up on this issue specifically.”
Gotta love it when your therapists chit-chat.
To be honest, when I saw Saint Peter’s had a pro-bono mental health program, it was a huge relief.
For one, it meant I didn’t have to reach out to Jack and Glenda to ask for more help.
And two, I didn’t have to alert them that things were getting bad again.
I sucked in a deep breath, searching for the best way to evade invasive questioning from Rita.
Considering I hadn’t shut my eyes since the night before I’d left for Saint Peter’s—twenty-one hours since the weird wisp dream, to be exact—the nightmares weren’t a factor.
It felt too risky to sleep, given new developments.
New was never a good thing in my dreams. It couldn’t be trusted.
“I haven’t really been having them,” I muttered, my attention absorbed in the bright-purple orchid on Rita’s desk. Its outline blurred and refocused in rhythm with my heavy eyelids. Such a fragile flower, easy to break—a common thread it and my mind shared.
Her head shot up, twist-out curls bouncing. “You haven’t? So, the trazodone is working then?”
Not in the slightest. The pills had managed to tag along with me to Saint Peter’s, but I’d avoided them at all costs.
They made me woozy. Foggy. Not to mention, they made it impossible to coax myself awake in the times I’d grown careless and allowed myself to fall asleep.
I’d take my chances with insomnia fallout over that, thank you very much.
“Yeah, it’s working,” I lied, and dodged her stare.
I’d always been a shit liar, especially when faced with direct eye contact.
So long as she believed the medication worked, I could put off sleep for a couple more days.
Naturally, the hallucinations, shakes, and inability to focus would set in—sleep exhaustion usually hit me hardest around the seventy-two-hour mark—but at least I’d evade the beast for the time being.
“That’s good, that’s good,” she murmured to the page in her lap. “I see you’re about due for a refill. I’ll send the request over to the student health desk tonight so you can continue use as normal. The nurse will make sure it finds its way to Sue.”
“Sue? The chef?”
“Sue and I have worked hand in hand to oversee previous students’ mental wellness plans, yes. It’s just a precaution to make sure you have the best chance at success.”
I shook my head. “With all due respect, I’m not a child. I can take them myself.”
Rita wrote down a note, hard.
“We have a strict prescription regiment here at Saint Peter’s when it comes to more …
chronic medical histories, such as yours.
” She crossed her legs and pulled her glasses from her face.
“Being that you had a 5150 hold placed on you during school hours, regimented medication is a stipulation to your attendance here at Saint Peter’s.
Were you not made aware of this before your transfer? ”
I most fucking certainly had not been. “No. Afraid that must have fallen out of the acceptance letter.”
I swear, you sleepwalk out a second-story window once, and suddenly you’re suicidal and that shit follows you everywhere.
I’d tried to explain, but of course none of my words got through.
Thank God I’d switched my emergency contact to Mary beforehand.
Jack would have flipped his lid. My throat tightened.
The nightmares were getting worse though, that much was clear.
She offered me a gentle smile. “Your previous therapist and college director have been in contact with our administration, so we know how best to help you. Your medication will be administered every night at dinner time, no exceptions.”
Panic nipped at my center, rose up through my chest to a knot in the back of my throat like boiling tar. No. If I took those pills, I’d sleep. Like, sleep sleep. There’d be no escape, no way to wake myself up and—my palms grew sweaty.
“Dinner time is a little early, don’t you think? I mean, I don’t want to fall asleep at seven thirty every night.” I released a strained laugh. “Couldn’t I take them myself?”
“Self-administered medication regarding violent cases such as yours is not permitted at Saint Peter’s.
” She cleared her throat. “For your protection, and the protection of those around you, we’ve agreed to accept you into our program under the condition that your mental health be handled with the utmost care. ”
I swallowed hard. “And if I don’t want to take them?”
Her forehead crinkled, making my toes curl. Shit, wrong thing to say.
“I—I mean, if I don’t want to take them so early?”