Asylum (Touched by the Fae 1)

Amy frowns, like she has bad news and doesn’t want to share it. My pulse picks up, settling only after she tells me, “Well, the truth is that she was transferred out of your age group yesterday. Now, don’t blame yourself, okay? Things happen. It’s not your fault.”

From the tiniest twinge at the bottom of my stomach, I know Amy is lying. It’s a kindness, though. She’s actually trying to make me feel better.

Because Diana getting tossed off our floor?

We both know that it is my fault.

8

No rain today.

I peeked out of my window before I shimmied out of my hoodie, tossed it onto my dresser, and followed Amy into the hall. I know it’s not raining, and the morning message says some motivational bullshit about sunshine in our lives so I know it’s another gorgeous sunny day that I’m missing out on.

The morning passes me by in a haze. I’m jumpy, the last of the sedatives working their way out of my system. It makes me feel off, and it’s only worse when I notice a couple of the other patients watching me closely.

It makes me antsy. I’m supposed to be the people-watcher.

Their stares have me hunching my shoulders, ducking as I walk, anxiously tugging on my gloves as I pretend not to see them gaping in open interest at me.

My daily check-in is a lecture. I’m not looking forward to my meeting with Lorraine the next time I see her. No doubt that Black Pine informed her about my meltdown as soon as they sedated me. I

’m starting to get worried that what happened the other night’s gonna affect my chances of getting released on time. I spend most of lunch toying with my meal, trying to come up with a good excuse for how I reacted when Diana tried to bring me my meds.

One thing for sure? I’m not about to admit that, for a second there, I thought she was the golden fae in disguise. Especially since I can still feel the heat of his hand against mine from the dance we shared while I was under.

I don’t know what kind of group therapy I was expecting that afternoon. It’s not raining, but a cheery therapist named Tonya claps her hand and insists we try some more creative therapy. She’s too new to realize that it’s a real bad idea to treat our age group like we’re some kind of democracy. When she offers to let us vote, most of the therapy session is wasted when half the group wants music therapy and the rest decide on art.

Now, I’m not a big fan of art therapy. I’ve always thought it was a waste of time, especially for our group. But if it’s art therapy or music? I’m going art. Just the idea of a music therapy session is a trigger for me after last night.

Nope. If I never hear another note again, I’m good.

The vote is a joke. We’re split down the middle, six to six. I blame Whitney for that. She kept quiet at first, only making her vote when she figured out it would create a tie. I’m not surprised. That’s Whitney for you. She gets a kick out of watching our group argue like children.

I’m so not in the mood.

“I don’t care about the rest of the group,” I announce to the room, “but I won’t do music therapy. Get a tech. Take one of my points. I don’t care. I won’t do it.”

Tonya is new to Black Pine, but she’s an experienced therapist. I might not test that way, but my refusal today is a clear example of ODD. Oppositional Defiant Disorder. No matter what she says, she can’t make me.

Her voice immediately adjusts. Instead of happy and go-lucky, she’s suddenly calm. As if her soothing tone will get me to change my mind.

“Riley, we’re going to decide as a group. Whatever the group decides, that’s what we’re going to do. I hope you understand.”

I huff. That’s not going to work. Sorry.

“Umm… excuse me?” Carolina raises her hand. “I’d like to change my vote. Can I do that? I… I don’t mind art therapy.”

Lie.

That’s a lie.

And I don’t even need the twinge that hits my stomach to know that. Everyone in our group was there the last time we had art therapy. Carolina’s sobbing fit was the talk of the ward the whole rest of that night. Why would she switch her vote?

I glance over at her. Though she was talking to Tonya, her dark eyes are locked on me. Carolina is watching me.

And I know exactly why she switched her vote.

“Thank you, Carolina. Now it’s seven-six—and, no, Whitney, that’s it for changed votes. Art therapy it is. Ready? Let’s go.”