Asylum (Touched by the Fae 1)

I think I’m making him uncomfortable. His face is now the color of a firetruck.

Good.

He’s the one who wanted this session. He wanted to see what Riley Thorne was made of. And, except for how vulnerable I get during my panic attacks, I’m made of stronger stuff than any of my doctors ever expect.

Okay, then.

Let’s go.

Clearing his throat, squirming a bit under my direct stare, Dr. Gillespie attempts to regain control of our meeting. He flips open a notepad and picks up a pen, tip to the paper, ready to write down anything he finds interesting.

Not if I can help it.

“Now, Riley,” he says, “how are you feeling today?”

Standard question. I have to answer it at least five times a day from five different people.

I give him my standard response. “Feel fine.”

“How’s your mood?”

I shrug. “Okay, I guess.”

“That’s good.”

I don’t have any idea how he can make sense of his mess, but he does. Picking one manila folder out from a stack of ten, he opens it up and begins to rifle through all of the papers inside. The stack is at least half an inch thick.

I can only imagine what my other doctors have written about me on those sheets.

Dr. Gillespie grabs his pen, scribbles something on a middle page, then closes the whole folder. He rests his hands on top of it. “I’ll be honest. I’m sure you know that I’ve already gone over your file. Still, I’d rather hear it from you. Tell me, Riley. Why are you at Black Pine?”

My jaw goes tight.

Why am I at Black Pine? It’s bad enough that I’m forced to admit the reasons why I’m here every morning during community group. Why does he need me to say it? He has the answer at his fingertips.

My first instinct is to snap that I’m a wayward juvenile. Black Pine’s full name is a bit of a joke inside, especially among the older crowd. What the hell is that supposed to mean? Wayward juvenile? I guess it’s better than saying it’s a psych ward for kiddies, right?

And they wonder why we all just call it the asylum.

I don’t say that, though. Instead, I fiddle with the edge of my glove, pulling on it, stretching out the leather. Under my breath, I mutter, “I’ll give you a hint. It’s not haphephobia.”

He hears me.

“Fair enough.”

Okay. His easy comment catches me off-guard. With Dr. Froud, a flippant comment like that would have earned me a ten-minute lecture on respect. Respecting him, respecting me, respecting the facility, respecting my diagnosis.

He was a bore, let me tell you. I was glad when Dr. Waylon finally replaced him.

Dr. Gillespie’s glasses slide down his narrow nose as he looks over at me. He shoves them up, but not before I can see the earnest look in his eyes. Oh, man. He’s one of those. The type of doctor who thinks we can be friends, who thinks that he’ll finally be the one to make me all better.

Wonderful.

“I’m curious about the gloves, though,” he says. “You want to tell me the story behind them?”

Do I want to?

No.