WARNING: This story contains themes such as self-harm and child abuse that may be triggering for some individuals. This is pretty much a crackfic. I know it would never happen, so just suspend your disbelief for me while you read this. There will eventually be some SwanQueen action.

The classroom door creaked open and the principal walked into the room wearing a look of distaste. Her eyes scanned the room for the student she was searching for, and when she found the girl, she raised her chin slightly and looked down at her.

"Miss Swan, I'll see you in my office now."

The young blonde nodded weakly and her eyes fell to her desk as she collected her notebooks and pencils.

"Yes, ma'am," she mumbled.

"What was that, Miss Swan?"

"I said, 'Yes, ma'am,'" the girl repeated, her voice ringing clear this time.

The principal stood outside the classroom, waiting for the girl to gather her things. When the girl met her in the hallway, they were both silent as they walked to the main office.

"Please don't disturb us until we are finished our meeting, Miss Murray," the principal instructed.

The secretary nodded stiffly in understanding and said, "Yes, Mrs. Kelley."

The student and the principal both entered the office and shut the door behind them. Inside, the guidance counselor waited, sitting in a chair beside the principal's enormous desk.

"Mrs. Malone," the principal greeted her, sitting down behind the desk and turning to the girl who had just sat down across from them. "Emma," she began. "We've discovered something troubling that we need to discuss with you."

The girl swallowed hard, her palms collecting sweat as she pulled her long sleeves down over her wrists, anxiously shifting in her seat. She already knew what they were going to say.

"It has been brought to our attention by a concerned, anonymous student that you have been self-mutilating - specifically, that you have been cutting yourself," Mrs. Malone, the guidance counselor, interjected. "Is this true?"

"No," Emma lied, wringing her hands and shifting her weight in the chair again.

"Then I suppose you won't mind showing us your wrists?" the principal pressed.

"You have no right," Emma protested. "I don't have to show you."

"This is a private school, Miss Swan. You do indeed have to show us."

They both stood up and took a step towards her, and Emma felt her stomach fall to the floor. She wanted to run, to escape to some alternate reality where her life was different. As she looked down at the floor, her hair fell into her eyes.

"Miss Swan."

Reluctantly, she pulled her sleeves up to reveal numerous red, swollen slices across each of her wrists and forearms.

"We're calling your parents in, and you'll be mandated to go to counseling for the remainder of the year," the principal informed her matter-of-factly.

"Please don't tell them!" Emma cried, jumping out of her seat. "Please! They'll... They'll..."

"Sit down, Miss Swan," the guidance counselor ordered her.

She obeyed and covered her face with her hands as she started to cry. 45 minutes later, her foster parents arrived at the school and entered the office, each taking a seat on either side of Emma.

"Your daughter has been cutting herself, Mr. and Mrs. Russell, and if you want her to stay in school here, she will need to to participate in weekly counseling sessions with a licensed professional."

"They're not my parents!" Emma interrupted.

"Emma," Mrs. Russell hissed quietly, shooting her a threatening look.

"Do you have names of any counselors in the area?" Mr. Russell asked calmly, but his hands were gripping the arms of the chair to tightly his knuckles had turned white, and he was very nearly gritting his teeth.

"I do, yes," Mrs. Malone told him. "There's a Doctor Mills here in town who recently began her own practice. She's very young, but already has a wonderful reputation here. She specializes in this sort of... problem..."

"I don't want to go to therapy," Emma protested, panic-stricken.

"We're leaving, Emma," her foster mother said plainly, glaring at her, grabbing her sore wrist, and dragging her out of the office and back to the car.

"You little bitch," Mr. Russell cursed, gripping the steering wheel as his wife sat down beside him. "You ungrateful little-"

"How could you possibly do such a thing?" Mrs. Russell asked coldly. "We feed you, care for you, clothe you... What more could you possibly want from us?"

"You don't fucking care for me!" Emma screamed. "You practically starve me and beat me!"

Mrs. Russell whipped around in her chair and slapped the girl hard across the face.

"Shut up, you ungrateful piece of shit."

Emma started to sob.

"Please, don't make me go to therapy," she begged, reaching up and touching the red spot on her face where she'd been hit.

"Oh, you're going," Mr. Russell informed her. "We pay good money for you to go to this school, and we intend to uphold our reputation, and you are NOT going to get in the way of that. Do you understand?"

He turned and looked toward the back seat of the car and glared at Emma.

"Y-yes, Sir."

He turned back around and started the car, and they drove back to the house in silence.

A week later, Emma found herself alone in the waiting room of a counseling office. Her foster parents had dropped her off, instructing her to take the bus home on her own. She thought about running, but she knew they would know. There was no way out. She simply had to suck it up and wait it out.

"Miss Swan?" a soft voice asked, coming from a woman who had just appeared in the doorway to the waiting room.

Emma nodded and stood up, awkwardly shifting her weight from one foot to the other until the woman spoke again. She didn't actually look all that much older than Emma, who was a junior in high school.

"Come on in, Emma."

The blonde followed her into her office and sat down in a large, comfortable chair across from the counselor's.

"Why do I have to do this?" Emma asked the woman.

"Because you hurt yourself," the therapist answered.

She looked directly into Emma's eyes, which made the girl uncomfortable. She averted her gaze and noticed the tissue box on the coffee table between them.

"Do people usually cry in your office?" she asked.

"Sometimes."

"Why do you do this?"

"Because I want to help people," Doctor Mills replied. "I want to help you, too, Emma."

The girl shook her head and wrung her hands.

"I don't need help."

"You don't think so?"

"No."

A moment of silence passed between them, until Emma looked up again.

"How old are you? You look like you just got out of college."

"I did," Doctor Mills shrugged. "Your parents told me you stayed back a grade. They said you got suspended multiple times for getting into fights - nearly expelled - and missed too much school to make it up."

"Yeah, so?"

"So it must be hard being the only one to have stayed back."

"I'm not," Emma retorted angrily. "There's other kids who've had to stay back."

"Really?"

"No," Emma mumbled.

Doctor Mills wanted to laugh, but she held it in.

"Alright. Tell me, why did you feel the need to lie, just then?"

"I don't know. Embarrassed, I guess. You're right. It sucks being the only one. It's embarrassing. Everyone looks at me funny, like I'm a total freak."

"Do you still get into fights?"

"Sometimes," Emma said, shrugging. "Kids just kind of stare and call me names, but I usually ignore it now. The last thing I want is to get suspended and have my foster parents... um..."

"Have them what, Emma?"

"Nothing," she muttered. "I just don't want them to be disappointed in me."

Doctor Mills looked skeptical, picking up on the lie. The mark on Emma's face gave her a clue as to what she might have wanted to say, but she didn't press the issue. She knew how sensitive Emma was and decided not to push any buttons.

"Okay," she said softly. She was quiet for a while, and when she realized Emma wasn't going to talk, she said, "I want you to know that this is all confidential. Nothing you say in here is going to be told to anyone else - unless I feel that you're a danger to yourself or others, or that you're... if I suspect you're being abused. I'm mandated by law to report that. Do you understand, Emma?"

Emma looked shocked, but she nodded weakly.

"Uh-huh."

"I want you to understand that you can tell me anything you want to."

The blonde said nothing.

"Why do you cut?" her therapist asked, shifting in her seat and crossing her legs, resting her clipboard on her lap and setting her pen down on top of it.

"Because I hate myself, and I deserve it."

"No one deserves that, Emma."

"I do."

"No one does," Doctor Mills repeated.

"How do you know what I deserve?" Emma asked bitterly.

"Because, like I said, no one deserves to go through what you're going through now."

"They hate me, you know."

"Who hates you?"

"Mr. and Mrs. Russell. They hate me."

"What makes you say that, Emma?"

They beat me, she was desperate to say, but she kept her mouth shut.

"Emma," Doctor Mills repeated. "What makes you say that?"

"They just do."

"Alright."

They both looked at the clock at the same time - Emma had been glancing at it every few minutes - and they realized the session was just about over.

"We can talk about whatever you want next week, okay, Emma?" Doctor Mills told her. "It doesn't have to be about cutting, or your foster parents, or school. It can be anything you want."

Emma nodded, feeling surprised and grateful.

"Thank you, Doctor Mills."

"You can call me Regina."