Author: pitch—perfection and doeme227/lixxy227

A/N: TRIGGER WARNING: This story contains mentions of eating disorders and suicide and both of these issues will feature throughout the series, and definitely in more depth later on. Rosie and I would really love you guys to read this story as we've been working super hard on it but if you think it might be triggering in any way then please refrain from reading unless you think you will be okay with it! We're trying as hard as we can to make all of this as accurate as possible and we would love your feedback and constructive criticism on whether you liked it and if we could make it more realistic in any way!

Prologue (Part 1 – Beca)

'Insanity is doing the same thing, over and over again, but expecting different results.' – Albert Einstein

It was a habit born out of a made up superstition. A complicated beat, tapped out on whatever surface I could reach. I'd tap until I was ready to speak. If I couldn't speak, I'd keep tapping.

Over and over again, I'd cue myself up. Tap, tap taptaptaptap. Tap, tap, taptaptaptap. 1 and 2 and 3 and 4 and speak— but there was nothing. There were never words.

Eventually I stopped trying to speak, I just kept tapping instead. Sometimes, I felt the urge to try again but as usual, I could never form the words.

Words never came easily to me. As a child I rarely spoke to anyone other than my parents. I suppose most people assumed I was just shy but they didn't understand. They didn't understand that I felt nauseous whenever I even thought about speaking, let alone tried. I could speak to my parents, though not freely. The fear and the feeling of wrongdoing by doing so always sat tightly in my chest.

School was the worst. Days full of the paralysing anxiety of being surrounded by strangers. Lunchtime spent sitting in a small alcove round the side of the science building, away from prying eyes and bullying minds.

My parents, angry and tired of my anxious mutism, turned on each other in my teenage years. Their arguments leaving burning impressions in my mind. I knew I was the cause. If they couldn't communicate with their own daughter then how could they expect to communicate with each other?

Ultimately, around the age of 17, I stopped talking completely. It was a devastating blow to my parents although they had probably long suspected it would eventually happen. Their fights about me coupled with a confession of unfaithfulness by my father really put the last nail in the coffin of their marriage. Within months of my complete silence, my parents had separated and divorced.

As a result of the divorce I was given an ultimatum. Either find a way to 'get over the mute thing myself' or be forced to see a doctor.

I tried. I really did. I sat in the cafeteria at school during lunch and forced myself to try and look people in the eye if they were addressing me. Of course I failed miserably. All I managed to do was make myself a bigger target for the school bullies. In truth, I only really tried for about two weeks before I reverted back to my small comforts. Back to the alcove that was always there to give me the privacy I desperately needed and never ever looking somebody in the eye.

To look into someone's eyes, really look into them and hold that connection is a deeply personal action that I have never done. Sure, I can fleetingly look at someone's eyes as they address me before skittishly dropping my gaze again but to hold the stare long enough to allow a 'bond' to form was absurd.

By the time I graduated high school, my parents, emotionally numbed from the traumatic blows dealt by both their vicious divorce and I, had decided it was time to take action.

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"Progressive Selective Mutism paired with Social Anxiety Disorder."

The doctor made it sound so clean cut and simple.

"She needs professional help. There's a private treatment centre out near Barden. I feel Beca could truly benefit from the treatment given there"

I couldn't help but feel the anxiety build very rapidly as the thought of being sent to an unfamiliar place flooded my mind and overwhelmed me. The panic was suffocating and I felt their eyes on me. My parents, who could barely stand to be within a mile of each other, sat crammed into this small office space as they were finally given their opportunity to rid themselves of the one thing that still linked them together. Me.

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It was exactly 23 days after my diagnosis that I was packing a small suitcase full of clothes and items of comfort to me. A small, stuffed penguin named Mr Waddle given to me by my father as a child packed tightly next to a battered paperback copy of 'The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe' and a sketchbook with my small collection of art supplies.

My laptop, always within arms reach, was separately packed, ready for inspection by the staff at the treatment centre to ensure there was no inappropriate or illegal content residing on it. There was nothing except my music on there so I was certain there wouldn't be a problem but the thought of leaving my laptop with an unfamiliar person for 24 hours made the familiar heart gripping sensation slowly creep up my chest. I knew I wouldn't be able to cope if my music was ripped away from me any longer than that.

"Beca hurry up! You can't miss your flight!"

Cue the overwhelming panic.

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It was only after one nerve destroying flight, a terrifying meeting with the head doctor once arriving and being introduced to the staff I'll be 'interacting' with that I found myself sitting on one of the two beds in my bedroom.

I'm not sure how long I sat there for, unmoving and unresponsive until the gripping fear in my chest managed to wind down and release me from its hold. Once I finally regained the feeling in my limbs, I slowly stood, gripping the nearby desk for support and surveyed my surroundings.

It was a lot different than I expected it to be. A warm pastel orange covered the walls. It was a far cry from the sterile white I expected it to be. The bed I perched on actually felt like it would be comfortable to sleep in while the view from the window over the large lake that backed onto the centre grounds made for a beautiful sight.

I opened my suitcase and began unpacking. Clothes perfectly folded and placed strategically in the wardrobe. The sketchpad I brought set out on the left side of the desk with my art supplies perfectly lined up ready for use. My overused book on the right, perfectly parallel to the edge of the desk. I purposefully left a space in the middle for my laptop, my headphones already placed there, waiting to be used.

As I sat back down on my bed and placed Mr Waddle on the pillows, a sudden thought popped into my mind that instantly paralysed me with fear. As my eyes shot to the other side of the bedroom, they landed on the second bed residing there. I could only form one thought in my mind.

'Am I supposed to have a roommate?'

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About three weeks after I first arrived, I found myself adjusting to the routine here. At 8.30am I would wake up and get a shower. 9am was time for breakfast. It was weird to sit in the cafeteria and not be subjected to the abuse I was used to. At 10am my sessions would start. The first was a 2-hour private session with Dr Phillips. Of course everything he tried wasn't working. I could have told him that I'm a lost case. Well, if I could communicate with him that is.

After lunch I would head to a group therapy session. Starting at 2pm, I would sit on a chair in a circle with 9 other patients where one by one they would all share something. Even if it was just a useless fact, the point was to tackle our social anxiety and help us relax around others. Of course, every time it came to me I sat frozen, my stare directed at the floor until they moved onto the next person.

My day ended with a one-hour private shaping session. Working with one of the consultants who tried to encourage me to interact non-verbally with the aim of progressing onto sounding out the sounds of letters and eventually hoping to have me whisper words. Once again, I would love to be able to tell them that their efforts are in vain.

I usually spent all my free time in my bedroom, working on a mix, reading or simply staring at the view out of my window.

It was one evening, after another tedious day of failed attempts to 'help' me, that I was sat on the armchair in my bedroom. Once again I was immersed in the one book I had, my imagination taking me to Narnia. Perhaps in Narnia, I would be able to talk? I would be lying if I said I had never tried to climb through the back of my wardrobe in a desperate attempt to fall through to a world where all the rules were different.

As I sat engrossed in my book, I suddenly heard a noise. Still half absorbed with the story, my eyes lifted to find the source of the sudden sound. As my eyes flicked up, I suddenly found myself captured by… a pair of eyes? A pair of warm, brilliant crystal blue eyes that had a sadness about them as they were surrounding by flaming red hair.

'Holy shit!' Was all I could think as I suddenly realised what I had done. Slamming my eyes back to my book, I could feel my face burning in embarrassment. 'How could you be so stupid?'

Out of the corner of my eye I saw the girl take a cautious step forward and in the next second, I heard it.

"Hi, I'm Chloe"