Spencer was no stranger to fear and hurt. That's how she was raised, for the most part. She couldn't even begin to tell you where her pain and loathing started. If you'd ask now, and if she felt like answering honestly, she'd probably tell you she was around the age of five or six. She'd also tell you not to hold her to that number because that's how she is. Getting an honest answer out of her wasn't exactly one of Spencer's strong points. She'd learned well from her parents.

You see, Spencer had already learned the most important life lesson early on. She had a hard time believing therapist number one. All he told her was some nonsense about connecting with her mother, some Freud shit. She didn't give a fuck about it, even if it kind of made sense. Spencer would never admit that, though. Therapist number two told her all about God and how his glory would save her soul so that she would get redemption. As he spilled out verse by verse, her mind only spelled out BULLSHIT verse 69 WHO GIVES A FUCK?

Spencer saw her first therapist at the age of seven. Even at that age, she thought she was too young to understand this. All of the other kids that were the same age wanted to talk about bugs and clouds. Spencer wanted to know why her parents hated each other, and why they asked her to choose. Spencer didn't know the answer to either of those questions, and neither did her peers.

At age eight, just entering into the grade of three, she had begun to feel different. Boys wanted to play kickball and girls wanted to talk about those boys, while they swung on swings. Spencer still asked her friends why she felt so lonely and why her parents always yelled at each other, just like the boys yelled at each other when they got angry. This therapist, or counselor (as the parents liked to call it), fed her Ritalin and would lay her down on a comfortable, if not awkward table. Doctor Demick always read her things that didn't make sense. He would put large names in front of numbers. Spencer was never comfortable with Dr. Demick. He tried to force her to feel things she didn't think she should be feeling. She always kept her mouth closed because whenever she tried to tell her parents, they told her to shut up. Dr. Demick often made her feel confused about herself and everything surrounding her.

When Spencer turned ten, her parents had almost given up. They turned to a last resort. Apparently therapist number three had barely graduated but had received excellent recommendations from her peers. Spencer had known that they didn't care. Her parents saw her as a problem on top of their own problems. She was happy to get rid of therapist number two. He hurt her often in a way she hadn't been hurt before. She expected the same of the third.

She entered the building and climbed upon the third story. The office that should hold her newest enemy was off to the left. As she turned the corner, she tried to relax and steady her mind. The door creaked as she opened it and no one was inside as she walked the short distance to the desk centered in the small room. Spencer was not used to this. There had always been a nice looking lady with pretty things hanging from her neck when she walked in. This woman had always greeted her fairly and led her to where she was supposed to go. Spencer looked around, but finding nothing, she opted to sit in a chair that was against the wall. Spencer picked her nails and pulled at her hair for a short while. Her anxiousness was building. She looked at a plain wall without any posters or smiles. She hated that damn wall. At least the other walls offered her hope. This plain off-white wall stared at her; this white wall hurt her just like Dr. Demick had. This wall could give her nothing; it only sucked the life out of her.

She stared and stared at the wall for hours, she thought, even though it was only minutes. She could see her smirk as she approached it. It made her sick. This shiny wall reflected her soul. It made her face herself and that wasn't what Spencer was used to. It only fueled her rage. But Spencer was strong. She learned she had to be, in order to deal with what she was feeling. What she was feeling almost blinded her. She felt like an animal. She was just so angry. So, she did what she had to do.

Spencer Carlin pulled her right arm back, eyes closed, she clinched her fist in a way she'd seen her father do before, and she threw her entire body into that wall, fist leading the way. Before her fist met the (concrete) wall, her time moved in slow motion. In her mind, she had made a collage of all the people she hated and put them into one small bulls eye. This might have been the greatest idea she'd ever thought up.

That didn't change when she felt the pain radiate through her knuckles, up to her elbow, even continuing to her shoulder. The pain made her laugh. She giggled until she felt herself being embraced by strong, yet gentle arms. The smirk on her face faded, tears blurred her vision and she felt herself being carried away.

She was placed into an uncomfortable arm chair. She tried her hardest not to cry; fearing that she would be slapped or punched like her mother was when she cried. As she sniffled and coughed, trying to act tough, therapist number three only stared at her. Spencer welcomed the uncomfortable chair and settled into it. She had gained her composure and met the therapist eye to eye. Spencer wasn't going to be the first one to talk, move or make a noise.

She would leave that up to the enemy.

Spencer was surprised when Dr. Davies stood up and made her way towards the scared child. She flinched in expectance but did not anticipate the warm and comforting arms that surrounded her. She could only close her eyes and welcome the comfort she was feeling.

Spencer always knew it would end up this way. Maybe that's what scared her so much.