Story Disclaimer: Characters belong to Charlaine Harris. Brooklyn is mine. Thanks to Northman Maille and Northwoman. Long after I Write theSongs, songs are still playing the muse. Thanks also to the Home Sweet Home Contest. Nods to 'American Dad.'

"Please come in. Make yourself comfortable." Amelia gestures to a small beige loveseat.

"Thank you." I enter Amelia's compact, yet tidy office and take a seat. Although it's not my first time there, my eyes instinctively dart around, taking in the decor. Despite the neutral tones on the walls, Amelia has done a lot to enliven the space with colorful accents. The antique walnut table. Framed folk art wall prints. I notice a new throw rug under the table. I watch quietly as Amelia settles into her olive suede wing chair.

"Would you like a glass of water?" she asks.

"No. No thank you." I shake my head.

"Sarah, as I mentioned on the phone, I like to spend a few minutes getting to know my clients before we begin. Is there anything about yourself you'd like to share with me?"

"Well, I go by the nickname Sookie."

"Sookie?"

"Yeah." She seems puzzled. Does she remember? "If that's alright?"

"That's fine," she smiles, shaking her head. "Please call me Amelia."

"Thank you, Amelia."

"Of course." I shift awkwardly on the sofa until finally I decide to sit leaning forward. Amelia quietly observes my nervous movements with the air of someone who has seen it all before. She gives me an encouraging smile. I fight the urge to dip into her thoughts.

"So, Sookie," she smiles. "What brings you here this afternoon?"

Inwardly I smile. So predictable; it's always the same. I, however, can make it different. If I want to. Which I do.

"Do you think it's crazy, Amelia, to love someone even if you're afraid?"

At my question, Amelia reflexively draws in her brow. I watch as she considers her response.

"Well, I don't think that's so unusual. I think many people are afraid of being rejected—"

"No." Emphatically I shake my head. "That's not what I mean." Averting my gaze from Amelia, my eyes land on the faux Tiffany lamp that sits atop the antique table. I find comfort in the vibrant colors. Ironically I notice that the peacock blue reminds me of my lover's eyes. Composing myself, I reconsider my words. "Do you think a person would have to be crazy to love someone they're afraid of?"

Amelia fixes her brown eyes on me. Suddenly, I am feeling self-conscious. "What do you mean, Sookie? Afraid in what way?"

What do I mean? With wary eyes I return Amelia's stare. Usually I don't say very much this early on. I can't afford to say something that might prompt her to make phone calls or do something that might be difficult to undo. I'd love to be honest. I wish I could share the truth with someone—really share it. Isn't that the whole point of therapy? Paying someone so they have to listen to you talk about how terrible you think your life is?

"Are you afraid someone might physically harm you, Sookie?" Amelia's eyes lose their focus slightly as she remembers the domestic abuse training drilled into her during her clinical. Feeling a wave of guilt, I remove myself from her thoughts. "Sookie, you don't have to stay in a situation that scares you; you know that, right? There are plenty of places a woman can go." Her face reflects her thoughts: honest concern and grim reassurance.

Detached, I find myself near-giddy at her suggestion. I'd love to see the women's shelter prepared to keep me safe.

"I don't know, Amelia," I answer truthfully. "I don't really think he'll hurt me—at least I hope not—but"

"Sookie, if you're frightened enough to bring it up, I think you need to consider what your internal voice is trying to tell you."

I sigh. Amelia is big into listening to your 'internal voice'. I'm big into putting off my internal voice; I basically tell its people to call my people on a daily basis. Maybe that's why I see Amelia weekly at a cost of $125 an hour.

"Well..." My voice is low. "I'm not really here to discuss whether or not he's dangerous—"

I watch as Amelia's eyes widen. For a therapist, she holds a surprisingly straightforward view of the world. Self/Notself. Black/White. Good/Evil. As for me, I tend to see most things as shades of grey. At least now I do.

"—as much as I am here to discuss me. I'm curious about me."

"What do you mean? 'Curious about you'?"

"Well, let's say I know someone's dangerous. I know they've done terrible things. Killed people, even. But I still love them. Does that make me an awful person? Does it make me crazy?"

Despite her obvious struggle assimilating what I just shared with her, Amelia manages to maintain a neutral expression.

"No, Sookie, that doesn't make you crazy."

"What…if a person knew someone they loved might hurt—maybe even want to kill them—one day over something they have no control over?"

That catches Amelia's attention. "I'm sorry, Sookie. I don't understand."

"You never do..." I sigh.

"Excuse me?" Amelia's more confused than insulted. As far as she knows this is our first session.

"Nothing." I smile wryly.

"Maybe you want to start at the beginning?"

"Yeah. I can do that..." I reply.

So I start at the beginning...

AN: Thank you for reading. Chapter title is from Aimee Mann's "Say Anything".