Author's Note: Hello, everyone! I hope you all had a lovely holiday. I'm back with yet another chapter, so please let me know what you think!
"Amelia, you can't keep doing this. I wanted to give you space. I didn't want you to feel like I was pressuring you, but you're really leaving me no choice."
Matthew isn't temperamental by nature. He wouldn't hurt a fly, and Amelia's quite sure he's got the gentlest soul that's ever been bestowed upon a person, but somehow, she has managed to corrupt him as well. His eyes are full of a muted fury, and he's in parent-mode even though Amelia wishes he would look at her like she's his sister again.
He scolds her on a weekly if not daily basis, but this speech is different from the others. The tremor in Matthew's voice as he roots his hands on the kitchen table makes that clear. He is a nervous-wreck, and it reminds Amelia of her mother—how she wept on the bathroom floor, wails echoing against porcelain and glass as she lost all faith in redemption until she became stone-cold and hollow. No light. No hope. She withered into nothing. Death is humbling like that.
In a similar fashion to how their mother used to play her cards, Matthew makes a fantastic show of being oblivious because he thinks they can go about living normal lives if they simply forget the past, but Amelia won't let him get away with it. The past is the catalyst. It's the shadow that will follow them to the end of the earth.
"I've made you a doctor's appointment. I think we're dealing with something that could be too serious to fix with counseling alone."
Fix? Why does she need to be fixed? What's wrong with her the way she is?
She replays her brother's words in her mind to make sure she hasn't misunderstood him. "What? You mean like you're sending me to a psychologist or something?"
"Psychiatrist," Matthew corrects, careful not to look at Amelia for too long. "Sometimes, chemical imbalances in the brain can cause the types of behavioral issues you're having. It's not your fault. It's biological."
He's saying it to convince himself. He thinks some medication will make them a happy, little family.
A fire flares up in Amelia's stomach, and she grips the edge of her chair to keep herself steady. "S-Shouldn't that be like a last resort or something?"
"It is a last resort. We've reached that point."
"Matt, I'm not—"
"Yes, you are sick."
It's not supposed to sound so harsh, but it makes Amelia recoil. "You c-can't do that! How do you even know—?"
"Arthur suggested it."
He wouldn't.
"Isn't the stuff I talk about with him confidential? Why would he go to you about something like that?"
Matthew pushes his glasses farther up the bridge of his nose and frowns. "It's confidential unless there's a serious issue that needs professional consultation. Besides, I was the one who requested his help in the first place, so it's—"
"Wait. What?"
"Who do you think called your school and asked them to set you up with a counselor? I wanted you to have someone else to talk to because you're definitely not talking to me. The deans found Arthur and asked him to schedule a meet-up so the three of us could get together and discuss your counseling."
She's going to puke. "And you did all of this behind my back?"
"What else was I going to do? You wouldn't have agreed to it if I had talked to you about it first."
Arthur wouldn't—no, he would.
And she opened up to him like a cardboard box wrapped in ribbon. Stupid…
"I'm not going to a psychiatrist," she decides.
"It's not as bad as you think it is. It's just one appointment. He'll ask you a few questions, take a look at you, and if he doesn't find anything dire, you don't have to go again, all right?"
"No."
"Amelia, please."
"I said no."
"You attacked that girl! You're completely out of control, and I don't know how else to handle it!"
"I didn't attack her. I just shoved her against a locker. There's a big difference."
"This isn't a joke!"
He pounds a fist against the table, and the plates they've set up for dinner clatter and shiver. "Maybe you would've been better off with Dad. He never had these problems with you."
Caught in a stampede of emotions, Amelia gets on her feet, sizing Matthew up. They shouldn't be fighting like this. They used to love each other. They used to stand by one another, but now all she feels is a twisting contempt where her compassion used to be. "Dad? How can you even say that to me? I was better off with Dad?"
"You listened to him!"
"I was better when he was beating me into the ground? Was it better when he told me what a vile daughter I was? When he told me I would spend the rest of my days whoring myself around for a living because I wasn't good enough for anything else? That was better? How can you say that?" she snaps, fighting to tame her anger.
"I just meant things were easier back then," Matthew murmurs, already regretting ever mentioning their parents.
"No, it wasn't easier, and until you can admit that to yourself, you will never understand what I'm going through. Why don't you make yourself a damned appointment to a psychiatrist?"
"Amelia, I shouldn't have—"
"Don't. Forget it. I'm going to bed."
She makes her way up the stairs and runs into Gilbert along the way. The irritating jerk must have had a serious fight with his girlfriend because he's been around far too often for comfort.
"You pissed off Matt again?" he asks.
She throws back the words he used with her the other day. "Don't worry your pretty, little head over it."
"Ouch. That bad?"
"Go away."
So he does.
She's not surprised when Arthur comes after her the next day during lunch. She's sitting in her usual spot with Ivan in the cafeteria, and when she feels a figure standing behind her, she turns her head to the side and ignores it. She has nothing left to say to the man.
"Amelia, you're late for our session. Come on. I won't wait around all day."
"Then don't."
"What's put you in such a foul mood? If this is about your detention and community-service, then I'm afraid you're going to have to put on a stiff upper-lip and manage somehow," he goads, as sardonic and infuriating as usual.
"Leave me alone."
"I can't."
"Because you're under orders not to?" Amelia hisses, scowling. "I don't need you, the deans, or my brother to make decisions for me."
Arthur cocks his head at her in confusion and wipes the wry smirk off his face. "Why don't we talk about this in my office, hmm? I'm sure it's all just a misunderstanding."
"Oh, I haven't misunderstood anything, believe me."
From beside them, Ivan watches the exchange with peaking curiosity. He's already forgiven Amelia for the incident with his sister, and although Amelia is surprised by his sudden clemency, she knows better than to question him. It's not the first time he's acted strange.
"Is everything okay?" he asks Arthur, appearing quite innocent. He has a way of getting most adults to like him at first sight, the exact opposite of Amelia.
"Yes, my apologies, lad. This a personal matter that isn't best discussed in here. Amelia, you don't have to come in for the session if you don't want to, but I would like to have a quick word to clear things up. Would that be all right?"
"No, that's not all right," she retorts immediately and goes back to peeling an orange. "I'm trying to eat."
"You can bring the food with you."
Ivan jumps in before Amelia can stop him. He puts his hand over hers and says, "It's not polite to ignore people. You should go."
Arthur nods, beguiled by the backup. "Your friend is absolutely right."
This must be Ivan's way of getting vengeance. Fine, let him get it out of his system then. After shooting a pointed glower in his direction, she stands and follows Arthur out into the hallway, choosing to leave her lunch behind. Ivan will gladly eat it for her.
When they're halfway to the counselor's office, Amelia stops and shakes her head. "You know, for the past two weeks, you had me fooled. I thought you were actually going to be normal and an unbiased listener, but I was wrong. This whole time, you've been psychoanalyzing me, and now you've convinced my brother that I have some kind of depression or something. You've made everything a thousand times worse."
Arthur stares back at her. He's the only one with the guts to meet her gaze. "That's not true."
"Okay then, so why did the deans want me to start meeting with you?"
"I told you, they thought your behavioral issues could better be addressed through counseling."
"Except it was my brother who asked them to contact you."
"I didn't know that at first. Even so, I don't see what the problem is."
"I thought you were talking to me because you wanted to. I thought you car—never mind. The only reason I'm having these stupid sessions is so that the school doesn't have a lawsuit on their hands if they don't offer guidance to a 'troubled' student. You clearly think I'm psychotic, and now you're passing me over to some doctors who might know what to do with me. Are you going to ask me if I killed my mother too?"
Arthur's eyebrows skyrocket up the length of his forehead. "I don't think you're psychotic. That's not the way to speak about mental illness, and what's this about your mother? I have no idea what you're going on about. Amelia, why don't we calm down and talk about this inside?"
"No, I'm done talking. All anyone ever does is use me."
She storms away toward the cafeteria again, and Arthur rushes after her, pleading with her to be rational.
"My Lord, you can be dramatic," he huffs, a bit out of breath. "Contrary to what you might believe, I am trying to help you, but you're making it awfully difficult. I explained to your brother that it would be important to ensure that there aren't any underlying medical concerns that we should address. Counseling isn't going to do you any good if you have, for example, a serotonin deficiency. Now, I'm fairly certain you're just fine, but we have to be sure. It's a precaution. If Matthew chooses to continue outside consultation with someone else, that is out of my control. It's clear you've been under some emotional stress, and we need to make sure we take care of a few fundamental things first."
"Emotional stress?" Amelia rasps, conflicted between staying and running off again.
"Yes. I would say that fighting with a student is a sign of some kind of emotional stress. I would be more than happy to talk about this at full length later. Can I expect to see you on Friday?"
No, no, no, no, no.
"Yeah, I guess."
"Excellent. I'll let you get back to your lunch, then. Stop frowning like that—you'll get wrinkles."
Amelia rolls her eyes. She shouldn't be putting up with his sass. "You would know all about it."
It's impossible to stay mad at him.
Kiku is a nice boy, too nice for the likes of her. He's shrewd, insufferably smart, and always treats her with the utmost kindness even though she doesn't deserve any of it.
Their one kiss together was better than the hundreds she's exchanged with Ivan, but that's a dangerous revelation she knows she mustn't dwell on. It's in both of their interests if she stops hanging around him. The last thing she wants is for him to run into trouble with Ivan. His jealousy knows no bounds, and if he finds out the true extent of their "English project", someone is going to end up with a bloody nose.
She will teach herself to love Ivan if she must. Tonight, they're going to one of Antonio's infamous parties. His parents are out of town on a business trip, and with Christmas less than two weeks away, it is probably the last major event she will be forced to go to until winter break ends.
"Wear the black blouse from our date the other day."
"I always wear that. Maybe I'll try something new?"
"No, the black blouse is flattering. It makes you look thinner."
She hums in thought and balances her cellphone between her ear and her shoulder. "You think I'm fat?"
"You've gained a little weight," he admits. "It's not very noticeable though."
"If it's not noticeable, then how do you know about it?"
"Well, I notice everything about you, no matter how small."
"Of course you do."
"Are you almost ready?"
"I would be ready sooner if I wasn't talking to you."
"Okay, I'll meet you there at seven?"
"Sounds good."
"Be careful, kitten. See you later."
She drops her phone on her bed, jitters crawling up her sides. Something's not right. Ivan is being horrifically sweet lately, and she hasn't decided if this is a cause for concern or not. Odds are, he's in a good mood because of how well the football season has gone this year, and he's pretty much going to be guaranteed a scholarship to some higher-tier university by the time he graduates. As long as she keeps doing his projects for him, anyway.
"Where are you going?"
She stumbles over a lone slipper on the floor and cranes her head up. Gilbert is in the doorway, arms crossed and eyes glinting with mischief. He's paler than usual and reeks of cheap cologne. Amelia has concluded that his girlfriend probably broke things off with him because they haven't spoken to each other in a while, and Gilbert's been more sullen than she's accustomed to. Sucks for him.
"Out."
"Out where? Mattie grounded you."
"Yeah, well, Matt's not my dad."
"He's close enough, and you should listen to him. He's still upset about whatever trouble you got into at school, so why don't you give him time to cool down? Don't stress him out again as soon as he comes back from his night class."
It's weird. Gilbert is far from responsible, and he's the last person Amelia would've expected to guilt-trip her.
"Why do you care what I do?"
"I don't. I care about you hurting Mattie. He's my best friend."
Amelia sighs and throws a jacket over the blouse Ivan insisted she wear. "Look, I have to go. If I don't, someone else is going to get hurt."
"What do you mean?"
"It's none of your business."
She snatches her bag off of the dresser, smooths her hair with her fingers to make it somewhat presentable, and brushes past Gilbert. He clasps a hand around her wrist before she makes it to the front door, and she jerks against the contact, unable to suppress fear from ringing alarm bells in her head. It's the second time she's flipped out under his grasp.
Gilbert notices it too. "Who hit you?"
Now he's suddenly observant too? Where has she been, and who stole the real Gilbert?
"Stop being a freak," she says with closed eyes, shaking. When Gilbert doesn't reply, she swings the door open and walks out, pretending not to feel his sharp gaze on her back as she staggers away.
Parties with the football team are nothing but a showcase. The girls from school doll themselves up—fluff their bangs, strap on heels that hurt, and create a kind of hackneyed procession as they traipse inside like little accessories waiting to be worn and played with.
She's the hot mess of the group, but when Ivan takes her under his wing, he struts about with her as though she is just as glitzy and glamorous as the others. She makes some small talk and wanders away to mingle every once in a while, but somehow always ends up by Ivan's side again as though they are conjoined. She doesn't mind it because being with Ivan means she doesn't have to do as much of the talking. She can simply sit back on the couch with her head on his chest and half-listen to him talk about sports with Vash and Antonio.
The animated chatter dies down after an hour or so, and after Ivan has had a little to drink, he stamps his lips onto hers and smiles. The tip of his nose is ice-cold.
"You lied to me," he grumbles, continuing his kissing.
Ivan is safe. Ivan is security.
"About what?"
"Oh, my kitten, you know."
She draws herself in closer and cups a hand around his head. He needs to be coddled to soothe his ego. They are perfectly twisted. "I'll know if you tell me, babe. I can't read minds."
"Kiku," he sings, nibbling her lip before suddenly digging his teeth into it, strong enough to draw blood. "I don't like it when you lie to me, honey."
Damn it, Natalya.
She tries to pull away, but Ivan snaps her back and wraps his hands around her neck, clawing at the skin.
And that's when she knows he is no longer safe. He will hurt her too. Even Ivan... Ivan, whom she trusted.
"Ivan, darling… I'm sorry. It didn't mean anything, so I didn't want to mention it. It was one time, and it was stupid. I don't know what I was thinking. You know I love you more than anything else in the world."
He wraps a hand around her neck and tightens it, pressing another kiss to her bleeding lip. "Oh, Amelia, lie after lie."
"Ivan, please. Don't…" she gasps, a tear sneaking out of her eyes. She prepares herself for the unthinkable—worries that he will punish her until she is broken even more beyond repair—but as powerful and dominating as Ivan is, he wouldn't do that to her. Even he will not take it that far.
He lets go after he's done enough damage to bruise her neck. He doesn't make another move on her after that, which Amelia is infinitely thankful for.
"You should go," he tells her.
"Ivan, wait. I'm—"
"Go home."
One more glance at him, and she grabs her things and runs, struggling for breath by the time she makes it outside. Jelly-legged, she makes it home a few minutes before the clock strikes ten, entering to find Gilbert sipping sparkling water and watching a rerun of some German soap-opera on television.
She must still look rather panicked because Gilbert lowers the volume of the T.V. and furrows at her.
"I-Is Matt home?" she asks before he can interrogate her.
"Yeah, he's in the shower."
"Did he seem angry?"
"Yup. Wanna tell me why you're bleeding?"
She licks her bottom lip and grimaces at the metallic taste. "Hah. Guess I've been biting my lip too much."
Gilbert gives her a pitying look, and it makes Amelia feel a few years younger. "And your neck?"
She touches the swelling scratches and shrugs. "I think I'm getting some kind of rash. It's really gross and might be contagious, so you shouldn't get too close."
"You looked fine a few hours ago."
"I'm tired. Tell Matt I went to bed, and he can yell at me tomorrow. Don't tell him anything else."
Gilbert is still dumb enough to keep her secrets.
The waiting room looks like every other waiting room she's ever had the displeasure of sitting in—quiet, dreary, and heavily stocked with celebrity magazines. She plays a few games on her phone to spare herself the abuse of reading about some pop star's new baby. Matthew has brought along one of his books for his law class, squeezing in extra study time.
Absently, she listens to the receptionist set up appointments and discuss insurance information with people on the phone. This place had better have some snacks hidden away somewhere. After all, this dude's a child/adolescent psychiatrist, and there are kids younger than her here, so the least they could offer her is a Dum-Dum or a Twizzler.
"Ms. Jones?"
She stands and pulls her bag closer to her chest. The doctor is a happy-go-lucky guy with a beard like Santa Clause.
He looks up from a folder with her name on it and smiles. "Come on down."
Behind her, Matthew asks, "Want me to go with you?"
"I'd rather go alone," she mumbles back, hating how disappointed he looks. "Thanks though."
"Yeah, well, I'll be waiting right here when you're done."
"I know."
She follows Dr. Santa Clause into a cozy looking room and braces herself for the worst.
All in all, it's not as personal as she thought it would be, which is relieving. Just like that, Arthur has earned her trust back for being right.
She gets asked a few standard questions, like if she's on any medication or if she has a history of mental illness in her family.
She answers with a no for the first question and then says, "My mother overdosed. Does that count?"
"Yes."
He doesn't ask her to expand upon it. She answers a couple more questions about anxiety and any other physical symptoms she feels regularly. Then, it's a quick blood test, and she's allowed to leave after the doctor briefs Matthew on the situation.
"She should continue the counseling she's getting at school. I think that's the best treatment plan for her at the moment, and I don't want to give her anything for anxiety or depression unless she absolutely needs it. I'd like to see her for a follow-up in two months."
When they leave the office, she smirks at Matthew and mutters, "Guess I'm not as crazy as you thought."
"That's not funny. In fact, it's offensive to people who are actually sick."
"Oh, lighten up."
He's not amused by her sarcasm, which is a shame, but he's never been one to laugh at himself. The idealist inside him doesn't allow him to be anything other than the pinnacle of seriousness.
"Don't skip any more sessions with Arthur."
"Okay."
"Do you promise?"
"Yeah."
Matthew sighs, straightens his back, and puts an arm around her shoulders. "I wish I could believe you."
"Me too."
On Friday, she tells an exaggerated version of what happened at the doctor's to Arthur, recalling the "horrors".
"And then he said he was going to cut my brain open."
Arthur plays along, boiling some water in the electric tea kettle that he's finally set up in his office. Amelia argues that all of the caffeine can't possibly be good for him because he drinks at least five cups of strong, black tea throughout the school day, but she has never won an argument against Arthur, and she's not about to start. He's even offered her a cup multiple times, but she isn't much of a tea person.
"I was sorely tempted to do it myself last week."
"Yeah, so I have like twenty-four hours to live now."
"Mmm, I see. What are you planning to do with those precious hours?"
"Sit in trig class," she jokes, leaning back. The scratches and bruises on her neck have been covered with a thick layer of makeup for the past two days and are beginning to show signs of healing. She hasn't spoken to Ivan since the incident, careful to avoid his usual hangout spots, but without Ivan to stand beside, she isn't sure what to do with herself. She has gone back to being her loner and hailed weirdo self. He'll get over it eventually, she hopes.
"Hey, Arthur? Can I ask you something?"
"Of course you can."
"Is mental illness genetic?"
Arthur pours a small packet of sugar into his teacup and stirs it. "It depends on the type of illness. Unfortunately, our knowledge of the brain and mental health is limited. There are still plenty of things researchers haven't uncovered yet."
"Oh, okay."
"Why? Is there something you're concerned about?"
She hesitates, but since he asked, maybe she should get it out in the open now. He's going to find out anyway. In fact, she thinks he might already know more than he's letting on, he's just giving her the time she needs to say it. "My mom was really depressed for a while. I was only ten when she…"
"I'm sorry."
"No, don't be. It's okay."
"Yeah, so I was just wondering, y'know… If that kind of stuff means I'm more likely to be depressed or something…"
Arthur clears his throat and takes a taste of his tea. "Not necessarily, no."
"All right... Umm, so, did you talk to Ms. Hedervary, yet? She's the sweetest European history teacher ever."
"I've already told you that your attempts to set me up on any date will fail."
"Aww, come on! Give it a chance! Somewhere underneath that crusty exterior, I'm sure you're a hip bachelor looking for some action," she laughs, eyes lighting up.
"Brat…"
"I asked her if she knows you, and she was like, 'The one with the British accent?' It's a good sign!"
Arthur groans and pinches the bridge of his nose. He can never show his face in the history department again. "You didn't," he mourns.
"I did."
"Why can't you accept the fact that someone might be happy to be alone?"
"You're in denial."
"I am not."
The bells rings, and Amelia bounces out of her seat. "I guess that's our last session until the holidays are over, huh? Have a good Christmas."
"Yes, and you as well."
"I'll send Ms. Hedervary your best wishes too!" she chimes as she steps out.
"Amelia! Don't you dare!"
She pauses when she turns the corner, sneaking a peek back into the office to see Arthur pick up the candy cane and Christmas card she had left on his desk when he wasn't looking. After a second, he smiles softly, and Amelia's heart swells with joy and pride. It's not often that she's the cause of someone's happiness.
It's a feeling she will remember.
