You guys are freaking awesome reviews and it sincerely makes my day every time I get one!

ssw-rawr: Thank you for the congratulations! My fiance and I have been together for over four years and have a son together, so, in my mind at least, it's about damn time lol

sheridanodell: I actually LOVE the walking dead. I read the comic first (which sadly doesn't have daryl dixon in it) so I had to watch the show when it came out, and now I own it on dvd of course. I'm actually about 60 pages in on a walking dead fanfiction that will be posted as soon as I finish it. I got distracted by Soul Eater about halfway through but I definitely intend to go back and finish it XD

pin-chan2: Almost as soon as I posted chapter one, I got a pretty nasty pm from somebody accusing me of ripping off erisanddysnomia's story so I don't blame you at all for thinking that. As soon as I got the pm I messaged her myself and offered to take my story down, because I do not steal other people's stories and I didn't want it to come off that way. Erisanddysnomia was really nice about it though, and she insisted that I keep it up. I'm really glad it's obvious that they are completely different stories despite a similar beginning and plot devices. And I'm glad you like it!

h.p.c.k.m.a.: Sorry I have removed Murphy from the remainder of the story. Haha just kidding I would have no story at all if it weren't for Murphy MacManus! This might be the only chapter in the entire story that he is not in, so he'll be back with a vengeance next chapter!

Chapter 7

All These Things That I've Done

Another head aches; another heart breaks

I am so much older than I can take

And my affection, well it comes and goes

I need direction to perfection, no no no no

-"All These Things That I've Done" by the Killers

I didn't know quite what to do with myself the next morning. I woke up early, too early, and went to breakfast with Val.

"Are you going to go hang out with those guys again today?" she asked, tearing her waffle into a dozen different pieces.

I shook my head, a lump somewhere in my throat. "No, I don't think I will. Are you going to therapy? I guess I'll go with you."

"You will?" She sounded shocked. Not that I could blame her. I'd only attended a handful of therapies in the six, nearly seven, months I'd been at St. Rose.

I shrugged, taking a sip of my orange juice. "Yeah, why not? Maybe Doc's right. Maybe therapy will do me some good."

We threw away our trash and headed for music therapy. All the therapies were located in the psych wing, each with an individual "classroom" and nurses who taught us as a group. After music therapy, where an ecstatic nurse gave me an acoustic guitar so I could belt my blues out, we moved to the gymnasium, where we just ran around the track. Then it was time for lunch and I had an individual therapy with Dr. Mendoza. Then it was on to culinary arts and art therapy.

This went on for nearly a week. I felt empty. It was like something had finally begun to fill the hole the loss of Jamie had created, but then it had been taken from me too. For once I was glad I was medicated.

Saturday afternoon, just before dinner, found me with three other Crazies in the art therapy room. It had at one time been a conference room, but the doctors and nurses had turned it into our art room. It was located on the west side of the building, so it was always filled with natural light when we had our sessions. The walls were decorated with artwork, most of which was fairly awful.

I was sitting on a paint-spattered stool in front of my easel, the tip of my paintbrush between my teeth. Because there were two nurses present, we were allowed to use the glass palettes instead of the shitty plastic ones, but never palette knives. Those were apparently too dangerous.

I had just mixed a bit of Liquin with my oil paints when a nurse appeared in the doorway. "Mimi?" she said, pausing with her hand on the knob. "Dr. Mendoza would like to see you in the therapy room."

Frowning, I glanced at the nurse who was head of art therapy. "Go ahead," she told me. "I'll clean up your station for you."

"Thanks," I mumbled, wondering what on earth Dr. Mendoza wanted to see me for. We'd already had our individual therapy that day. I walked to the row of sinks at the back of the room and tried to wash my hands. The thing about oil paints, however, is that they're pretty hard to wash off since they're water-based. The nurse was waiting, rather impatiently, so I gave up, dried my hands, and followed her.

She led the way silently to the therapy room, like I hadn't been going there once a day for nearly seven months and I didn't know the way.

I picked at the paint under my nails, shuffling my feet. "Did Dr. Mendoza say why she wanted to see me?"

The nurse gave me a short smile. "No, I'm afraid not. You'll have to wait and ask her."

Dr. Mendoza was sitting in her customary chair, but she didn't have her typical clipboard on her lap. She was also wearing her strained, "unhappy" smile. She wasn't alone, either. Another woman, wearing a pressed pantsuit, was sitting beside her. They both got to their feet when I came in. The nurse ducked her head politely and left, pulling the door closed behind her.

"You must be Naomi." The woman I didn't know smiled broadly and extended her hand to me. I shook it uncertainly. "I've been looking forward to meeting you."

I frowned. "Dr. Mendoza, what's going on?"

"My name is Dr. Warner," the woman answered before Dr. Mendoza could say a word. "I'm a trained psychiatrist with the FBI. I'm here to review your case. If you'll just have a seat, I'd like to have a little chat with you."

Why was the FBI interested in me? My pulse seemed to be racing as I sat down in my usual chair, which had been moved directly in front of the two doctors, who also resumed their seats.

"Alright." Dr. Warner looked at the papers on her clipboard. "What happened to your hand? Did you injure it?"

I looked down at my hand, smeared with red and blue and orange oil paint. "Oh, no. I was just in art therapy. We're painting today."

"Do you like painting?"

"I guess. I'm good at it."

"So you have a sense of worth in yourself?"

I pursed my lips. "Of course. Did they tell you I didn't?"

"No, of course not," Dr. Warner insisted. I watched Dr. Mendoza's face grow ever darker. Things already weren't going her way. "Can you tell me when you first got diagnosed with your disorder?"

I chewed on my bottom lip. "I was eight when I was officially diagnosed," I explained. "That was when my parents got divorced. They never really paid attention to the depression before that. I got put on antidepressants almost as soon as I was diagnosed."

"Good." She scribbled something on her notepad. Dr. Mendoza's hands, sitting in her lap, began twisting the material of her skirt. "And did you have any problems with the medication?"

"No. Not until about seven or eight months ago. It seems really stupid now," I admitted. "I'd been on the medication for so long. I just wanted to see what it was like to be off it."

Dr. Warner frowned. "And that's when your sister got in that car accident?"

"It wasn't an accident," I said vehemently. "An accident means there's nobody to blame. But yes, that's when my sister died. And, since I wasn't taking my medication, I had something of a breakdown."

"And you tried to kill yourself?" she prompted.

I shrugged. "Yeah."

She held out her hand. "May I see your arms?"

I didn't want to, but I reluctantly held out my arms, wrists up. She took first one wrist in her hand and then the other, examining the scars there. "They're healing nicely," she commented. "I trust there have been no accidents since you've been admitted?"

"No, none," I assured her. She looked at Dr. Mendoza for confirmation, and Dr. Mendoza nodded with a certain amount of reluctance. I didn't know what this meeting was about or why they'd brought in an outsider, but Dr. Mendoza was clearly not happy about it.

Dr. Warner continued to drill me with questions for the better part of an hour, asking me things Dr. Mendoza had never bothered to ask. She asked if I'd made any friends while at St. Rose. I lied and told her I was friends with Val and the rest of the Crazies. I left out any mention of regular patients.

"Thank you, Naomi," she said finally, getting to her feet and shaking my hand again. "Dr. Mendoza, if I could speak with you out in the hall...?"

The two retreated to the hall and closed the door most of the way, but their voices carried in to me. I turned around in my chair to hear them better.

"I don't understand why this young woman hasn't been discharged yet," Dr. Warner was saying sternly. "With the proper medication, she seems perfectly rational and able to function in society."

Dr. Mendoza's voice was tightly controlled. "With all due respect, Doctor, you aren't intimately connected with her case. She's my patient, and I don't think she's ready to be discharged. She still has a long way to go."

"If you keep her here too long, she won't be able to assimilate into society," Dr. Warner answered firmly. "From what I can see, both from interviewing her and from extensively reviewing her charts, this program is not doing her any good. I'm recommending her immediate release."

There was a pause, and when Dr. Mendoza spoke, her voice was an angry hiss. "How dare you?" she growled. "She is my patient!"

"Be that as it may," Dr. Warner replied coolly. "I'm still recommending that she be discharged. Have a good evening, Doctor." There were clicks as she walked away.

I sat frozen in my chair, twisted toward the door. Was I really going to be released? After seven long months of useless therapy? It seemed too good to be true. I refused to believe it yet. Dr. Mendoza was wily; if she didn't want me to leave, she'd probably find a way to keep me there for another eight years.

After a moment she came back into the room, hands on her hips. She was still fuming. "You may leave, Naomi," she snapped.

I fled the therapy room, my head spinning. I wasn't hungry, but I knew the cafeteria was closing soon and I needed to eat something before it did. I found my way there on autopilot.

Val was sitting at our table in the corner with Bex. While Val was picking at her food, like usual, Bex was eating everything in sight. I got my food and joined them.

"What happened with Dr. Mendoza, Mimi?" Val demanded, scooting her tray over to make room for mine. "I've never seen her pull someone out of an independent therapy before."

I opened my orange juice. "I had to meet with her and some psychiatrist from the FBI. They asked me all sorts of questions."

"The FBI?" Bex repeated, stealing a forkful of green beans off Val's plate. "Why the hell is the FBI interested in you?"

"I have no idea." I still felt sort of shocked about the whole thing. "But I heard them talking after the meeting. The FBI psychiatrist wants me to be discharged. She doesn't think I need to be here anymore."

Val's fork clattered against the table as she dropped it. "What?"

"I know. It's crazy." I took a bite of mashed potatoes. They tasted like sawdust but I ate them anyway. Suddenly I was ravenous. "I don't even know what I'd do if I was released."

"They can't release you." Bex sounded confident. "Only Dr. Mendoza can do that." I hoped she was wrong.

I hope you enjoyed this chapter! Sadly this will have to be my last update until after my wedding, which is on Saturday. But I hope to have lots of wonderful reviews from my even more wonderful reviewers when I get back from my honeymoon! I love you all!