A/N: Hmm. I had been aiming for this story to stay in accord with series continuity, but now in the aftermath of the Great Bade Breakup, it seems that won't be possible. Oh well. Also, updates may be a little erratic for the foreseeable future due to work commitments. My apologies in advance.
The only way she would ever accept her scars (thought Trina as she stared intently at her forearms) was if she imagined them as something other than what they were. They might be rivulets of flame, or forking bolts of lightning; or – she decided that a calmer image would be better – two great rivers, pursuing a single course until they divided into many branches at the deltas of her wrists.
Would they be permanent? She wondered. In the unlikely event she ever did become a big star, it would certainly be a formidable task for the makeup department to cover them up – but then it might be better if they remained. They would be a potent reminder of how low she had sunk, and why she must never again allow despair to get the better of her…
The tap on her shoulder startled her. She looked up, distinctly annoyed. "I thought group therapy didn't start until 2:00-"
But it wasn't an attendant or a physician. Smiling down at her was a boy not much older than she, tall and broad-shouldered, with deep blue eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses and an unruly mop of blond hair.
"Hey, sorry to bother you," he said in a soft baritone, "but I'm looking for a chess partner. Do you play?"
"Now and then," she replied. "But I'm not very good. You might want to look for someone who can actually give you a challenge." She was still wary of meeting people here; a charming exterior could easily mask a mind as troubled as…well, as troubled as her own. But she also realized that if she took no risks and avoided everyone, the loneliness would eat away at her like a cancer.
"Well, to be perfectly honest, winning or losing doesn't really matter to me. I'm just looking for somebody to talk to." He was warm and friendly, but she could sense the desperation at his core. It was a feeling she understood all too well.
"Sure, why not."
"Glad to hear it. I'm Adam."
"Trina." She rose, hurriedly drawing her sleeves down to her wrists, and followed him to the rec room.
The chess table was free, but Adam didn't sit down immediately. Instead, he circled the little table slowly counter-clockwise, counting under his breath: "five, six, seven, eight…", then stopped and circled the other direction, counting to eight again. He repeated the process, tapped the back of his chair twice with his left hand, twice with his right, and then sat down at last – only then realizing that Trina was gawking at him, her mouth open.
"It's not by choice," he said quietly. "I have obsessive-compulsive disorder. That's just one of the little rituals that I'm compelled to follow every day. Hell, I wound up here because my brain kept telling me to wash my hands a dozen times after every meal. My boss finally got wise when I kept taking two-hour lunch breaks and coming back with raw skin on my palms. He told me it was treatment or the unemployment line."
"Oh, God," Trina whispered. "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to stare."
"No need to apologize. Everybody does, the first time they see me act like this…and some of them"- his voice grew suddenly bitter – "stare every time after, too."
"I can't imagine what that must be like for you."
He sighed. "We're all in prisons of our own making, Trina. Mine just happens to be a little bit more…conspicuous than most others."
Without even knowing quite why she did so, she suddenly reached over the table and grabbed his forearms tightly, looking straight into his surprised eyes. "Is there ever a way out? Please, tell me there's a way out."
"…I'm not going to lie to you, Trina. This isn't my first time here, not by a long shot, and I've seen both success and failure. Some people turn their lives around. Others just throw in the towel and wallow in their own despair. But the ones who are hardest for me to bear – those are the ones who try, try so damn hard, to claw their way up out of the pit, and just when their fingers are on the edge, something gives way. The voices in their head get too loud, or their need to feel pain is too strong, and – they fall." He looked downward, suddenly unable to meet her gaze. "Maybe I'll be one of them, one day. Locked up in a padded cell, tapping the walls and counting my steps and looking over my shoulder and unable to function at all. That's my greatest fear" – His cheeks flushed. "And I've just shared it with a total stranger. Go me!"
"You can trust me," she said, and the tension in his muscles eased – slightly, but perceptibly. He again raised his head, and she saw something new in his eyes: relief, joy, and…affection?
No. No no no no. She shook her head furiously. Inside her a little voice began to chastise, a voice that sounded (oddly enough) like her mother: Katrina Maria Vega! What on Earth is the matter with you? Have you really become so desperate to be loved that you imagine boys are hitting on you in a mental hospital?
She realized that he was watching her violent head-shaking with concern. "Did I upset you?" He asked. "Please, whatever I said that was out of turn, forgive me…"
"What? No! Don't be silly!" Even as she spoke, she winced inwardly at the falsely chipper tone to her voice. "Everything's peachy keen! How's about we play us some chess?"
"Okay," he said doubtfully. "White or black?"
"White."
They proved to be surprisingly evenly matched, and Trina soon found herself forgetting her anxieties in the pleasure of the game. Adam, for his part, was actually grinning. "I love chess," he explained. "The order, the logic – it's like mathematics in physical form. It's beautiful."
"I never thought of it that way," said Trina. It was true – the game was as orderly, as refined and elegant, as a two-person dance. Just Adam and her, alone on the floor, a Viennese waltz playing, her blue gown sweeping about as she spun…
A faint sound of yelling drifted into the rec room. This wasn't unprecedented – patients often broke into fits of anger here – and Trina took little notice at first, absorbed in her fantasy; but then she realized that the cries were coming from beyond the front door of the ward. And the voice seemed familiar…
"I have to see her! It's important!"
"I'm sorry, ma'am, but only family members are allowed to visit Ms. Vega at this time…"
Trina's ears pricked up at the sound of her name.
"Don't you understand? It's my fault she's in here! It's all my fault!"
The rook she had just lifted fell from her fingers onto the table and rolled onto the floor. It can't be. There's no way in hell she'd come here…
Two more voices joined the fracas. "Babe, you're not being sensible. Come on back to the car." "Beck's right. You should listen to…ooh! A jar of peppermints! YAY PEPPERMINTS!"
Trina clapped her palm to her face.
Dr. Courtland approached, hesitant, clearly embarrassed. "Trina? I'm sorry to disturb your game, but you have a visitor."
"Yeah," she muttered. "I noticed."
"Would you like to see her? Normally we wouldn't permit it, but she seems awfully…er…insistent."
Trina sighed. "Why does that not surprise me?"
She really had no desire to face Jade West at this moment in time. But if experience had taught her anything, it was that the snarky Goth would never rest until she got what she wanted.
"Rain check?" She asked Adam.
"Any time."
His smile gave her a sudden flush of courage. She turned back to Dr. Courtland. "I'll see Jade now."
