"We met in Medical school." Amon spoke in a clear voice, not deigning to hide his arrogant sneer as he looked down his nose at the jury, at the lawyers, at the F4 listening captive in the audience. "I was a fourth year, Tsukushi Makino was a first year. But that's not really what you want to know, is it? You want to know about her emotional state, how fucked in the head she is and why. For that, you need to understand how we met. So here's the way it was. I needed a girlfriend. To put it bluntly, I was horny. I used my position as a student advisor to canvas the entering class for a girl." His callous words offered no apology for his actions, and the court listened in a horrified kind of silence, "I'm a busy man. I wanted a quick lay, no strings, no emotional shit. Over the years, I've found that chicks with low self-esteem tend to be easy. All you have to do is pay them a few compliments, make them feel pretty, desirable, and they'll fall at your feet. You don't have to make promises, you don't have to tell them you love them, And when you dump them, they don't fight hard, they all think it's their fault in the first place."

"What an asshole." In the back of the courtroom, Akira couldn't believe his ears. And Tsukushi had seriously dated this guy? He almost made Tsukasa look good by comparison.

"At first, Tsukushi looked like the perfect candidate for a quick fuck. Shy, quiet, not terribly attractive, kept to herself. You know, standard wallflower material. So, I approached her one day in the hospital. Tried to flirt, the whole standard routine. She brushed me off, gave me the total cold shoulder. Well, I hate to lose, so I tried again, with the same result. I'm an attractive man, so I knew it wasn't that. And I'm not stupid, I could tell there was something off with her reactions. So I watched her. She was a loner, she had no friends—would eat lunch alone, outside the medical school every day. She flinched, you know, whenever anyone approached her, grew hostile at every friendly gesture. I've seen patients like that, who scan the room when they enter, looking for the escape route, who only sit with their backs to the wall. I never saw her smile. So yeah, I should have moved on, found a more suitable fucktoy, but I'd already invested so much time into figuring Tsukushi out. And, as I said, I hate to lose. I wanted her. So I tried a new approach. . ."

Tsukushi remembered it as if it had happened yesterday, sitting at her usual bench, slowly chewing at a sandwich she hadn't the appetite for. The man—Amon, tall, intense, overbearing, sitting down next to her, blocking her sunlight, a little too close. Her heart hammering in panic, the way it always did those days, when a man got too near, and she remembered. . . . She remembered him, Amon Kunisawa, who had cornered her in the hallway of the hospital and tried to flirt with her. Amon Kunisawa, whom she'd later seen cursing out some hapless nurse who had made some innocuous error. Amon Kunisawa, who radiated arrogance, a cold hard clarity, who seemed to feel nothing but ambition. And he turned to her, pinning her to her seat with those piercing eyes, and he made her a proposition.

"Date me." He'd said, a command, not a request, "I need a girlfriend, you're single, I'm good in bed. You need to get out of the rut you're stuck in. . ."

"No." Tsukushi had cut him off, and tried to stand to escape, when his hand shot out to grab her wrist.

"I wasn't done." Amon had growled, "Let me finish. I don't want some needy girl hanging off me all the time, I don't want some dumb chick whinging about Love and commitment, and asking all the time if I love her. I don't believe in that nonsense. I'm looking for a steady source of sex, I don't care if you're good or not, we can fix that. In return, I promise you this—I will never lie to you. I've been called an asshole and a bastard and many worse things, but never a liar. You're not stupid, so think about this: you could do a lot worse than me, I'm smart, attractive, good in bed, and I know how the world works. You need confidence, I can help give that to you. So how about it?"

And god help her, she'd said yes. There was something in his eyes that compelled, and she'd had a second's thought, that maybe it wouldn't be so bad, that maybe she could learn from this arrogant cold man, that he could help bury the mistakes she'd made. She'd had the brief hope that if love and its betrayal had ruined her, turned her into the broken-down being she knew herself to be, that maybe this passionless union of convenience might be the antidote to her pain.

It hadn't been the solution, of course, but, in some way, it had helped. Amon had tried, in his own way- tried without saying anything, without asking anything. To impart a skillset, the illusion of competency, the ability to appear functional. He'd given nothing away, nothing to say how he'd learned these skills, or why, or what he was hiding. . .

In the courtroom, Amon was still talking, his voice dragging Tsukushi from her memories.

"It was obvious from the very start that there was something seriously wrong with Tsukushi. She'd agreed to my proposition, which, quite frankly surprised me, but I wasn't about to complain. What was interesting was that, from the moment she agreed, she started trying. Trying to act like she wanted to be there, that she was glad of our arrangement. It was obvious that she wasn't. I taught that girl every sexual position I knew. She's a smart girl, and she caught on quickly—she went from being totally clueless and scared, to being a damned good lay, and scared. And trust me, I wouldn't force a woman –what's the point? But I'm not blind or stupid, so I was not pleased that Tsukushi never came. But she never complained about it either. She got pretty good at faking it, and that was fine too." He sounded as though it didn't bother him at all, her lack of responsiveness. His voice was distant, analytical, as he went on, "She had nightmares almost every night. She would wake up drenched in sweat, alone in her own world." Amon shrugged, "But she didn't ask for help and I didn't offer it. Instead, I taught her how to wear the mask, to pretend like nothing was wrong, to smile politely, and do what had to be done. Teaching by example. She's good at that, at taking care of others, then she doesn't have to think about herself. But still, I couldn't keep her from flinching whenever anyone touched her. I'm pretty sure I was the only male she ever let get within two feet of her, and I could see her visibly forcing herself to relax, to smile.

"Eventually, she dumped me, of course." Amon paused, cracked a sardonic smile, "Surprised the hell out of me. I didn't think she had it in her." He shrugged again, his mask of disinterest firmly in place. "After that, she avoided me, I graduated. Never saw her again until just now."

It was a somewhat sordid history, a partnership of convenience, people using each other. And it was the facts, but in no way was it the whole truth. There had been moments in their relationship, when Tsukushi was asleep, that Amon had lain there in bed watching her, the jaded mask slipping from his face. Those brief moments in her sleep when Tsukushi would smile, and he could feel his cold heart thawing. Then she would whimper, and cry, and thrash, and wake, and he would grip her shoulders, while she panicked, until she recognized him and calmed, and then he would fuck her senseless, trying to drive the image of her panicked face from his own mind, trying to replace her fear with pleasure, failing, the both of them falling to sleep again, trapped in their mutual loneliness.

Maybe he had loved her, maybe he hadn't. He would never admit it to anyone if he had. And she would never ask. They were good together, he knew that, Despite her neuroses, or perhaps because of them, he'd treated her like he'd treated no other woman. Her heat, his cold, they complemented each other. He had put up with much, just to keep her around. Would have done more to take her back. But she would have none of it. He had been defeated, and his life had never felt the same since. He wished now, that he could, like Mr. Aoike, have seen Tsukushi smile for real, out of her own joy or pleasure at life, rather than as a carefully constructed social necessity.

"Did Dr. Makino ever mention anything to you about the defendant, Junpei Oribe?" The lawyer thought it odd that this Dr. Kunisawa was a witness, yet hadn't mentioned anything about Jun yet.

"No." Amon snorted, "Tsukushi didn't talk about the past."

"Then why are you here?"

"I thought that was obvious." Amon was sneering now, "Who better to tell you about the emotional damage, than the only person in this room who actually understands Dr. Makino?" He emphasized the title now, a jarring dissonance to the way he'd casually tossed off Tsukushi's first name in his previous monologue, as if to reinforce now, how serious he was. "Who better to tell you how Dr Makino's past crippled her as a person, than the one who made sure she could limp through life instead of crawl. I told you already, I'm not a nice person and I'm sure as hell not good. But it was in my own interest to do the best by her that I could. And I did." The words he left unsaid, trapped silently in his throat, that he would gladly have killed anyone, or done anything, to only have met, and had, Tsukushi the way she was back before she'd been damaged.

"So yes." Amon continued, leaning back in his chair on the witness stand, and steepling his fingers sharply, "Tsukushi was, and is, a damaged person, because she has PTSD, post traumatic stress disorder, and PTSD has no cure. The DSM-IV defines PTSD as follows," Amon paused a moment, as if to collect his thoughts, and launched into a didactic recitation, "Firstly, exposure to a traumatic event in which the patient was, or felt threatened, and to which they reacted with helplessness, fear, or horror. Well, the event is what we're here to prove. Rape and assault are common causes for PTSD. But, Dr. Makino admits she was raped, and I for one, believe that completely, Even if she hadn't admitted it here and now, the signs are unmistakable. Secondly, the patient must re-experience the traumatic event, through flashbacks, or nightmares, or suffer intrusive recollections of the event, or experience intense distress at exposure to cues reminiscent of the traumatic event, or suffer physiologic response to said triggers—for example, veterans often find that watching news footage triggers flashbacks, or sets their hearts racing. Only one of those five instances of re-experiencing are needed to support the diagnosis, and Dr. Makino has three. She has vivid nightmares, often triggered by sex, or any sort of physical closeness with men, she flinches, and hyperventilates when touched, even casually by men, or even, sometimes, if one sits too close to her, and if you watch her face, anytime she thinks no one can see her, you can tell, she's thinking about it again, dwelling obsessively on one cruel, unnecessary event, and how it changed everything."

Briefly Amon's tone had softened, as if he had forgotten himself and his audience, but he quickly snapped himself out of it and continued more crisply, "I'm sure the defense will call my testimony supposition, slander, wishful thinking, But before they can do that, let me remind you, that psychiatry, like all of medicine, is a science, a science of observation, a science by which we treat disease by following scientific algorithms. One set of symptoms leads down one path. Another down a different one. Close observation makes the differential. Knowledge of your subject. I watched Dr. Makino closely, when we were together, and the differential diagnoses are few. I am as confident in my diagnosis as a doctor can be.

"But I digress. The third criteria for PTSD is avoidance of stimuli associated with the trauma, and numbing, as evidenced by three of: efforts to avoids feelings, thoughts or conversation associated with the trauma; avoidance of places, activities, and people reminiscent of the trauma; amnesia of certain events of the trauma, diminished interest or participation in activities; estrangement from others; restricted affect or decreased ability to love; sense of foreshortened future. Dr. Makino manifests four of these. I learned that in college, she was an active participant in student government, and had a wide array of volunteer and other extracurriculars. And then, suddenly, she no longer participated in any activities at all. Estrangement from others? She has virtually no friends, and no desire to make new ones. You can take my word for it, or do as I did, and talk to the people at city hospital where she works. They'll tell you. As for decreased ability to love; Dr. Makino doesn't even make friends, She certainly doesn't love." And here Amon fixed his eyes sternly, on the red-faced Dr. Makino, who was biting her lips and wishing she could die. She'd been wrong, being raped by Junpei wasn't the worst and most humiliating, soul crushing event of her life. This was. Being analyzed in public. Her fears and neuroses, her friendlessness, and hopelessness being dragged out for all to see. She knew she was sick. She'd known for years. But her misery was personal, private. It didn't need to be aired to the world. To be transcribed for all to read. And for one brief moment, Tsukushi hated. Hated Tsukasa Doumyouji for swaying her to be here. Hated Rui Hanazawa for making her care enough to want to help. Hated Soujiro Nishikado and Akira Mimasaka for forcing her out of her shell enough to be hurt again. Hated Amon for sitting up there, pronouncing judgment on her life. Hated Amon even more for that warning glance he sent her, that warning not to fuck up his tale, not to react with indignation. Hated him for that look that said he knew. He knew she'd fallen for a patient, that she'd lied up on the stand. He knew. He always knew her. Just one look. . . . And she'd felt like she never knew him at all. Tsukushi blinked, and bit back her tears, and thought about giving up. She never noticed the redirection of Amon's gaze, the fury he flashed at the back of the room, at the F4, while his voice droned on, at times, sardonic, at times didactic, explaining the how and whys of Tsukushi's mentality. The mentality of the thousands of unhappy souls who struggled with PTSD every day of their lives. Struggled at a pretense of normalcy, a pretense of functionality, and those who gave up, went on disability and spent theirs days indoors, in hiding, or who ended it all with a gun, or pills, or any manner of fatal means.

Eventually, It was over. Amazingly, the lawyers hadn't interrupted once, letting Amon lecture on for a surprisingly long time. The defense lawyer finally got his chance, trying to imply that Amon's assertions were guesswork, hearsay, or gossip. That the behaviors he'd observed in Tsukushi were no more than responses to him personally. That maybe he was here trying to blame another for his inadequacies as boyfriend. But for each verbal thrust, Amon had a parry, laughing off the insinuations, and countering with examples of specific incidents where Tsukushi's symptoms had erupted in the time he had known her, incidents in which he hadn't been involved other than to observe. The defense, even at one point resorted to accusing Amon of making everything up, that no one's memory could be that good. But Amon had simply responded with a condescending, pitying smile, one that said, "I can. Because I am just that much better than any of you."

And in the end, the defense gave up in disgust. Mr. Kunisawa may not have been likeable, but he had played his part well. By the time he was through, there was probably not one man or woman in the jury who was not convinced that Tsukushi Makino was a profoundly damaged woman, who had been grievously wronged by someone. The only question was, "Was it really Junpei?"

That, however was, not a question to be answered today, as the court adjourned for the day shortly after Amon completed his testimony.

As the room emptied, Tsukushi found herself frozen at her seat, unable to face the media that lurked outside, the staring faces, the pitying looks. She felt naked and exposed, with nowhere to run, no place to hide. She had no home she felt secure in. No place to be alone with herself pity and disgust. Her lawyers surrounded her here, their faces unreadable. At home, the F4 would be waiting, with contempt or pity, or who knew what lurking behind their eyes. And Amon, he couldn't do all this to her, be here, that familiar look and those dark, hard eyes, boring into her, without seeing her. Kazuya too, just another fragment of her past to see. It was unavoidable. But oh! She wanted to avoid it. To curl up and die, right here, right now.

Instead, Tsukushi forced her rigid muscles to move, pushing up abruptly from her chair, straightening her posture and aligning her defiant jaw. A deep breath, and another, locking her tears behind her mask of cool, as she strode out the doors, past the shouted questions and the blinding lights, to her rusted out car, and to the place she still couldn't quite bring herself to call home.

TBC

Life. Ugh. Medical school. Suck. Surgery. Away Rotations. Hell and damn. New Enemies. Hate. 18 hour work days. Agony. Unrequited crushes. Doh! Creepy housemates. Eww. Former friends. Sigh. Potential admirers. So young! Shitting blood. Gross. Undercaloried. Wasting away. Academic Publications. Three this month! My life. In brief. Pain. . . .This fic. Not forgotten. This chapter. Short and lame. Spellcheck? Hah! Long delay? Beyond my control. Long delay! My apologies. Long delay. . . To be expected. AGAIN.