"I'm going to bluntly honest with you, Miss Rosecorn."
Great.
"I don't agree with you being here. Someone like you should be studied by psychology students. Not be one yourself."
"I've changed."
He scoffs.
"Please. Someone like you should never be released. I do not have the slightest idea why my colleagues of Piltover's Mental Asylum decided it would be a good idea to let you walk free. You're lucky you weren't executed. I've seen your record and it wasn't hard for me to figure out who you were."
I feel fear grasp me like a huge, ice cold fist.
"And your diagnosis is a joke. Schizoaffective disorder? I've seen dozens of people with that diagnosis. Know how many of them went on a killing spree?"
His eyes are piercing me.
"You're lucky that the leader of this fine university has such a big heart. And that she wasn't around when you were... active. Otherwise she never would have agreed to let you study here."
"I'm on meds, I still see a therapist-"
"None of that is going to fix the monster that you are. You're a danger to all of us."
Oh trust me, old man. If I had my guns right now, you'd be one dead motherfucker. Asshole.
"And don't you dare lay a single finger in Miss Percal. She's been through enough. And one of my best students."
Silence. He just... stares at me. Stares down, makes me feel like the monster he thinks I am.
"Now get out of my sight," he finally hisses.
I walk backwards until my back hits the wall, then turn around, grasp the door handle and stumble out of the classroom, my heart beating outside my chest.
"What'd he want?"
Olivia is leaning against the wall across from the classroom. Was she waiting for me?
"I, uh, nothing. Gave me a few notes of what you did in class so far," I say, but I know I don't sound very convincing.
"He can be a little rough with new students. Are you okay?"
I just nod.
"Come on, let's grab some lunch. Get your mind off things."
She smiles and takes my fucking hand, dragging me along.
As we enter the cafeteria, a weird feeling hits me. It reminds me of my last year at the hospital, when they stopped bringing the food to my room and let me eat in the common room with the other patients. I was practically never allowed outside my room the first three years, except for medical exams. I remember refusing to take the meds during the first months, throwing the pills back up after they'd left. They gave me something to suppress my gag reflex when they noticed. In hindsight, that was good. Helped me get over my eating disorder.
Yeah, what Mr. Professor, whatever his fucking name is, just said, isn't quite right. Yes, I was diagnosed with Schizoaffective Disorder. But I was also diagnosed with Sociopathy, Bulimia, Pyromania, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, Anti-Social Personality Disorder, Borderline Personality Disorder and Major Depressive Disorder. I'm a mess. And I am far from healed.
"Hannah?"
I wince.
"Huh? What?"
"Are you okay? You zoned out for a second there," Olivia says with a worried look on her face.
"Yeah, I just... remembered something," I respond, only now realizing that I was trying to eat noodle soup with a knife.
"Left the stove on?"
There's that smile. Again.
"Something like that."
I force myself to smile back.
She'd hate me if she knew who I was. Everyone here would.
I hate this. I have no idea how to communicate with people. For the longest time, the only friends I had were a rocket launcher and a mini gun. And a shock pistol, but he never talked to me.
Christ. Why did my therapist think throwing me into college life after five years of practically no social life was a good idea?
I feel my cheeks and ears getting hot and my eyes fill with tears.
Fuck.
"I gotta go."
"What? Hannah, we have another lesson after lunch."
I stare at my bowl on noodle soup and say nothing. Don't cry. Don't. Cry.
"Are you sure you're okay?"
She sounds genuinely worried. I can't tell her the truth. I just met her.
"Migraines. I get them frequently," I say, my voice shaking, "I forgot to take my painkillers with me."
I mean, this isn't a complete lie. I didn't take my anxiety medication, that I can take whenever I need it (Just not more than four per day) with me.
"Where do you live? I can drive you, so can pick up your meds."
"No, I can't ask that from you."
"I'd feel horrible letting go home on your own in this state. Come on."
Gently, she grabs my arm and walks me out of the cafeteria, outside the building and to the parking lot, holding me the entire time as we walk. If she learned anything during her Psychology lessons, she knows that I'm having an anxiety attack.
She opens the car door for me and then gets in on the driver's seat.
"Now, where do you live?"
"853 Borne Street."
She looks at me for a second before she starts the car. I suppose she knows a lot of social mishaps live on that block. Which doesn't help my anxiety attack at all. I've started visibly shaking by now, but I'm still trying my bet to hide it.
Olivia is speeding to my place, running over two red lights and going constantly 30 over the speed limit.
By the time we arrive at my apartment building I've become basically rigid. She helps me out the car and up the stairs. With shaking hands, I unlock my apartment door. She follows me inside, I don't have the strength to stop her.
Like a sleepwalker I shuffle to my bathroom. Just as I open my mirror cabinet and take out my anxiety meds, I feel my stomach cramp. Oh shit.
I drop the pill bottle and rush over to the toilet to throw up.
"Are you okay?", I hear Olivia from outside the bathroom door.
"Yeah," I say, caughing and gagging, "Don't – Don't come in!"
If she sees the shitton of medication in my cabinet, I'm doomed.
