Author's Note: I understand that I haven't been updating, and I apologize for that. I've only just finished another piece, and will now be able to dedicate all of my free time to this one. If you're still around, I thank you. (As a side note: the chapters will grow lengthier as the story progresses.)

dotylink64: This isn't soon, I know. I apologize. It will be 'soon' from here on out, I promise. And I do thank you for taking the time to read/review.

WhatAWayToFall: I do intend on keeping with it, lol. So I thank you. And I will include back stories as this piece progresses. Promise. As always, thank you for taking the time to read/review.

Disclaimer: I do not own Pretty Little Liars or any of its characters.

A hand grabs hold of my arm and tugs, yanking me from the window. I follow as a string of brown hair pulls me from the room and down a hallway. Turn. More hurried walking. A closet door flings open and we barrel inside. A body holds firm against mine, hot breath continuous against my jaw.

Seconds pass. Then minutes. My heart beats in tandem with the siren, slowing only as it quiets then fades away. A mysterious hand scales the wall, reaching for something. Then a click sounds and light fills the cramped space. Peering into me are Paige's narrowed eyes.

"A key for every room, huh?" I ask jokingly.

"Perk of cleaning up after junkies," she dismisses. "Now be quiet."

We remain in the same position for a handful of minutes, listening as feet scuffle outside. I recognize Dr. Evans's voice from afar. Even at a distance, she sounds collected. Very procedural. As if an incident like this occurs every week. "There was another person in this room. Find them," she barks.

The door knob jiggles once, forcing me to hold my breath. When the person outside becomes disinterested, I'm allowed to exhale. Paige continues focusing on the outside, craning her ear to the door as I take inventory of our temporary sanctuary. Cleaning supplies litter metal shelving. Mops and brooms are sporadically placed. It's a similar sight to the downstairs closet. Smaller, though.

Paige's focus shifts to the area's back, maneuvering her body away from mine and to a bucket. "Seriously? A tree?" she eventually asks.

I shrug, not entirely sure of how to explain. Instead, I try making light of the situation. "It's kind of like the air raids they talked about in school. Sirens blaring. People huddled up in small spaces."

"The only downfall being that there is a zero percent chance of us being blown to pieces," she snaps, now rummaging through empty bucket after empty bucket.

Aside from her never-ending bad mood, I remember earlier. Watching her wait for someone that never showed. Truthfully, I'd probably act the same. And more so, I'd want someone to vent to. So I ask, "Do you want to talk about it?"

Paige finds her prize. A bucket halfway filled with mucky water. "Being blown up? Not really," she answers, reaching for my arm. When I'm hovering over a drain, she commands, "Lean over."

"Wha-" but a firm grip pushes my shoulder until I'm bent at the waist. A cool sensation follows. That is, until I realize that the same mucky water is running down the side of my face. I watch as chunks of dirt gather at the drain. Paige throws a towel at my face.

She then returns to the door, turning the knob ever so slightly. It creaks open, a small gap of light invading the space. In an instant, she pulls me from the closet and back down the hallway. In nearing my room, Paige says, "Your form could use some work, but other than that, I think you'll be a great addition to the team."

Dr. Evans looks to our pair, shooting a questionable glance. "It's after curfew, girls. Where have you been?"

Paige speaks up before I can respond. "She was curious about joining the swim team. Figured I'd take her to the pool. Get some laps in. See what she's made of." She then cranes her neck, cocking an eyebrow. "What happened here?"

"I could ask your friend the same," Dr. Evans says, glaring at me. "Any input?"

I cough, looking to Paige, whose eyes beckon me to respond. "I've been with Paige the entire time."

This isn't enough to suppress Dr. Evans, unfortunately. For she uprights, crosses her arms, and returns to my mentor. "Calley, Malcolm, and Jamie all attest to Emily being in the room. Now—"

"With all due respect, Dr. Evans, you're going to believe them?" Paige interjects.

"I'm not sure what I believe at this point, Ms. McCullers," she quickly says. "But I will find out what happened here. And when I do, there will be ramifications." A few tense moments pass before the doctor twirls a hand and runs it through her hair, sighing loudly. "Ms. Fields will be staying in your room in the meantime. Until we can figure things out."

Paige is about to protest when I force a smile and nod, saying, "Sounds great."

Evidently, being the biggest bitch in Piney Groves earns you a room for yourself. Or, at least, it seems to be the case for Paige. "I wouldn't bother unpacking," she says when I enter with an armful of belongings. "This is only temporary." Sleeplessness is still very prevalent in my life, so I lay awake in bed, listening as Paige sleeps quietly. By morning, she's maneuvered from the room without my noticing.

My next group therapy session is tense, to say the least. Everyone sits, leaned back and arms crossed, refusing to answer Angie's questions. That is, until she huffs in defeat and says, "What happened last night has nothing to do with any of us. So we mustn't allow it to affect the progress each of you has made." Progress. Yes. Progress.

I'm content in accepting her disregard, but a girl from across the circle clearly isn't. I think her name's Sarah. "I just have a hard time believing that any of it was Avery's fault. She was so intent with finishing and getting out of this place." Then Sarah's eyes cut across to me.

The tall, lanky guy chimes in as well. "I agree. Avery was really proud about doing so well."

Everyone nods in agreement. "We're looking into things," Angie dismisses. "Until then, I need everyone to focus on themselves. Agreed?" Everyone nods again.

When the time comes to an end, and Angie makes us each recite the creed from the wall, I'm in a hurry to be free of the cramped space. The counselor has other plans, it seems, for she catches my arm near the door. I'm then ushered to a side away from the opening. "Whoever's responsible for what happened is going to be in a mess of trouble," she says matter-of-factly. "Dr. Evans will undoubtedly want to speak with you again. Ask you questions. If you weren't in that room, be honest and everything will work out." She pauses, mulling over the words. "Don't let the other patients get you down, okay? They're just surprised, as we all are."

I nod in understanding, feeling as the confined area becomes ten times smaller. The walls feel as if they're slowly closing in. Angie must realize my discomfort, for she nods in return, releasing my arm.

When lunchtime rolls around, I am entirely mentally drained. My throat feels as if a barrel of cotton has been forced down it. I'm also sure that I've been sweating since this morning. Paige is situated at our usual table in the corner, picking at a tray of food.

"I am one hundred percent freaking the fuck out," I admit, snapping her to attention. Her expression doesn't shift, however, and I think to the night before. "Oh, and thanks for what you did."

She finally grunts and responds with, "You get in trouble, I get in trouble. And I don't like getting in trouble."

Paige begins fiddling with the mandatory questions sheet when I mention, "Angie said that I'd have to speak with Dr. Evans again. That she would ask me questions regarding last night. What am I supposed to say?"

"Whatever you please," Paige dismisses, sitting upright. "I can't make decisions for you."

"But you just said that you'd prefer not to be in trouble."

My mentor slaps her hands to the table in frustration. "I thought it was obvious," she mumbles underneath her breath, placing a thumb and forefinger to the bridge of her nose. Looking to me, Paige says, "Lie then, Emily. You're used to sneaking around and keeping things from people. Now shouldn't be any different."

I'm taken aback by her pointedness. Further insinuation. "She has a baby," I say. "How am I supposed to act nonchalant and go about my days knowing that Avery won't get to see her for even longer?"

"Visitation is once a week," Paige waves away. "Once a week is more than perfect in my book."

Right. Is this jealousy? Resentment? Bitterness toward somebody who actually had their visitors show up? Who wasn't left waiting for four hours, all to be disappointed? Who isn't forced to swallow said disappointment? As Paige skims over the checklist, initialing on small lines, the sympathetic feeling creeps back in. That pang in my chest that makes me actually feel sorry for someone as vile as she. And so I ask, "Do you want to talk about it now?" When she shoots me a questioning glance, I elaborate. "The other day. When whoever you were waiting on didn't show."

Something registers in her existentially hardened expression. Pain. She bites her bottom lip. So much so that it turns white before she says anything. "First question," she breathes, ignoring my remark. "How do you feel today as compared to yesterday?"

"No different," I spit. "Because my mentor insists that I talk about my issues when she blatantly refuses to speak about hers."

Paige continues looking to the paper as she hums, "Because it's not my job to talk about my problems. My job is to talk about yours." Her face then appears from behind and she asks, "So are we going to, or what?"

"I don't know," I return. "Are we?"

This is enough to disgruntle my mentor, for she hastily folds the paper, shoves it into her pocket, and says, "I don't suppose we are," before darting out of the cafeteria.

Later that night, as I'm tossing and turning yet again, plagued with a sickly stomach, there's a knock on our door. Paige has been gently snoring for the past three hours, so I take the liberty of answering. As luck should have it, Dr. Evans stands with her arms crossed and foot tapping, patiently waiting. "Come along," she then says, motioning for me to follow.

I do, and we eventually wind up in a dreary looking office. Dull colors, much like the rest of the building. A diploma hangs on the wall, but aside from that, there isn't much as far as decorum goes. The chill of a cold metal chair breaks me from a carnal stupor.

"I apologize for such an early wake up call," the doctor begins, ruffling through a stack of folders. I look to her desktop clock and realize the time. Four a.m. "There are just a few more things I'd like to have cleared up by morning."

I merely nod. "Of course."

"Your roommate, Avery—she's been quite the patient in her stay. Never one to cause trouble. Always attends her meetings. Hasn't really made much noise in the past couple of months," Dr. Evans says, twisting her lips with each word. "So it strikes me as odd that she would pull such a stunt."

"Desperate times," I breathe, not sure of what else to say.

Dr. Evans nods and cuts her eyes to me, wave after wave of suspicion crashing down on my frail, now guilt-ridden spirit. "Considering that we operate solely on a code of honor here at Piney Groves, I'm in quite the position. So I need you to think long and hard of what I'm about to ask you." I nod in understanding. "Are you absolutely positive that you had nothing to do with what took place two nights ago?"

Instinct tells me to confess. That my whole reason of coming here has been to make drastic changes. Opting for the truth would go a long way to smooth that beginning over. Another voice tells me otherwise. Paige's voice. Lie then, Emily. Hadn't she pulled me from that room for good reason? Or was she merely protecting her hide? Regardless of what I choose, someone is bound to get hurt. I will not be the lone victim of my actions.

Instinct loses all leverage. With a gentle coaxing of my morals, I begin nodding my head once more. "I was with Paige the entire time."

With a deep breath, Dr. Evans blinks twice and says, "Very well. Run along, Emily. I suppose you'll want a few more hours of sleep."

In a flash, I'm up and darting out of the room. Even quicker, it seems, are scrubbed orderlies rushing past me. Their footsteps echo into the silent hallway. As does the voice of a shrieking girl being woken from her slumber, now struggling against some outside force.

Paige is awake when I return to our room. She lies, head propped against her hand, as if she's a small child waiting for Santa's arrival. "You're still here, so I gather that you took my advice."

"Unfortunately," I say. "Though I wouldn't necessarily call it advice. More like terrible guidance, really." A quiet moment passes before I ask, "Am I supposed to feel this shitty?"

"Not a therapist," Paige hums, rolling over.

I plop into bed. "What's going to happen to her?"

"Not a psychic, either."

"Christ," I breathe into the darkness, annoyed.

She snickers. "I prefer to be called Paige."

"No decent advice. No input," I say a bit more loudly, disregarding her last comment. "It's a wonder how you got put into a position of authority."

"My stunning good looks, mostly," she laughs. "I will say, though, I'm the fortunate one. God, I wish this place had popcorn. It'd make watching this shitstorm you've created all the more entertaining."

For a split-second, I'm overcome with the urge to smother her. Pure pillow-to-the-face action. Just to prevent another snide remark from ever falling from those lips again. It'd be more a public service than anything. Eventually, suppressing the itch to murder my roommate, I revert to equally low remarks and call out, "Tell me, if you're such a popular person here, then why'd you get stood up at visitation?"

It's enough to stifle my mentor's quick tongue. Later on, when the weight of my actions and withdrawal hit in tandem, I'm coaxed from bed and into the bathroom, where my lung just about comes up in a fit of dry-heaving. Only when I return is my response given in the form of Paige's strangled, muffled cries.

When morning comes, I don't see any of my former acquaintances. They've all vanished in the aftermath of Hurricane Break Out of This Place. Paige meets me for breakfast, as agreed, but doesn't bring up the night before. Neither do I. Instead, we eat in tense silence. Sounds of silverware against metal trays harmoniously filling the void.

For the day's progression, I receive cutting glances from patients that I've never even noticed, let alone manage to anger. It seems that word travels fast.

So, when free time ensues, I head toward the only place that's ever brought me peace of mind. A former home. The one place where I'm untouchable. Where aching limbs against lukewarm water are proof enough that I am Emily Fields and not a ghost of myself.

And when I'm forced from the pool with intense nausea, who else should I find waiting other than Paige? She stands, half-smirking and holding a towel. Not sure of her motives, I reflexively begin searching for empathy. Signs that this girl bears even the slightest fraction of human emotion. "When's the pain supposed to stop?" I ask.

Eyes shifting to her forearm, mockingly checking a nonexistent watch, she returns, "Still not a shrink."

"Physically, I mean."

Paige's smirk grows as she takes on the voice of a news anchor. "In a startling new twist of events, Emily Fields comes to the realization that among other professions that she does not practice, Paige McCullers is no doctor." I dip into the water to silence her sarcasm. Buoying up, I hear a stern voice command, "Now get out."

"Figured that the swim team charade was our cover."

Only now does she kneel closer to the pool, shaking her head. "Swim team's for recovering patients," she says. "For the ones who talk about their problems. I suppose we'll have to come up with a different alibi for you."

"I haven't done anything wrong," is all I manage. That is, until I realize just how much I have done wrong. "Ten more minutes, please."

"Needy isn't a good look on you," she chides. "Out."

Taking her scolding as answer enough, I climb from the water, instantly missing its soothing effect. Must things always be this difficult? Is there ever a moment when being in her presence won't feel so much like a job? Of course not. Paige eats, breathes, and sleeps confrontation. Her very being is devoted to making others' lives hell.

Which leads me back to wondering what her motive was in pulling me out of the room. Surely, she could've passed me off as a distressed newbie. She could've easily gotten out of trouble. Played dumb. Leveraged her tenure. I've come to realize that seeking the answers of too many whys only gets you into trouble. After all, it's why I'm here. Searching for answers that would never come. Harnessing the temporary relief of my mother's pain medications when the pain of not knowing became too much of a weight on my mind.

As I near the double doors, only one question pops into my head. One that I soon ask. "You didn't care if I lied or not, did you? You didn't care what happened after."

"All for good reason," she says in very Mister Miagi fashion. "Life has this weird way of testing us, Emily. You'll figure that out soon enough."

She climbs onto the platform, and just before Paige dives into the pool, I mutter under my breath, "Funny. I thought you preferred to be called Paige."

I don't realize how heated my face has grown until I'm back in our room, undressing from the copped swimsuit. Paige will undoubtedly smuggle it back into the locker room before too long. And then I'm thinking of Paige. Paige. Paige. Paige. Fucking Paige.

The mere thought of her name burns into my cheeks. Fuels an internal rage that instantly cripples me. A newly-proven hatred that ripples into my core. I sprawl out in bed, shifting my sight across each wall. Searching for a single spot to focus on. A distraction.

Instead, my eyes train on Paige's nightstand. A small, orange cylinder sits atop it. Much like the ones in my mother's medicine cabinet, the bottle contains tiny white capsules. Again, instinct screams the exact opposite of what my body decides. Reaching across, I unscrew the cap and dump three into my hand, taking them in one swallow and leaning back against the bed. Hopefully, a dulled haze will calm my nerves. A trip on the cloud, as the old Emily might've called it.

I must have fallen asleep, because when my eyes open, Paige sits on the side of her bed, aimlessly peering into the bottle. She proceeds to a dump a handful out. Then, with both eyes trained on me, one hand begins picking through the pile. One by one, the white caplets are moved about. I nervously swallow when her mouth opens to speak.

"You were right," she whispers. "Earlier, when I told you to lie, it wasn't necessarily for anyone's benefit. I only wanted to see which you'd choose. Get a sense of who I was dealing with."

I remain still, nerves growing by the second. With each word that comes forth, the knot in my chest tightens.

"You know, if there's any chance of me helping you, then we're going to have to talk about your problems. And no, you will not step foot in that pool until we do. Can we at least agree on that?"

Anxious, I quickly respond, "Sure. But just so we're clear, I don't need you to help me. Not in that sense, at least. There's nothing wrong with me. I'm not sick or anything."

At this, Paige laughs. The kind of eerie chuckle that haunts you in your sleep. Like when your parents are really pissed off but don't yell. Rather, they speak calmly and methodically. Well, I've just been caught with my hand in the metaphorical cookie jar.

"You know, I always knew that you were a liar. How else would you have been able to get away with abusing substances? You're weak. Susceptible to temptation. Pathetic, even." She then pulls my hand out, palm facing up, and splits one of the white objects in half. A clear granulated substance pours free. Clearing her throat, she says, "But you never struck me as a sugar fiend."

Anger. Humiliation. A slight sense of betrayal. All of these course through my veins. Body, have your pick.

When the moment passes, Paige stands up, a mask of disappointment spread across her features. In the open doorway, she looks back a final time and mutters, "All I'm saying is, maybe you're sicker than you think."