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

redgirl25: Well, I most certainly appreciate that. Hopefully, this will shed some light. (I definitely plan on uncovering more in the future.) And I most certainly thank you for taking the time to read and review with such complimentary words.

Guest: A week is more bearable, yeah? Lol. I'm glad to see that her personality is surfacing, and certainly plan on elaborating more with these next chapters. As for the updates- they should be spaced out no more than a week at a time. As always, I thank you for taking the time to read and make your voice heard.

"In light of recent events, we'd like to remind you all that should any further misconduct take place on or off facility grounds, the authorities will be involved. No questions asked."

Click. This is what I wake up to.

Considering that I've now been at Piney Groves for the better part of a month, I'm finally allotted the joy of wearing my clothes. Not the paper-thin crap that bunches up if you turn too quickly. Paige delivered the news last night when she returned to our room, though she didn't seem terribly enthused in communicating my newly appointed small freedom.

Early this morning, far before the breakfast bell rings, I quickly throw on my favorite combination—plaid and jeans, and sneak off before my mentor wakes. Down a series of winding hallways is Dr. Evans's office, where I plan on asking to borrow her phone. If only to call Mom and Dad and hear their voices. See how their lives are carrying on. Maybe casually mention taking me out of this wretched place.

It isn't until I'm about three feet shy of the doorway that the idea sets in. This is what she wants. Obviously. Yesterday was just the beginning. Surely Paige has sick intentions of forcing me out. Sending me into the arms of my parents. All like a damn child.

So, when I finally step into the office, and as both Dr. Evans and Angie's eyes meet mine, I change pursuits. I'll stay, but there's no chance that I'm sticking around her. "Emily, is there something I can help you with?" the doctor asks.

"There is," I say, voice catching. "I'd like to be paired with a new mentor. Paige just isn't working out."

Both women chuckle to themselves. "Do tell," Angie begins, "how could Paige possibly not be working out? She just happens to be the most successful trustee we've had. A huge turnover rate, but nonetheless successful with those who don't chicken out."

Ignoring the obvious mocking on my counselor's behalf, I protest, "I'm no wimp. She's absolutely batshit crazy. A total nut case. And to top it all off, she's screwing with my head." I tap twice on my temple for added effect. "I mean, one minute she's being a total bitch, and the next she's crying. I just—I can't deal."

Dr. Evans grunts before looking to Angie, who returns the glance, nods, and looks to me before saying, "Our hands are tied. If she hasn't physically harmed you, then I believe your only hope will be to have her request a new partner." A moment passes before the counselor uprights, a look of concern penetrating her features. "Unless she has. Been violent, I mean. Has she? You can trust us, Emily."

As easy as it would be to lie, it would be far more difficult coaxing the lie into truth. "No. She's done nothing of the sort. But—"

I can't squeak out another word before a dismissive hand is waved. Both women sigh, seemingly relieved. Angie merely says, "Then I'm afraid you're going to have to deal."

Slightly defeated and even more agitated by their apathy, I turn to leave. That process is also quickly shut down when Dr. Evans speaks up. "Oh, and Ms. Fields." I turn, catching her intense glare. The announcement this morning contained a message. I suggest you pay close attention to what it was saying."

"Of course," I mutter.

Paige, get rid of me? There's no way. She's far too fixated on making my stay as miserable as possible to give up such a golden opportunity, I think on the short journey to the cafeteria. First bell has only just ringed, and if I hurry, the food might actually be hot enough to eat.

I muscle into the line's third spot, only to be nudged into fourth by a long, bony arm. There's no use in getting into a twist, for I've already seen what they're serving this morning. Quite frankly, it wouldn't matter if I was skipped by the next thirty people.

Soon enough, I get settled into the corner table, barely picking at the yellow emulsion on my tray. And even sooner, Paige is sliding in across, plopping her tray down with a thud. She proceeds to say with a mouthful of apple, "You. Me. Field trip. Today."

It's a bit out of character and totally catches me off guard. "No way."

Paige stretches out and leans forward, smacking on yet another bite. "Look, I get it. We got off on the wrong foot. Consider this excursion as a peace offering. A truce. Fresh start for the both of us," she suggests. "I'm willing to try and play nice if you'll agree to do the same."

My head reflexively nods. "But—"

"But nothing, kid. Today, we blow the popsicle stand that is everyday routine."

Dodging bits of the red fruit that fly toward my face with each remark, I say, "But we can't just—"

Suddenly, the apple core plops against my forehead. Paige then deadpans, "Stop talking, please. And no more talk of buts. It's weirding me out. Now go dump your shit. We've got places to be."

I'm not exactly sure why, but I decide to follow her lead. Trust the girl for the time being.

We hurry from the cafeteria and down a series of hallways until we reach a back door, which Paige promptly swings open. On some sort of patio sits a pair of dumpsters. Other than an older man who smiles at my mentor, we're completely alone. And so I follow Paige once more, jumping off of a small ledge and venturing farther until we're nestled underneath a large shade tree.

She places a single finger to her lips and points upward, where the sounds of muffled cries ripple through the early morning. Dr. Andrews, the very man who provokes my headaches with a handful of peppermints each morning, is hunched over the railing, face in palms. Paige snickers, leaning over and whispering, "It's one of few places that aren't under constant surveillance around here. He comes out every morning during breakfast."

Considering the trouble he's given me, I shouldn't feel as bad as I do. But something about watching a grown man cry is always unsettling. Especially when you have no clue why. "Should we say something?"

Paige scoffs. "Hell no. He's probably crying over something unimportant, anyways. Hell, I'd be doing twice the damage if my name was Bert."

This forces a chuckle from me. We don't hang around much longer, eventually tearing off across the massive lawn toward the lake. I'm then lead around to its back where a small wooden fixture juts out. Something practically invisible from the main building.

Pieces of decaying wood protrude in all directions, but it isn't enough to hinder Paige's maneuvering across, tiptoeing from block to block. And when she runs out of footholds, she sits on the edge, feet dangling just above the water. I join her.

We sit for a minute or two in silence. The wind picks up out here, rippling through surrounding trees. It's definitely a place that has potential to be peaceful any time of day.

Paige eventually breaks the trance with a deep sigh. Her eyes sink into themselves as she breathes, "On the list of my favorite places in this world, this easily lands in at number two. You know, after the pool."

I merely nod, not wanting to screw up her recent uplifted spirit with a seemingly negative comment. Mom says that negativity has become my niche. Dad agrees. I usually try to explain that positivity is difficult to maintain when your world's crashing down in every respect, but my tongue always becomes too heavy to speak. I nod at their comments as well.

"We're going to have to talk eventually."

I nod again.

"There are a lot of things that need figuring out, Emily."

Nod.

"Listen, I know that I may come on a little strong." She pauses and takes a deep breath. And just when I think that Paige is actually about to apologize for acting like a heinous monster, she finishes with, "But I mean well. Always have. Always will."

The toe of my shoe barely grazes the water below. It seeps through, dampening the interior of my Converse. Oddly enough, the feeling doesn't bug me. It's a bit refreshing, really. Even if the closest I come to a body of water for the next little while is merely by way of my body's smallest appendage.

Paige doesn't say anything else in her defense, which makes me think that the tranquility of this moment has already been broken. That whatever I say won't botch things up too badly. "What are you here for?" I ask. "I mean, you seem pretty put together. Why be in a place like this?"

Maybe I spoke too soon. Because my mentor's eyes droop just a bit more, her cheek bones rising and falling. Grimacing and settling into a slump. Her brown eyes reflect the sun that now reflects off of the water. The double illumination makes me feel odd. Like watching a movie within a movie. The only difference being that most films are enjoyable, while I feel as though I'm watching a life of pain flash through the two orbs.

With enough time, she inhales sharply and dips her head low, peering into the mucky lake. "I tried to hurt someone very badly," she barely whispers, "and I'm kind of reminded of it every day." I sit still, hoping that she'll continue, only to realize that further elaboration isn't in the cards. "Your turn."

"You already I know," I say quickly and defensively.

She shakes her head and looks to me. "The truth."

"Whatever you heard or read is the truth and nothing but," I admit ashamedly.

"The truth behind the truth, then," she returns, eyes trained on mine.

I can't seem to hold her gaze now. How much more honest can I be? Am I not here? As aesthetically appealing as Piney Groves can be, I highly doubt that this is anyone's preferred vacationing spot. Still, though, Paige insists that there's something more. Something that I'm not fully grasping? Some deep-rooted logic that can only come with months' experience in a rehabilitation facility? Nothing makes sense, though it never really has. And yet I'm supposed to see clearly through the fog.

Maybe she expects a drawn out confession of how my life manages to crawl and speed by at the same time. A heartfelt admittance to my love for a single white caplet that makes time come to a standstill. Whatever Paige is asking for, Emily isn't giving. Period.

Recalling the past however many months of harassment Mom, Dad, and I have received from Family Services, I answer, "I was set up, I guess. Someone wanted to see to it that I came here, and they certainly prevailed."

This apparently isn't enough, either, for Paige shakes her head again, only more like a disappointed parent. Or a teacher that claims her students know the answer to a question she never asked. Again, it's confusing business. Much to my thanks, though, she eventually places both hands below and propels herself upward. "Come on," she mutters. "Places to be."

Instead of wandering any farther out, we trek back toward the facility, but don't enter. Instead, I follow Paige to a set of metal double doors. She keys the lock, swinging it open and revealing an array of maintenance tools. I recognize a handful of them from my multiple mission trips to third world countries.

But she doesn't reach for any of them. Rather, my eyes follow a brown ponytail until it disappears into darkness, followed by the steady drone of an engine. It takes two or three kicks to crank. She then backs out in a cart that reads Security, sending a flutter of panic through my bones. "Paige" is met with a silencing hand. "Calm your tits, dude. We're going to be all right."

Are we, though? She wasn't awake this morning. She didn't hear the ambiguously direct statement. "Misconduct". "Authorities". The words rattle into my ears, up until the point where I'm shaking my head, trying to banish the thoughts. No, no, no. I simply Cannot. Do. That.

Surely enough, we are okay. Up until the edge of the backmost foliage, no one spots us. And when we pass a landscaper type, Paige waves and receives equal courtesy in return.

We're then barreling through the withering forest, easing over fallen branches and through thorny bushes. A patch snags Paige's arm, forcing us to a halt. She doesn't flinch, though. Shows no visible signs of pain. Instead, I watch intently as she rolls up her long sleeve and tends to the wound, plucking thorn after thorn that is lodged into her arm. Blood is drawn. A lengthy yet minor gash is produced. Her expression remains the same.

I barely catch a glimpse of similar scratches on her forearm. Probably from other trips this way. Other "field trips".

Anyway, we soon press on and reach a bush that contains minor gaps of light, allowing movement from behind to leak through. And with a final stomp on the accelerator, we're propelled forward onto a low-cut mass of green. Gentleman clad in khaki, polo, and visors swing away with iron rods. Carts similar to ours wind down narrow pathways. Of all places to lie just on the outside, I think, a golf course?

Paige quickly addresses my confusion, explaining, "The Grove used to be a summer camp, hence the dock near the lake. Parents used to drop their kids and come over here."

Makes perfect sense. Get rid of your children, but don't venture far enough away to make them think you're dumping them off, even though it's exactly what you're doing. "My dad would love this place," I say as we fall in line behind another cart. Paige grunts at my comment, pulling ours into a space nearest the course's center.

After I'm given the choice of how we kill the next couple of hours, I initially suggest a dip in the club pool, but my mentor shoots that down. She merely says that we're currently free people and should do what free people do. I don't realize that the ultimate sign of one's freedom involves a tennis racket and dodging a small yellow ball, but it clearly does. And when Paige has decided that winning five games is enough, she sets the racket down, breathing heavily.

I take the down moment to glare at one very massive, very empty swimming pool. One with clear blue water. One that isn't separated by blue lines, forcing its inhabitants to compete for their time in its refreshing, calming liquid. I must be staring too longingly, for the girl behind me begins snickering. As I snap to, I shake my head multiple times, trying to leverage a cool façade.

The tactic doesn't work, either, but Paige appears to lighten up. In fact, she stands again, tosses the tennis ball into the air, and swings as hard as she possibly can. Within seconds, a sphere of yellow begins floating amid the blue mass. I look back, to which she smiles and nods, sending me in a dead sprint to retrieve it.

Granted, I linger much longer than it takes to get my hands on the ball, basking in the cool liquid. Paige eventually joins me at the poolside, hanging around with a dumb smile on her face. I splash around and settle only when a family of four enters through the gate. They shoot confused glares (probably because I'm fully clothed), to which Paige gives me the universal "it's time to leave" stare. I shrug, wading over and extending a hand for help up. It's met by another, and mine tugs just as hard as my arm will allow.

When Paige surfaces from underneath the water, her eyes are wide set and frantic. Not like she hasn't been in this position before, but the fact that I caught her off guard. The girl who has a firm grasp on every aspect of life has been surprised. Point, Fields.

Quickly, though, the score is settled when two hands grab hold of my shoulders and dunk me. As soon as air meets my face, I do the same. And then Paige and I are ignoring the now swimming children, concerned only with settling scores in a playful mix of dunking and tackling.

This lasts for the better part of ten minutes. That is, until the mother walks over, flips her sunglasses up, and coughs. Paige simply shrugs and looks to me, saying, "I'm fucking starving." This time, I smile before nodding.

Soaked to the bone and laughing like children, we climb from the pool and trudge toward the course's main clubhouse. Wet trails follow us inside. Curious glances meet us in tandem with a blast of cold air, but Paige doesn't seem to mind either. She merely flashes toothy grins at those whose attentions are directed our way. I don't possess the same verve, but follow closely in her shadow.

We're all of ten feet away from the bar when the body in front of mine slams to a halt. I look to a now panic-ridden Paige, seeking her direction. There isn't an ounce of decisiveness. Her face is too flush. Devoid of any real color, mind the pale whiteness that now infiltrates her features. Her frame stiffens. Two eyes fixate on a man with close-cropped hair, chatting with another man that pours dark liquid into his glass.

I nudge forward, but my mentor doesn't budge. Following her eyes once more, I take a good look at the man who currently dominates her concentration. His mannerisms look eerily similar to Paige's. The bone structure, eyes, and stature. They're practically spitting images of each other. "Paige?" I eventually whisper.

My answer comes in the form of a firm grip to my arm, yanking me in the opposite direction. "We're leaving," is all that I pick up in the panicked frenzy.

At the cart, I remain silent. In fact, neither of us speaks as we tear off, cutting across a far green and back into the woods. There are no hitches this trip. We smoothly sail right into the shed, darkness settling in all around. Even if I can't see Paige's face, judging by her breathing, I know that something is terribly wrong. Especially since up until the clubhouse, we were actually having a pretty decent time. Joking around and laughing. But just as soon as the mysterious man appeared, everything's gone south.

No words are said until we're back inside the facility, cutting through a line of patients that effortlessly fractures to accommodate our intrusion. No one questions our sun-dried nature. Finally, when we barrel into the downstairs common room, Paige says, "Meet me here later. We'll—uhh—we'll run through the checklist then."

When she turns away, I muster the courage to reach out. "Hey, what's the matter?" I ask earnestly because I actually am worried. A little freaked, sure. But more worried.

To this, Paige produces a forced smile. I've seen these plenty of times. From my parents. Friends. The painful kind. The "I'm really fucking hurting" type. "I'm fine," she says. "No worries at all. Later, okay?"

Helplessly, I nod, manage an equally faux grin, and release her arm.

It seems that the sting of Avery's absence is still prevalent, for in addition to rehabilitation, I'm now receiving the silent treatment from my peers. Shady eyes cut from all angles. At some point, I'm forced to pretend as if I don't notice. Which is particularly easy, considering that earlier now dominates my thoughts. Guilt and shame come in tidal waves. How I threw Paige under the bus this morning, only to have the reality of her complete and utter humanism slap me square across the face.

I'll tell her about this morning, I half-heartedly vow, my gut screaming the exact opposite. I'll tell her that I tried selling her out to Dr. Evans and how terribly wrong I was in assuming.

For hours, I wait. Parked on the too stiff couch, I wait for Paige's return. A battle of heart and mind lasting until the second she reappears in the doorway, bearing a scowl. I instantly know that her mood has changed. Probably from too much thinking. That's typically my demise when left alone.

But something's different. She's reverted back to the sad hostility from when I first met her. As if today has been an illusion. So, when she silently motions for me to trail, I apprehensively do. Hopefully, we'll be able to discuss what's currently eating at her. Maybe I can be a positive change. Bail her out of something as she's done for me time and time again, it seems.

"Can I get a hint of where we're headed?" I playfully ask, trying to lighten the mood.

Cutting around a corner, she stops dead in her tracks and turns around, bearing a grimace that would make Oscar the Grouch jealous. After a couple of painful seconds, she manages a grin and says, "One word: breathtaking."

Honestly, there's nothing breathtaking about the facility's swimming pool. In comparison to my old high school's, this is a trash can filled with water. I don't bother pointing this out to Paige, who appears on the verge of killing someone who so much as sneezes in the wrong direction.

So when she urges me to sit next to her on the edge, it comes as a surprise. But we have the mandatory questions to run through. Even if we did spend the day skipping out on every single mandatory thing we were supposed to do.

Skimming her bare foot atop the water, Paige breaks the tension by saying, "I wasn't always like this, you know. I used to be like the water. Calm. Steady. At peace. That is, until—" Suddenly, her leg thrashes out, cutting directly into the tranquil surface, causing ripple after ripple of chaos.

"Until what?" I nervously ask, unsure as to what in the hell she's saying.

A finger points down. "Get in."

"I'm a bit swimmed out," I try joking.

Paige's expression doesn't falter. Her forehead merely dips below. "Get in." Far more freaked out than before, I gently push forward and dip down. Her same finger then extends to the wall behind me. "Freestyle. Take a lap."

I huff before using the wall as leverage, propelling me forward. It's a quick journey across and back. When I return, Paige orders, "Again."

Return. Again.

This continues for eight laps or so, until my muscles scream for relief. Lungs beg for a break. I can't remember the last time I did so many hard laps this consecutively.

After the last, when my head lifts from the water, a forceful hand meets its top. Suddenly, I'm descending rather than climbing to fresh oxygen. If my lungs were begging before, they're on their hands and knees now. Offering me anything in the world if I will Just. Get. To. Air. I buoy upward, barely inhaling a fraction of breath before descending once more. My efforts are useless. Thrashing about does nothing but expend what little oxygen my body still possesses.

Finally, the hand releases my head. In one fell swoop, I inhale all of the world's air and force out a choked, "What the hell was that?!"

Paige is closer to the water now, knelt down and propped up on one hand. Her shoulders hunker forward, voice now calm, collected, and hauntingly cold. The eyes that once reflected so much light dimmed with heartache. Betrayal, even. "That was called insight, Emily," she spits, eyes narrowing into slits. "Whatever your deal is, it's not going away. In fact, the more you fight, the more it's going to fight back. And that pain is going to drag and hold you under until you can't fucking breathe. May as well come to terms with the truth, because when you're finally forced to, it'll be too late. And the truth is—I was only ever trying to help."

She stands up and turns on a heel. I remain bobbing up and down, utterly confused as to the nature of this recent outburst. Unless…shit. Paige nears the doorway, pausing only to spit one last remark before she slams the door shut. Her lip quivers and she bites it hard before saying, "Trying to drag someone else down with you isn't healthy, either. Take it from the batshit crazy girl."

Oh, boy. I don't follow Paige out, considering that she might try and kill me with her bare hands. Instead, I allow a thirty-minute safe period to pass. Tensely waiting to see if she returns.

She doesn't.

So I dry off and tidy up any remnants of my late night swim. In the hallway outside Paige's and my room, Angie trounces around with a clipboard, poking her head in various doorways. Ever since the other night, the counselors have been buckling down on checking rooms.

What I don't notice is the pile of clothes sitting in our doorway. More specifically, a pile of my clothes. My other belongings are haphazardly thrown into the mix. A jiggle of the doorknob proves that it's been locked. Compliments of one Paige McCullers, undoubtedly.

A combination of anger and "you had this coming" courses through my veins. Angie eventually sneaks up behind me, tapping on her board with a pen. She then concludes my recent string of unfortunate mishaps by chuckling and pointing out, "Well, it seems that your wish has been granted."