Sorry for the delay… End of the semester is a week away and I've been incredibly busy because of that and the holidays all at once. Give me another week and hopefully I'll be back to weekly updates at the latest, hopefully even a couple a week. Things only pick up from here!

Also, can't keep thanking you all enough for reading and reviewing! They're what keep me going! Show Sucker Punch some love! ;D

Chapter Nine: Using the Ropes

It was Monday morning and I found myself sitting in the waiting room of a doctor's office. Elsa's therapist's office actually.

Okay, so I didn't really know what I was expecting to come from this, and even if I managed to find out anything significant, I didn't know what I would do with it. I mean, could I seriously be breaking some kind of law? Going to see a therapist strictly because you know one of their patients in the hopes to get some kind of information out of them? All the while, lying to both the therapist and your friend? Could I go to jail for impersonating a person in need of therapy just to satisfy my pathetic desires to help someone I cared about?

I mean, I was going behind Elsa's back with this. She told me her secret out of confidence that I would still be her friend and leave it at that; not so I could seek out her therapist and indirectly ask for ways to "fix" her.

Gods, when I put it like that, it sounded completely shitty…

I probably have my own place in Hell reserved for me now.

I shift in my seat repeatedly, my nerves on fire. I should just get up and leave now while I have the chance. I can go to Elsa's and apologize profusely for the huge mistake I'm about to make.

There's such a thing as a "snowball effect," right? Well, I have the feeling I'm about to cause a monstrous one.

Then why can't I get up?

My hands are on the arm rests of the chair when a door in the office opens.

"Anna Summers?"

My stomach sinks.

Fuck, there went my chance to salvage the situation.

Looking up, I find a tall, lanky man standing in the doorway. Giving the waiting room one last look over—and contemplating bolting for the exit as my eyes scan past it—I stand, my feet on autopilot as I make my way to him. Reaching him, I notice his mop of unruly, brown hair and large, thin-framed glasses perched on the bridge of his nose.

My eyes hone in on the small metal badge he wears.

Dr Milo Thatch.

I gulp.

"Pleasure to meet you, Anna," he says with a smile, hand outstretched towards me, totally unaware of the turmoil churning inside of me at this moment.

Hesitantly, I take his hand, forcing a nervous smile.

With the nod of his head, he leads me from the waiting room and down a narrow hallway.

Is it just me, or are the walls leering at me, aware of the hole I'm digging myself and the lies I'm about to spill for selfish gain?

We enter a dimly-lit office and Milo prompts me to sit in an overly-plush chair. I sink right into it and just wish it would swallow me whole, throwing me up somewhere far away from here.

"So," he begins, sitting himself down on a couch across from me. I zero in on a plaque on a bookshelf next to him that dons his name and his degree and I swear it, along with his nametag, is there just to spite me. Then, my eyes travel to the top of the bookshelf where a framed diploma from Yale University greets me.

"What brings you to see me?"

What brings me to see you? I repeat in my head somewhat sardonically. Oh, you know, just the fact that you're Elsa's therapist and I'm hoping to get some insight on how to help her deal with her loss of limb as well as find out all she's been talking to you about.

But, of course, I can't just tell him that. No, if this guy finds out I'm here strictly in hopes to find out about one of his patients, I'll be shot down faster than when I asked my parents for a pony on my sixth birthday.

Not to mention I could feasibly wind up in jail—maybe. Hell if I knew; but the thought was lingering in the back of my mind just to further frighten me.

No, if I was really going through with this—which I seemed to be suddenly roped into now that I was literally in the hot seat—I would have to be smart, more meticulous about all this.

"Well," I start slowly, taking care to draw out the last letter to prolong my thinking time. "I have a friend who…experienced something traumatic recently and I really want to help…him."

Nice, Anna, my mind quips sarcastically. No way he'll pick up on that pause, 'cause you totally said that as smooth as possible.

I watch apprehensively as Milo nods and jots something down on the legal pad in his lap before looking back to me. He smiles kindly again, and I can't help but feel obligated to return a small one back. Then there's a period of stretched silence and my smile dissipates as I begin to feel increasingly uncomfortable.

Shit, he's about to call the cops on me, I know it.

Is this how Elsa feels when she's here? I guess that explains why she sounded so exasperated when talking about her therapy.

"Am I supposed to be saying something?" I question after a while.

Milo chuckles before asking, "Do you have anything else to add? I was simply giving you time to think."

"Oh," I mutter. "I thought you would prompt me to continue or something. I don't know; I've never been to…therapy before."

"Well, let's get back to your friend, then," he says, and I'm thankful I'm not going to be psychoanalyzed in this moment yet. I'm here for Elsa, not me.

At least, that's what I keep telling myself.

"May I ask what happened with your friend?" Milo inquires next.

"He…" Crap, what do I say? "He…was in the war…in Iraq," I clarify, hoping he thinks I'm merely uncomfortable about your typical touchy subject and not because I'm just feeding him complete bull. "He was in the war and lost his leg."

Milo frowns at this and his eyes soften. "Anna, I'm so sorry."

I hope you apologized like that with Elsa rather than quickly dismissing it to further pick her brain, I think.

Then he shifts on the couch, pen at the ready.

"So, what brings you to me exactly?" he asks. "Where do I fit in?"

"Well, you're a therapist, right? I'm not here for myself, but rather, for him. I want to know what I can do to help."

Writing in his pad, Milo glances up at me. "Does he want help?"

I pause, my eyebrows furrowing heavily.

Did Elsa want help? I wanted to scream the obvious answer was yes, but maybe that was just me and my desire to help her. The fact that she had been living for fourteen months with the secret said the opposite: that perhaps she really didn't want help.

But then, why tell me? After fourteen months, what finally made her crack?

"I like to think so," I finally answered. When he raised an eyebrow at me in response, I carried on. "I need to think so."

"And why is that?"

Damn it, what now?

"Uh," I bite my lip. "B-Because I care a lot about him and I can tell he's really unhappy. Maybe, with a little push from me, he can get back on his feet again—hypothetically of course, because he only has, you know, one foot."

Crossing his arms over his legal pad, he leans forward.

"I appreciate your devotion to your friend, Anna, and I'm certain he does as well, but have you asked what he wants yet?"

When he sees me frown, he smiles.

"It can be hard for patients who have lost something as substantial as a limb to submit to help. Many realize the fact that they lack something so significant automatically makes them weak, and so they can put up walls to keep others out and keep themselves strong. Am I making any sense?"

I nod, but add, "But he told me." Looking up, I continue, "Isn't that like a cry for help in its own way? I mean, he came to me and told me this. Aside from his…war buddies…I'm the only one that knows."

"He could be asking for help by it, but also think of the burden of carrying around something like that; of keeping it from someone close to you like yourself," Milo states.

So Elsa told me not for help, but just because she had to get it off her chest?

I mean, that makes sense, but would she really not want any help at all?

"But…" I trail off.

Think, Anna. I had been doing a decent job until now—despite a kick to my gut every time I told a lie—but I needed something else.

"Before the war," I begin, talking slowly and taking time to work my way through this, "he loved to play soccer. Now, without his leg, he can't. What if there was a way he could play again? Is there a way?"

So, Elsa, the boxer without an arm, had turned into a male soccer player without a leg. I hoped Elsa wouldn't cross his mind and cause him to question me. I mean, he could theoretically have more than one patient that's an amputee, right?

"I'm sure there is, Anna," Milo reassures me. "Many amputees go on to receive prosthetics that are almost as good as the real thing. They can go on to play soccer, they can swim, and I've even heard stories of one man scaling a mountain after losing his arm."

Really? Sweet!

"Could an amputee ever compete in the Olympics?" I blurt without thinking.

Shit. Red flag, red flag; he's got to know what's going on now.

I swallow a knot in my throat when I see his eyebrows crease and I swear the look he gives me is scrutinizing on a whole new level.

"I…suppose," he carries on regardless. "Was this to be an option before the war?"

"I mean," I start, hoping I'm not sweating like I think I am. God, it's hot in here. "He was never scouted or anything, but I certainly thought he was good enough."

"Well, you'd have to do your research, but I don't see why not," Milo says. "I mean, he could definitely compete in the Paralympics."

That wasn't good enough. Not that the Paralympics was anything short of a miracle for those with disabilities, but Elsa had competed in the Olympics twice already. I could keep the Paralympics on the backburner, but I really wanted to hear she could still compete at the highest tier.

"I guess," I mutter.

"Again, Anna, I have to ask, what does he want?" Milo questions.

"I don't know!" I cry, lashing out. "I just see the pain in his eyes every time I do something he can't! I know he wants help, but he's afraid to get any for whatever reason. I want him to know I'm here for him; I already told him I wouldn't leave him, but he doesn't understand how much I care!"

"Do you love him?"

Fuck. Hold up, what?

"What…do you mean by that?" I ask, my mouth suddenly dry. "'Cause I love him like a brother and best friend, but you're talking about…"

Milo grins, though it's not Elsa's "shit-eating-I'm-totally-fucking-with-you" grin from a few days back. It's sincere and soft.

"Are you in love with him?" he restates.

My cheeks flare up, and I can tell by the stretch of Milo's smile that my blush is as obvious to him as it is to me.

"I—uh… I mean…"

Milo merely shakes his head and chuckles briefly before he's apologizing. "I'm sorry, Anna; forgive me. Regardless of the level of your affections for him, it's clear as day that you do care about him a lot."

"I do," I manage to choke out. "Care about him, that is."

I didn't think I was in love with Elsa. I mean, I couldn't be, right? I barely knew her and had only met her maybe two and half months ago. You can't fall in love with someone that fast, right? This was just some innocent crush.

Right?

I see Milo look at the wall behind me at the clock that's hanging over my head. Flipping his legal pad back to its first page, he clears his throat.

"Well, I believe our time is up for today, Anna," he tells me.

"O-Okay…" I mumble, still mulling over that silly word "love" in my mind.

"Just take your time with this, okay?" he adds. "Amputee patients can come off cold and callous, but it's just a defense mechanism for the most part. If your desire to help is truly coming from the bottom of your heart and shows itself in the right and truest fashion, your friend will open up soon enough. Perhaps try taking little steps; ask him if he would consider going to a group talk with other amputees."

"Is that something you read in a textbook, or is that from personal experience?" I can't help but ask. Screw being careful now, I'm getting frustrated.

Milo just chuckles and escorts me out the door.

"I can't disclose that to you, Anna," he replies.

I leave the office that day with more questions than answers. I take the subway back to my apartment in a zombie-like state, trying to structure my thoughts.

One thing is certain: I'm in this a hell of a lot deeper than I had ever anticipated.

And what do I say to Elsa?