Hi! Im Love, and I'd like to thank you for clicking on my fic. Im in the process of remodeling and fixing up this chapter but im pretty happy with this first chapter so i thought i post it. This story is very near and dear to me and i hope you lovely readers like it. I own nothing but a few ideas and my main character.

"Can you describe this dream for me again, Ms. Lovette?"

"No."

"I just want a more clear understanding of this dream. You only touched upon it briefly last week but I believe that it revealed more than—""

You know," she started, quickly cutting him off, "the only reason I even told you was because Nat brought it up."

"Right, she was concerned because she found you were talking in your sleep. She said it was like you were 'having an argument' with someone."

Her back hit the couch with a thud as her shoulders shifted rubbing against the fleece of her cloak. They were, what, 15 minutes into their session and Dr. Goodman was already prying. She wondered if anyone had ever told him that his attempts at subtlety were as piss-poor as a koala's diet.

"So what, I talk in my sleep, you know what they say about inquisitive minds; you just can't expect them to shut off even to sleep." He seemed to be appeased with her sarcasm, jotting something down on the notepad in rapid succession.

"Right, and do you find yourself questioning everything?"

"I do, actually, like if the shovel you use is the normal one or one of those they use to shovel snow? Or if you're actually going to go to the cemetery or just keep just fantasizing about it." His face shifted, darkening.

It was a soft spot she had hit last session so of course she was digging her heel into it. He didn't give her a response, even as his face melted from that wonderful disdain to distant disapproval.

"So you said it starts with you in a white room. Is there anyone else in the room with you?" Her lip curled and she felt just how hollow this man made her chest. He was digging for sure, making a grave and pulling out all of the fun she should be having.

Didn't he understand that she was mocking him? Mr. Hopper was unfamiliar with the art of setting a man on fire with your eyes, so he continued his probing, shoveling away at her, pretending to be unfazed.

"Yeah, he's in the room." He was fake.

"Your father, correct?" He was sadistic.

"No, the bastard's lover," she drawled, leaning forward, bored eyes taking him in as she smiled. He still had limits. His face morphed again into that amusing mix of disbelief, annoyance and the pain of an oncoming headache. Thank God. She was getting somewhere after all.

"You seriously have no sensitivity for your patients, do you, Marve?" Her back hit the couch so hard this time pain spread through the back of her skull from whiplash.

"I don't like to refer to him as a father, he's a bastard, he will always be a bastard, Dr. Stoodmen?" His limits became more and more visible.

The man's head swayed slightly, debating whether or not to go forth with her demands and she took in that his eyes weren't dark at all; they were gray. She rolled her eyes as Marve seemed to consider his next move, and she considered if maybe they were green.

"Right, so 'the bastard' is in the room as well. Can you tell me where he is? Does he try to speak with you? Do you see him?" He already knew all of these answers! Maybe he had memory loss, that would explain why he was so shitty at his job.

"No, I can't see him. I'm in a chair in the middle of the room facing away from him. And yeah, he says things but usually he's just crying. I tell him to go away." She avoided telling him about the begging and pleading; he would jump on that. Try to get her to dig deeper and to understand why she wants his forgiveness.

She didn't.

"Does he ever move from his side of the room? Does he ever come closer?"

"No, he just stays on his side." There was a beat where silence fell over them and she allowed her eyes to bounce from his pens on his desk to the picture of his wife.

"What about the door, Aurora?" he asked, and the ball dropped. Against her will her eyes grew wide at the abrupt question and she felt like the bunny that her sister used to compare her to. Damn shrink, this was his stupid goal. He had started treating the door like a breakthrough and she had to shut that shit down.It took her a second to rearrange her features from doe to siren.

Her eyelids sagged to uninterested slits as she cradled the left side of her skull in her propped up palm, eyes boring into his. Grey or green or maybe they were dark again but either way they were waiting. Expecting but she was too, waiting for the blink.

"And what about necrophilia?" she started, enjoying the unnerved look that crossed his face.

It was a standard face, dull and uninteresting, nothing more than a blur, just one of the many in the past month. They were all the same at this point but she could make them better; wrench it out and force something more entertaining to take over those dull features.

"Aurora, let's not get off topic this time." She paused, watching in dismay as he carefully fixed his face, smoothing down his pinched brows and pursed lips. And she found the ceiling to escape it.It. the boring. The uninteresting. The dull. The maddening.

"Now, your father stayed at home. He was your main caretaker, he…" he paused, his hands hovering in front of him as tried to breach the topic. "He had a few episodes in your past. I just want to know if you were ever affected... if anything—

"Shut. Him. Down."How do you manage to fail me every time? You didn't know him. Yeah, he was crazy, and it wasn't even that he was a schizophrenic. He was off his meds because he wanted to be, he couldn't handle being a fulfilled adult. He was fine, you know, when he was medicated he was happy but he hated it. Mom would start asking about work and want him to be responsible."

"So there was never anything? Anything that scared you or you didn't understand?" Her eyes narrowed before she could stop them and she felt like a cornered animal.

"The… melon ball—" The voice came through grinding teeth. "I told you the melon baller. I don't want the ice cream scoop."She was young. She grabbed the wrong thing. Kids do that all the time and he was older than her. He couldn't take out his eyes with the ice cream scoop, it was Ariel's after all. It was her ice cream scoop for her 'Sunday Funday with her friends.

She remembered grumbling to herself all the way back to the kitchen, wondering if he would actually find the chip.

But then the wheels in her 9-year-old mind turned.

If he did then grandpa would be upset. He had put it there, so if her dad took it out he would be upset.Her eyes found the phone on the wall, it was on the other side of the kitchen next to the door, and her feet moved. She knew grandpa's number. She should let him know.

"Ro, I'll be there soon, sweetheart. Is your sister home?" No, she had heard herself say Ariel was with Avey. "Alright Doll, get into your bedroom, take the baller with you."

She pushed down the flashes, the grisly sounds that echoed through the halls, the banging and her fathers shrill scream; she pushed them down, trying to forget how the sounds dissolved into heavy sobs.

She pushed it back, shoving it away with everything else she didn't want to think about. Like the oak door, just like all the doors at the complex, with its stupid golden knob. It was brand new, just installed, unlike the beaten bronze it was different.

She hated gold and she hated different.

"Bum bum bum bum," she hummed dramatically, needing to district herself. "Mr. Sandman, I ask for dreams and you give me nightmares." Her feet landed on the floor a bit higher than she expected, still not used to the extra three inches Lydia insisted she wear. She stumbled a bit and moved to the door, throwing it open.

Stepping out of the office she was struck with all the familiarity of a hospital; its underwhelming color palette of white walls, with a simple gray streak and white lines running across them as support. She never cared for hospitals; she had been to the one in Brooklyn once when she was six and pressed a hot poker to her hip just to see how it would feel. Her mother, the doctor and the nurses all tried to teach her the concept of impulse control… she didn't learn much.

Because she was burned again.When she was six though the hospital was a mildly infuriating task of check ups, creams and bandages. And her mother's talking. Her mother just would not stop.

"She's had a strangely high pain tolerance since she was a baby. She never cried when she was supposed to."

"She won't do that again. You know, children they are always so curious."

The rest of the rambles seemed to blur as she tried to remember them all. In truth, her mother was just trying to fill in the silence that sat over them as the nurse examined the cigarette like burn on her daughter's hip. She just didn't want to be viewed in the eyes of some random nurses as a bad parent because her kid wasn't giving the correct reaction.It was worth it though, Ariel had thought it was the coolest thing she had seen that month.

'You got a tattoo, Bunny! It's so cool, it looks like a star. You'll need to make more than I can connect those like I do with your freckles.' The voice was vivid with its childish lisp and high pitch. It played through her mind and her hands felt cold, the exact opposite of the searing pain of iron burning flesh.

Her knuckles buffed themselves against the soft fleece on the inside of her cloak and she was reminded of her dread when it came to hospitals.It was funny, if she went back in she was sure Goodman would be more than happy to finish out the session, if she was willing to bring up Ariel.

She wasn't.

Her knuckles still rubbing against white fluff, she stepped forward and refused to look back, already considering the session a major failure. She was sure Natalie wasn't going to appreciate the phone calls saying her new ward walked out 20 minutes before the end of her session but she was in Brooklyn. What could she do all the way across the country? Call her? Blow up her phone?That's what 'do not disturb' was good for.

Besides, she had done as she was told; she had given that man an honest session and even came to this week's session. She had kept that promise. Nat would learn over time, or maybe her mother would tell her that deals made with her daughter had to be as specific and thought out as making deals with a genie.

Checking her phone, she ignored the missed call from her mother; it hardly even piqued her interest. In fact, it reminded her that she would need to block her again at some point. Storing the thought away, she scrolled away at the screen, lazily finding Lydia's name in her contacts.

Sending a simple 'come get me' she was forced to face the reality that she was maybe a bit shortsighted, seeing as Lyida was probably sucking face or something grosser with Jackson and was currently unavailable.

God, she wished she could just drive. If Jackson could whisk Lydia away in his silvery Porsche, why the hell couldn't she get the beetle? Lydia was just like that; she enjoyed having her high heeled foot on your neck to keep you in line.

The hospital, despite being a collage of so many different things, wasn't big by any means. So by the time she made it halfway to the front she wasn't really sure where she was when a red-haired woman stopped her. Her face was set with a firm, annoyed expression that became almost excited at the sight of her.

"What are you doing here? You can't be in this wing, it's for live-in guests and checked-in family members only." Her hair was tied back at the nape of her neck, making it look like a long bright red funnel. Rory set her face, pulling an impassive expression, but her lips pulled down at the corners in that pouty way her sister would always point out.

"You're pouting again, Rors." The voice was older now, a joke with humor behind it. She could even see the redhead's face pushing out her thin lips to mimic the expression.

She hated it. Her inside joke made out of something Rory couldn't possibly control.It wasn't her fault that her genetics had a sick sense of humor and gave her their mothers more 'innocent' features. Ariel always thought they were funny. She would bug out her eyes and push out her lips to try and replicate Rory's face.

It wasn't her fault she had wrongfully gotten their mother's genes. Her sister, who held more grace in her pinky than Rory did in her whole body, was more deserving. She was kind, sweet, enthusiastic, and cheerful, she more than deserved the dotted freckles and doe eyes. But she got the bastard genes: a harsh square jawline, dark eyes and thin nose. But that didn't take away from her beauty, and she was beautiful in every aspect of the word in mind, body and soul.

Rory always wondered where exactly she got her bubbly personality from.The woman had advanced on her, white dress and shoes indicating her nurse status.

"I thought nurses were supposed to at least pretend to be friendly," she grumbled, feeling like a stray cat being shooed out of a store it just happened to wander into. The woman openly glared at her, muttering about children and how disrespectful they could be.

"Open mouth, insert foot, I guess." It was a phrase their mother had used on the bastard for as long as they could remember, and when Ariel had learned what it meant it had been a trademark for about a year that went from giggles to a nervous whisper. Now as the words came out it felt sour and rotten. Using the same phrase as her sister didn't feel right. As the nurse's lips curled even tighter she decided she would never use it again. Ariel would always get a pleasant tight lipped smile when she said her little warning. Rory didn't get the same reaction.

"The lobby is that way, I suggest you go there." Her face morphed into a tight smile as she took a few steps closer but the anger was in her set jaw and right behind her darkened eyes.

"Come on, I can guide you." Well, now the nurse was mocking her, but Rory let herself be guided anyway she knew what redheads were capable of.

Then everything went blurry? She had seen the entrance of the lobby and suddenly her mind was a TV flicking through channels. The white walls of the hospital were replaced with boring creme carpet; she could see the brown dress shoes that padded over it.

"Well, yes, she left, Mrs. Martin, I didn't stop her. She won't go any farther about the door. I'm afraid her dissociation is only allowing her to stray further from her grief. Has she expressed anything to you about her mother or even her sister?"

"No. Lydia says she's normal. Well, as normal as she could be and from personal experience I wonder, do you think she even acknowledged that her sister is gone?" Natalie's voice rang just as clearly in her ears as it did through Dr. Goodman's phone.She felt she had never left the office, maybe she hadn't? Maybe she was still sitting on the couch watching him gossip about her like a teenager. She was pretty sure she had just escaped but obviously escape was impossible.

She watched unimpressed as the doctor moved around his desk, picking up and putting down pens.She scoffed as he brought up the safety blanket that was her cloak, connecting the white fleece inside to the white walls of the room. So much for doctor patient confidentiality. He was as much a horrible therapist as he was a gossip.

"Ms. Lovette?" a voice that was several octaves lower and warmer than the nurse spoke, and suddenly she was thrown out of her daze and her body sagged against the railed wall. "Are you alright? You just collapsed." Looking up she could see a surprising concern from the temperamental nurse and the kind pale eyes of Sheriff Stilinski.

Brushing off his concern, she straightened up, trying to figure out why she was propped unceremoniously against a wall. She had been walking on the other side of the nurse away from the wall.

"Any murder yet, Stilinski?" she asked, ignoring the redhead's eye roll or how she turned on her heels

."Can you not ask me that everytime you see me?" he pleaded lightly, looking around as if afraid someone may have heard her.

"Oh come on, this whole situation is a living cliche." She waved him off with a cryptic smile and his lips pressed together, clearly touchy on the topic that was her 'unfortunate circumstance'.

She was used to that, everyone being apprehensive of her situation. "A freshly orphaned kid in her teens comes to a small landlocked town in the boonies surrounded by trees. Add in some mystical mischief and I'll have authors knocking down my door trying to get my story."

Pale eyes squinted, making them a darker shade that didn't match his warm face. "I heard from Natile that you liked to read. I'm willing to bet that's what gave you your wild imagination."

"Then you'd be a smart gambling man, Sheriff. Think you can give me a ride home?" she asked breezily, tilting her head. She didn't think of it until she said it but it was a decent idea. "You already know where I live and Lydia is preoccupied.." she trailed off looking to the side, when she looked back she smiled fully showing her teeth. "I'm sure you want to keep your lunch, so I won't go into detail." They both didn't need to have the imagery in their head.

She actually liked the sheriff after all. The words reached her mind the moment the last word came out and she would have been sorry but she just couldn't feel it. Even as his gaze became weary and thin-lipped, his eyes squinting but not narrowing like they should have been.She had spared him after all.

"You don't think much when you talk, do you?" he asked finally, and she smiled, shaking her head.

"No, I don't have much of a filter. Besides, I enjoy saying bizarre things, it evokes responses." He looked sad now, almost understanding and she was left to wonder how far Goodman's gossip might have reached. Then again you'd just have to look up any New York Times or the Brooklyn Eagle in the past month to gain some form of knowledge on her that she would have preferred never to have been made public.

It was funny to her how a three hour ordeal could lead to her entire life being on blast.

Just three measly hours.

"So that ride?" she asked, and he reluctantly agreed.

"You know," he started as she settled into the police car, "I haven't heard anything about your mother's passing. I know Natalie is in New York taking care of her." He cast a look over to her like he had expected her to fill in some kind of information.

"Yeah?" She nodded along with the man's words lightly."But you had just told me you were orphaned."

"Mother won't last long." Her voice took on a neutral and apathetic tone. "She's basically married to her work and her articles are her children. If you don't know, she's an investigative reporter, which is ironic. What with all the psychos she researched, she failed to see the budding madman in her own bed." She grinned lazily at the analogue before realizing her joke hadn't landed with the older man; she felt the corners of her lips tilt down again but powered on.

"Failed comedy aside, she'll be in pain for the rest of her life. She can't write anymore or travel. Her career is dead. That's why they had to sedate her. She was coming down from all the morphine and she just started screaming. Completely lost her mind. They had to put her in a medically induced coma because she refused to calm down and that was before she was told about—well, you know."

"Don't say that your mother—"

"You didn't know my mother. She was fine but just fine. She made sure the bills were paid and that we got birthdays and Christmas, but it was Russian roulette which holiday she would actually spend with us. Sometimes we wouldn't see her at all. My sister never liked it; she had to learn everything about hair and makeup from her friend's mom. I was her lab rat though any makeup or hair style, she would test it on me first."

Ariel had learned through failure, and the amount of makeup failures that Rory had to endure were one to many but she let her sister do it. She would smile wildly as she smeared a cherry lip gloss over her lips and giggle at the purple eyeshadow she applied to her eyelids with those crappy sponges on a stick that came with the makeup. She got better over time and one day, Rory didn't remember when exactly, she had traded the crappy sponges for real brushes and lip gloss for lipstick.

"I'm sure she loves you," Sheriff Stilinski prompted, though he didn't have any evidence to back up the claim.

"You know the pattern method." He nodded slowly, and her eyes sagged half-lidded, her lips pressed into a flat line with no childish pout in sight. "Once it's an accident, twice a coincidence, three times it's a pattern. You're a cop, I'm sure you get it, but that was my mother. Once it's Christmas, twice it's trick-or-treating, three times it's our birthday.

"He stayed silent; he wasn't the type to poke his nose into her business when it was obvious she didn't want it. She appreciated that because most of the cops she'd seen lately wanted every detail of her bullshit business.

When they finally reached the Martin cottage manor she groaned audibly dramatically, throwing her head against the headrest. The driveway held one silvery Porsche which only meant one of two things.

"What is it?" The man sounded hesitant to ask and she didn't blame him. She was willing to bet she looked a little crazy. She was banging her head against the headrest after all.

Giving him a dry look, she pointed. "Beetle there. Porsche there. Think you could drive me to the local cemetery? If I hear shrieking and moaning there at least I won't know exactly where it's coming from." The man's eyes squinted again like he was looking at the sun as his head kind of moved and his hand found the bridge of his nose.

"You know you should look into that thinking before you speak thing. Some people might not be.." he seemed to trail off trying to think of a nice way to tell her what she already knew. People didn't like when you were to honest or crude and she was completely okay with that.In fact she was banking on it

."You know you can learn a lot about a person when you're honest," she looked away knowing that she wouldn't like whatever face he was making and quickly changed the subject. "Do you think my teachers will like me?" she asked, suddenly turning to him, trying to play a sly smile and realizing a little too late that she sounded a bit anxious.

His expression softened and she suddenly wished she didn't feel as comfortable with the Sheriff as she did. He was one of those people you just felt safe with. He had this whole fatherly thing to him that made him warm and kind, even when she said annoying things he would be bemused rather than rude or dismissive.

"That's right, winter break ends tomorrow. It's going to be your first day at Beacon. My son goes there too, he's about your age." She looked at him for a moment then nodded.

"I already knew that."

"Did you now?"

"Yeah, it was kind of obvious that you had a kid, the premature gray hairs are a clear indication. My old Principal Mr. Weller had a head full of brown hair when he started my freshman year; he's mostly gray now. I was hoping to get him completely white before graduation but…" she trailed off, because damn it, why did things always have to be so depressing? She was trying to make a joke, to make light of things.

"You seem to dream big, Rory, that's good." He nodded and she appreciated his false ignorance.

"It was a four year plan. I thought I could be cocky for a while and get it down to two, but after my first three plans only made him more committed to my rehabilitation I figured it was gonna be a while." She cast a glance back at the house and sighed.

"I need to go in but I really don't want to… so can I call the police department and say Jackson broke in? Because technically I didn't invite him in." The Sheriff laughed this time, a soft hearty chuckle that sounded like a replica of the good ol' movie dad trope. God, why did that have to be so depressing?

"No, I'm afraid you can't do that, and I better not hear about you doing it either."

"If that helps you sleep at night."She opened the door before he caught her. "I think your teachers will like you, they put up with my son well enough." She smiled before she could force it down gave him quick nod and shut the door.