My erection turns rock-hard. I grab my clipboard from my desk to cover it, cursing myself.
"I-I have a confession to make, Dr. Mercer," she says, almost absentmindedly.
"What's that?" I question, my throat aching from dryness.
She blinks a few times, leans forward, and her fingers dig into the chair's arm so hard, they turn white. Her lips tremble.
"Blue? What is it?" I softly push.
"I didn't do it."
"Do what?"
"I almost did, but I stopped myself, and I didn't text you because I know you were debating whether to keep me or not, but I didn't do it. I stopped myself," she rambles, her face scrunching into distress.
Panic hits me. "Do what?"
"I had the knife, but I didn't do it."
My chest tightens. "Cut yourself?"
"Yes."
"When?"
"Monday morning, after you told me you were still thinking."
A claw reaches inside my gut and twists. Guilt hits me. I know she's fragile and know how her obsession can create unhealthy behaviors. I shouldn't have texted her that. I should have sent her a better answer and not kept her waiting.
I try to keep my voice calm. "That's good that you stopped yourself."
Her expression morphs into a needy smile. "So you're proud of me?"
I nod. "Yes. Very. But let's talk a little more about this. I'm assuming you wanted to cut yourself since I hadn't given you an answer?"
She shakes her head. "No. That's not it."
Surprised, I peer closer. "Then what made you want to harm yourself?"
"The thought you would leave me and never kiss me."
My head jerks backward, and my eyes arch.
"Why are you surprised?" she asks.
I reel in my shock, collect my thoughts, and point out, "You're replacing Brax with me."
"No. I told you I was wrong about Brax. I've finally found clarity and who the right person is for me. There's a difference. And people are allowed to make mistakes, aren't they?" She tilts her head and twirls a lock of red and blue hair tightly around her finger.
I clear my throat. "Yes, they can make mistakes. But that isn't clarity. It's a grandiose romantic fixation.
She smiles. "Or maybe it's the truth you aren't ready to admit, Dr. Mercer."
"Blue, you're not well."
She snaps, "I am. I just made a piece of art without even drawing it on paper! My dress is almost perfect, too. And I didn't cut my other hip. I stopped myself from putting an R on it!"
My pulse detonates between my ears. The vision of my initial, marked forever on her smooth hip, flares so clearly, I have to blink several times. And something sick and twisted flirts with disappointment at the thought of my initial not being on her body.
