“Man trouble, huh?” I dig deeper, feeling my fingers twitch because whoever this fucker is needs to be taught a lesson.
She does not look like a woman who is loved properly. At all. Nothing in Sarah's demeanor suggests she's full or satisfied. A rather hungry and desperately sad look crosses her face, causing my eyes to flicker all over her face and to her hands, her torso, searching for other clues.
There’s so much pain in her eyes I can’t think straight.
It throws me off-center for a moment and makes me lose all sense of keeping my typically cold demeanor under wraps, working to figure her out instead.
Sarah gasps, obviously offended. Her chin tucks in as she throws me a filthy look.
“Stop fuckingpathologizingme!” she hisses, leaning forward and slamming the DSM-V onto the desk between us so hard my plaque bounces. “I’m not a client. I know what you’re doing!”
Sarah winces as a pained expression dominates and diminishes her feisty gaze. Closing her eyes, she averts her face from me, biting her lip against a small sound as her hand flies back there, trying to reach, before straightening her back once more. Her head lifts up, and my whole world comes crashing down at her next words.
“SorryI-I fell…y-yesterday. Down the stairs,” she half-whispers, her eyes averting quickly to the side and away from mine.
I go stone still in my seat; equal parts red-hot anger and disbelief rise in my chest so hard it momentarily clogs my throat. “You’relyingto me!” I snap.
Leaning forward in my chair, I look her boldly in her face, causing her eyes to go wide.
I watch carefully, feeling this need to protect her fill me so fast that it makes me desperate. Sarah licks her bottom lip before clearing her throat, braces a hand to my desk before rising from her seat shakily, and snatches up the papers to shove them back in her bag. Her face pales, and she suddenly breaks into a very fine sheen of sweat that alarms me.
Her hands tremble slightly as she attempts to shove the other items haphazardly in her bag. All while I free-fall my way into hell.
"Don't go," I say quietly."Sarah."
Desperate,I think of ways to keep her here.She can't leave. I have to figure out what's wrong.Fix this.
But I can't keep her locked in here either.
The papers crinkle as she shoves them in the bag without even bothering with the folder, in a rush that does much to cause my anxiety to skyrocket. Her chest rises and falls rapidly, and all Ican do is sit here while it looks like she's fighting off a mental breakdown.
“I'm s-sorry. You know,it’s okay… we can do this another time," Sarah whispers, looking like she could be sick as the rest of the color leaves her face in a rush, as it does from mine at her next words, "Maybe this isn’t the best time. We’ll just reschedule,again.” I stare, horrified.
Oh, God, what the fuck is going on?
What the hell's wrong, baby?
I stand out of my chair slowly, my eyes assessing her. Her breath catches on a ragged inhale, and I'm so fucking worried about her that I can’t even find pleasure in that simple action. Her movements are wrong; her breathing is wrong; her words are wrong.
“Sarah—”Her name rips from my throat in a tortured, hoarse groan, before going quiet again as she moves to bend forward. "Wait…"
Her hair shifts heavily to the side when she leans over to grab her bag, and I get a good look at her back through the near sheer material of her cardigan. My blood runs cold as I launch myself out of my chair, feeling my heart draw to a stop.
Bruises,not a tattoo like I’d first figured.
“Sarah, why do you have bruises on your back like this?" I ask sternly, walking around the desk to her. "Who did this to you?”
Terror leaps into my chest when Sarah makes a scared sound in her throat, causing me to come up short when she raises a pair of terrified eyes to meet mine as she topples back a few steps, tripping on the chair next to her. I reach forward to try to catch her, but she takes another fast step away from me. Her hair swings heavily as she rights herself before flinching so hard she doubles over.
A sharp scream rips from her throat as her arm goes around her stomach again. My arms hang uselessly at my sides despitewanting to pull her to me, but from the way she's acting, it would only make her more afraid.
"Sarah, how can I help you?" I implore.
We have two seconds of silent communication where I can literallyseeher calling out for me, before her features contort in a pained expression, and her eyes squeeze shut hard, breaking our eye contact once more.
“No. Oh, nooo,” Sarah wails as her knees collapse.
The next few seconds are so bizarre that it's almost in slow motion. I watch her grapple with the chair next to her as she sinks down.
