"Sometimes love isn't black or white. Sometimes love isn't even in colour. For me, love is red. Bloody, dripping, bright and crimson"

-K Webster

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Three Years Ago,

Mr. Grayson's P.o.v

"So, how are you feeling today?", My psychiatrist, Dr. Renée asks me. She has a soft grin on her face, and she seems to have put more thought into her appearance today. Her hair, which is usually scruffy, under-shampooed and imprisoned in a messy bun, is now full of volume and tied neatly into a slick, single parted low ponytail.

She's usually dressed in the same scrummy pair of khakis with a solid color crew neck t-shirt that's sometimes white, most times black and other times grey. To-day, however, she's in a dress. A dark crimson dress with long sleeves. I like this dress because when it hits the natural day light, it resembles the color of blood.

I've grown rather fond of the sight of blood over the years.

Renée has even taken the liberty of applying a nude color lipstick beneath her regular layer of colorless lip gloss. Something that I'm sure she thought no one would notice, and I'm almost certain most people didn't. But I did. I notice every-thing.

I mull over my words very attentively before responding, "Today I am feeling very calm."

I lie. The truth is, just like every other day, I feel nothing. I am actively and utterly void of any sort of emotion each morning and each night. But I know that if I admit that, Dr. Renée will think that I'm not...improving, as she would say.

Every little thing I say in here is put under a microscope, and every emotion is taken as a sign of my mental and emotional imbalance. I learnt that very quickly in this place. They call it a hospital. But I know better. Its not a hospital, so much as it's just a place for those nobody wants or knows what to do with anymore. It's a dump-ing site for the people society is too afraid to interact with or understand, and so in-stead they call us...mentally unwell. They call us sick. They call us the broken.

I was unsure of why they thought I belong here. I still am.

The truth is, they all just think that I'm...crazy. And why? Because I'm manipulative? I merely grasp opportunities that gullible morons hand to me. Or maybe be-cause I've always been a bit antisocial? Well, what's so great about people anyway?

Maybe because I have some mood swings? So, do millions of women every once a week of each new month but do they put them in here? No. Maybe because I'm a little bit of a narcissist? Is it such a bad thing to value your own happiness over others? After all, how can you love other people if you can't love your own self?

Maybe because I'm impulsive and, sometimes I have a lack of restraint? Big deal, some people are more adventurous than others. Does that make them sick as well?

Or maybe its because I'm emotionless? Yes, that must be it. That must be why they think that I'm...not well.

"Well that's good", Renée murmurs. "Have you been able to make any more social interactions?"

"They don't let me speak to the other sick people", I tell her

"Yes, I know that. I don't mean with the other patients", she puts emphasis on correcting me from saying sick people. Dr. Renée quite possibly is one of the most gullible women that I have ever met in my entire 35 years of existence. I dont know where she studied her psychology but they sure as hell didnt do such a hot job. I could run circles around Dr. Renée without even breaking a sweat. I can so easily convince her things that it actually gets boring to do so. Has that ever happened to you? Have you ever met someone so easy to manipulate that it actually doesnt even excite you to do it to them?

"I want you to take off my dress and strangle me with it", I hear her say

"What?", I ask

"I said the nurses...when I asked if you had been making social interactions, I meant with the nurses. Have you been talking with some of them?", she says. Its those hallucinations again. Sometimes they make me hear things.

"Oh...no"

"And your brother? Have you still been seeing him?"

"Yes"

"I see", she writes something down in her book. "And did you speak to him?"

I nod my head yes. Although, I'm not sure if that was true or not. There are a lot of things I say whose truths I'm unsure of. Also, the cheap old clock that's hung on the wall keeps ticking loudly and it infuriates me. It's making it hard for me to think clearly.

It agitates me so much so that I start to imagine slicing my left wrist with the fountain pen that Dr. Renée had dropped under the couch and forgotten to pick up last week. I imagine smearing the blood all across Renées chest before picking up the stupid clock and banging it on her head. No, on second thought, I wouldn't want to hurt Renée. She's too...nice. It wouldnt be as satisfying.

I can't think of any reason I'd enjoy hurting her physically. I'd much rather smash the clock on the receptionist's head. He's the one with the key out to the front door anyway.

"Do you remember what he told you?", she asks me, referring to my brother.

"Why are you dressed like that?", I ask forcefully and she stops talking mid sentence

"I beg your pardon?"

"Today", I repeat. "Why are you dressed like that? You normally never put much thought into your appearance"

"Glad to know you think I'm pretty then", she snarks

I remain quiet while she scratches on her thigh. A habit I've noticed she does when-ever she feels unsure of what to say next.

"Well, if you must know, I just wanted to look...cute today", she says. She wants me. I can see it in her eyes. "Is that such a terrible thing?"

"Dr. Renée, can I ask you another question"

She agrees.

"Do you want to have sex with me?"

Her mouth is now agape and she's starting to look flustered. "Wh—what? Why would you ask me something like that? That is a completely inappropriate thing to ask"

"I just want to know", I continue. "If I wasn't in here...if I wasn't a... patient. If I was...normal", I pause. "Would you have sex with me?"

"Why, dont say that. You are normal", she avoids

"That doesnt answer my question"

"Well, I—"

Her sentence is cut short when a knock at the door arrives. She stares at me silently before turning to face the threshold and yells, "come in"

In walks an angel of a human being. There's a deep richness to her brown, caramel skin, rich like finished wood. Instantly, she exudes a warm and homely feel. Her black tamed braids are imprisoned in a ponytail, leaving her face to be the star of the show. Rightfully so. She is a perfect blend of browns all the way from her eyes to her lips.

"Uh...Im so sorry to interrupt you, I'm Nailea, the new intern", she introduces herself. Her nose wrinkles while she does so, and her breath quickens. "I'm a little lost and this is the only occupied room in this hall, I was hoping you'd help me find the pharmaceutical wing"

"It's two floors down, you'll see a corridor to your left and right down there is where it is", Dr. Renée says. She doesn't smile and for some reason that makes me the opposite of calm

"Thank you so much", the intern says before closing the door behind her when walking out. "And again, I'm so sorry for disturbing"

Dr. Renée turns back to me. She's less flustered but still very nervous and un-comfortable by my question. She thinks for a moment before finally murmuring, "I... I don't know Jeffery"

_____

I'm just so hyped for y'all to see where we're going from here! I hope you enjoyed this chapter! It's the first little piece in this giant puzzle that I'm creating for you guys and I'm so excited for you all to read and hopefully enjoy!

Also, we just hit 2k reads!!! Agh! It's been less than four months and honestly, I'm shocked lol. Thank you so so much for reading the story, ily!

Don't forget to comment & vote & share! Also, give me your theories on what's going on and how you feel about Mr. Grayson thus far!

Kay, bye, ily