Nine Years Later

Harry's POV

There I was. I didn't know what to expect when applying for the job, but standing in front of the building made it all so real. It was a modern building, with interesting architecture to hide the fact that it was an 'institute'. The last years of my life had been surrounded by good people, and had restored my faith slightly back in the medical community, though I was still anxious from the encounters with Smith.

I could now be called Dr Dustin Thomas, and I had surprisingly excelled at university. I was a bit older than most there, but not by a lot. I steered cleared of the insane parties the younger students had, and instead spent my nights in the library, learning about genes and MRI scans. Fun.

I walked towards the building apprehensively; I was scared at the thought of seeing Phoenix again. Would I scare her? She thought I was dead, so me appearing from the grave would be enough to give anyone a shock.

At my interview I had stressed tenuously that I was interested in working with people that had impulse-driven disorders, and used pyromania as an example. There had to be absolute clarity that Phoenix would be a patient of mine otherwise the plan would fail to work. I needed to be able to speak to her alone.

"Dr Thomas? You're early!" The receptionist smiled at me nervously, and I couldn't help but grin slightly at her schoolgirl crush.

I had been told multiple times at university that age had matured me, and had been the subject to proclamations of love by many drunken girls. There was a hardness to my face that now set in my features, and my hair seemed to fall back effortlessly. My dress sense had aged with me, and the man I was contrasted massively to who I had been before.

I was no longer a lost teenager.

The inside of the centre was clean, and scarily quiet. It felt more than a hospital than anywhere else, and for a split second I almost missed the yellow walls of the Summerlea centre. But I remembered those walls had burned down by my hands, and shook all the memories from my brain. There weren't many people in the foyer, only a few relatives that were waiting to meet their family. It was an oddly familiar scene.

"Come this way," the receptionist pointed me towards a door where I was forced to break out of my daydreams.

Inside the room was a desk and a stern-looking woman I had met multiple times before. She was the director of the treatment centre, and as intimidating as she appeared. She gave me a half-smile when I walked in, and I calmed my breathing which was becoming erratic. I was so close to her. I was so close to Phoenix.

Ms Earnshaw, the director of the institute, began to talk to me about my role and safety precautions with each patient. I wasn't listening that much, instead I was nodding my head and looking around for any sign that Phoenix was in close proximity. I was trying to listen out for her laugh, even though I knew she wouldn't be able to find any source of humour in such a joyless place.

"Here are your patients' files. Have them read by the end of today because you have a session tomorrow. It wouldn't always be this abrupt, but one of our senior psychologists had to leave out of the blue..." She rolled her eyes slightly, and I could tell that I was nothing but a replacement in her eyes.

The files were heavy, but I managed to get them back to my car before my arms gave way. I had to restrain myself from diving in to see if Phoenix's file was there, and I drove for what felt like hours before I finally got back to my apartment.

Her file was thin despite the fact that she had been in this new centre for years. It was highly vague, her previous therapist typing down generic statements about 'deterioration of mental health' and an 'unwillingness to talk about the past'. It was like the pages were talking about someone else and not the Phoenix I had once known. The report made her sound so... Dead.

I finished reading it in twenty minutes, and sat back on my couch to close my eyes and think for a second. What if Phoenix had changed? What if she didn't even recognise me? Pushing these thoughts to the back of my mind, I went on to read the other files about my other patients who I hadn't really taken into consideration when making my plan to save Phoenix. I was horrendously nervous, but also terribly excited.

***

My hands were beginning to feel clammy as sweat poured down my back, and I watched the door to my office anxiously. Phoenix was due to come in one minute, and I fantasied briefly about our reunion. There was an unfamiliar churning sensation in my stomach, and I had to force myself to slow my breathing.

The door handle began to turn and my hair stood on end, my breath got caught in my throat, and a young woman appeared at the door. She had changed a lot since I had last saw her, her hair hung limply down her back in a ponytail and had started to turn grey. She looked smaller than I had remembered if that was possible, and she stared at me with a glassy look in her eyes. No recognition.

She didn't remember me.

Oh dear. Harry's plan hasn't gone... Well it hasn't gone quite to plan. Will she ever remember him? What's happened to her?

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