|two years, four months later|

THERE WERE squirrels in the tree outside. Four squirrels, Mirela Diaconu counted. They clambered up and down the branches, chittering and squeaking. The sunlight filtered through the sieve of the crisscrossing leaves. Despite the artificial brightness of the tubelights, she could still see the few sunbeams that had managed to make it into the chamber, and were illuminating dancing dust motes.

Four sunbeams, Mirela counted once more. Although, there was that one leaf which, when rustled by the breeze, split that one sunbeam into three more. So, four, seven... four, seven, four... seven sunbeams.

What was this called?

Tyndall effect, Mirela thought. And she thought of many more things before the voice broke through to her, irately saying, "you need to stop zoning out like that during our sessions, Mirela."

She drew her attention away from the squirrels and the sunbeams to look at her psychiatrist - the man sitting across from her at the uselessly large oakwood desk. The bespectacled, balding man who liked to keep his hair parted down the middle and stroke his goatee while he either pestered her with questions, or condescended her about stupid things - like he was doing now. Doctor Svensson couldn't look any sillier, Mirela decided.

After matching her blank gaze with a questioning one of his own, Svensson took to studying her file - her file that was as thick as the biography of a person who'd done many things in life and lived to a ripe old age. But Mirela was not that person. He looked up once, and asked, "have you been taking your medication?"

Mirela nodded.

He reworded, "have you been taking your sleep medication?"

She nodded again.

"Then why do you always look so tired? No, why do you always look like you haven't slept in weeks?"

Mirela would have nodded again, but this question couldn't be answered with a nod. So, she shook her head instead, brows raised and lips turning down slightly in an expression of non-committal cluelessness. The truth was, she hid her sleeping pills underneath the loose carpet in the corner of her room. The truth was, she didn't want to take those pills. She didn't want to sleep. She didn't want to dream.

Doctor Svensson flipped through a few pages of her file - her file that was as thick as the journal of a person who had traveled many worlds and lived many lives. But Mirela was not that person. He must have had it memorized by now, given how he was always going through it in each of their 'sessions,' as he liked to call it. Taking advantage of his preoccupation, she returned to looking outside the window, to enjoying the bliss of verdant freshness, the scattering sunlight, and the happy-go-lucky critters.

Her bliss, however, was ephemeral, for Svensson called for her attention again. "Look, Mirela," he said, taking off his glasses to clean the thick lenses, "you have to work with us here."

Trying to appear as invested as she could, Mirela interlinked her fingers in her lap and leaned forward. Yet, she could only think of how his eyes suddenly seemed small and beady due to the absence of the spectacles. He couldn't look any sillier.

"All this," Svensson vaguely gestured about him, "all this is for your own good. We're trying to help you. We're trying to fix you..."

Mirela feigned an understanding nod.

Sighing, Svensson replaced his glasses and said, "let me put it this way... so far, you've been in and out of three foster homes. Three. And every time--every single time--you've claimed that somebody or the other has abused you, molested you, and very recently, raped you."

It was Mirela's turn to sigh now. She dropped the façade of interest, now holding him under a stone-cold stare - or, as the caregivers phrased it in their gossips, her 'signature bitchface.'

"We think it's your PTSD acting up at times, making you panic, lose touch with reality, and warping your perception of things... PTSD can trigger psycho-neurotic disorders, you know, and we can't let you get to that stage."

Mirela couldn't help but scoff. Everyone thinks it's PTSD.

"Think about it, Mirela. All those families that fostered you--they're good, respectable people. They are not people who'd ever do--or even think of doing--the things you keep accusing them of." Mirela rolled her eyes, causing Svensson to huff exasperatedly. "Have you ever considered that maybe you are the problem?" he said slowly, "I know what you have been through and I know what that kind of trauma does to people... and with you, at such a tender age, you didn't deserve that..."

Slumping back in her seat, Mirela tried to count dust motes in those sunbeams by the window, lending only half an ear to Doctor Svensson's monologue.

He continued, "but this stoic unresponsiveness, this rebellious attitude--this... this underage drinking and doing drugs, this getting tattooed and dyeing your hair that obnoxious color--they're not helping your case."

Nothing--nobody can help me. Because nobody really listens. And I don't need help.

Mirela had counted twenty-seven dust motes, but it was difficult to count particles that kept moving, like it was difficult to talk to people who didn't listen. Though, it wasn't quite as frustrating to count particles that kept moving as it was frustrating to talk to people who didn't listen.

"Speak out," Svensson was still lecturing, "help us weed out the visions you see, the things you believe you went through. Help us fix your problem. Nobody can fix you if you're adamant about being the problem itself. You are not your illness, okay?"

Mirela didn't know what in the world he was going on about, but she did know that she didn't need fixing. All she was was a blinded void, a gaping hole. A dead husk. There was nothing left to fix in her.

When she didn't respond, or even spare him a glance, Svensson let out another long, irritated breath. Producing his prescription notepad from one of the desk-drawers, he started writing. "I'm increasing the dosage of your sleep medication because I don't think you've been sleeping well," he finally said, "and we're done for today. You may go now."

Promptly, Mirela got up and went to leave, however, she paused at the door. She believed that she should let him know this. "Indigo," she said, turning only enough to face him.

"What?"

"That obnoxious color is called indigo," exemplified Mirela.

Svensson pinched the bridge of his nose. "Does it matter?"

She responded by opening the door and leaving the chamber; she couldn't stand him anymore. What did he mean, 'does it matter'? Of course, it mattered. It used to be Zarina Diaconu's favorite color.

While Doctor Svensson couldn't look any sillier, the extent of him being silly knew no bounds, Mirela decided.

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