𝐁𝐮𝐫𝐲 𝐀 𝐅𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝

III

"This will only hurt a little." My therapist, Dr. Martinez says. She says it like it's a bad thing, as if I don't crave the feeling of being hurt to remind me that even if I can't scar or leave a mark, that I can feel the pain.

I'm so used to her burning my hand that I'm hardily shaken up. Pain is just a feeling, and feelings aren't real she told me the first time she placed my hand in the fire. Just to check if it would burn, to see if it was a normal hand. It burned. I was five then, and had cried at the excruciating pain, but once it healed completely an hour later, she smiled at me like she had found the holy grail.

"Last time we ran the tests, you reacted well." She smiles at me and hands me a pill. She waits for me to swallow it, wanting to watch it with her own two eyes.

But I hide it under my tongue and make a show of swallowing so that this can go by faster. I don't like the way the pills make me feel, or the fact my sanity is supposedly so dependent on them, either.

"Have you used your abilities in the past week?" She asks, and when I shake my head she cocks an eyebrow, "Have you hurt yourself? Healed yourself?"

I stiffen."No." I don't entertain the idea of telling her about the murders or my theories like I did with Henry. He said it was best if we kept it a secret just between us until we had any evidence to be taken seriously. I also don't tell her about the cuts.

"You're sick, Jane." That's the line that makes me want to rip my hair out. Because I'm not, I swear, I swear I'm not. When she lets it go, I waste no time sneaking into Henry's dorm.

–

When the door unlocks, I strut in to find him leaning against his kitchen island. His eyes raise from the X-Men comic in his hands to me as he stands up straight. His brown hair is disheveled, his eye bags still prominent under his gray eyes. He takes off his reading glasses, ones I've made fun of before, and rolls up the sleeves of his dark blue crew neck as he hands me a mug of what I assume is tea.

"Poison?" I ask, taking a sip.

"Don't worry, love, I wouldn't give you an easy way out."

I roll my eyes, taking out a piece of paper and placing it in the middle of the island. Henry looks at me curiously from across the table as I start drawing out a map of Hendrix Academy. He makes his way from around the table and sits next to me. He senses what I'm about to do and steals the pen from me.

He's so close to me that his lower thigh bumps into my knee at every little movement as he writes. "Why are you sitting next to me?" I frown, not sure I like the contact.

"It's my kitchen, Jane." He deadpans.

"You're too close."

"I've been closer to you."

"Only because of tournaments. Move away from me."

"No." And before I can continue bickering, he hands the paper back to me. I look over the changes he's made, the labels of each room above my sketch of the interior building. But most importantly, each murder scene circled.

I give him a look. "How do you know exactly where they've been murdered?"

"Because I killed them." He deadpans, but then adds, "The paper, Jane. Not everyone has crazy visions of murders like you."