My Guardian Destroyer.

Meet the Doctor.

DISCLAIMER: I am not, under any circumstances, claiming any right to Twilight. All rights go to the author, Stephenie Meyer. I am receiving no monetary gain from making this, I simply do it for fun and to further my writing techniques and skills.

Don't sue me. For the love of God, don't sue me. :)

　

　

　

I never thought I'd say it, but I was severely missing off-white.

For I found that nothing was worse than the repugnant yellow-green I was staring at now.

I was sitting on the most ridiculously comfortable leather seat that has ever graced my bottom, but even that couldn't quell my agitation. My leg bounced in annoyence.

I had finaly crumbled and told Carlisle I was ready for therapy, and he, over-come with relief, had signed me up for an appointment in the blink of an eye. With seemingly no difficulties, I was penciled-in for a session for the coming week.

And now here I sat. I was seriously beginning to quesion the state of my sanity if I agreed to endure this purgatory.

Though just by looking at it, there wasn't that many things wrong with this picture. While the vomit-green walls were making me nauseous, the rest of the room was very relaxing and pretty. A small crystal chandelier hung from the bowed ceiling, it's delicate light illuminating the other features in the room.

Large cabinets holding tiny trinkets ranging from fragile porcelain dolls to glass plates. Bouquets of fresh flowers were sprinkled throughout the office, filling it with a delightful fragrence. The gentle lighting reflected off the polished wooden floor, making it almost mirror-like.

Hanging on the horrendously colored walls were many degrees and certificates from numerous colleges. And the degrees belonged to, arguably, the most magnificent item in the room.

Dr. Rosalie Hale sat in a large chair directly across from me, the light shining from her skin almost over-shadowing that of the chandelier.

Her long golden curls were cascading past her shoulders, draping down her back. She wore simple black dress pants and a tailored blazer, but made it seem like she had just stepped off the runway. Her painfully long legs were crossed, a note book balanced on them while a set of perfectly manicured hands held it in place.

She was undeniably exquisite. So you couldn't exactly blame me when I questioned how she could possibly a psychiatrist and not a super-model. For a moment I thought I was being pranked.

Rosalie was a pleasant woman as long as we were talking about unimportant things. Weather. Friends. Things I liked to do. Places I wanted to see. Etc, etc, etc.

But then she'd start throwing out the heavy questions, each one hitting me like a blow.

The car crash.

The trust issues I had.

The fire.

Everything I'd tried to repress for so long.

Rosalie suddenly sat up straighter in her chair when I was finished describing my appartment to her, and I knew the hard questions were back.

"Let's talk about Sara, all right?"

I was right again. I felt my face pinch up. "What about her?"

"We discussed your lack of comfort around new people," she began, and I didn't feel like pointing out the irony of talking to a new person about my discomfort around new people. She probably wouldn't get it.