HEXXED ━━𝐏. 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐊𝐄𝐑

𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘭𝘶𝘥𝘦...

Tick. Tick. Tick.

The hands on the clock shifted with each passing second, their noise stark against the silence in the room. The plain clock hung on an austere wall, with a long leather couch beneath it, and two seats at either end of that. Across from it, there was a wall plastered with degrees, photographs, and awards, a coffee-colored desk in front of it, neatly set. There was an overgrown money plant to the side, and—

"Lucille?"

Antsy brown eyes snapped up to look at the woman in the chair across from the couch. She had long, curly hair that fell to about her waist. She wore a neutral gray sweater and a black skirt, with black boots, and gold jewelry to match. Her eyes were green, and she had freckles scattered about her face. Her sharp features were pulled into a look of concern, her lips turned downwards. Even when she was annoyed, Doctor Amina Rashid managed to look pretty. Lucille envied that quality.

"Hmm?" the girl pushed her long, dark hair behind both of her ears, feigning interest in the conversation.

Dr. Rashid gave a heavy sigh and leaned back into her chair, shutting her eyes for a moment and pinching her nose. "Lucille, this isn't going to work if you don't talk."

Against her better judgment, Lucille got defensive. "I am—I do talk."

Dr. Rashid leaned forward again, notebook in hand. "I understand it's hard to relive these things. But that's why I'm here. Nothing can hurt you like that again."

Again. The same thing everyone had been telling her. 'You're safe now' 'they can't hurt you anymore' 'it won't happen again.' Her mom, comforting her after a nightmare. Tony, trying to reassure her about starting at a new school. Nat and Steve when they helped her train. Everyone in her life was telling her nothing bad would happen to her again, but that didn't erase the years worth of torture she had gone through. It didn't remove the scars on her back and ribs and chest from all of the procedures, didn't scramble the memories of what she'd had to do there, didn't wash the blood off her hands.

Even now, sitting in the cozy office, all Lucille felt was cold. Maybe that was the consequence of living in a cellar for a year. She remembered the frigid temperatures, they never even bothered to put in a heater. She remembered everything. She remembered being strapped to the cool metal table, she remembered the prick of all the needles, all the incisions, all of the testing. Strucker's shouting, the shock through her body whenever she failed, or got drowsy, or fought back. She remembered being tied down and forced to watch that video, over and over again, her eyes forced open wide as she repeatedly tried to tune out whatever voice it was this time. Your compliance will be rewarded, they said, though it never was. All she got was more pain, guilt, and blood on her hands, all of which her mother and Tony were left to clean up.

The guilt came in waves. At times, Lucille felt like she had done nothing wrong, like she was completely innocent. At others, she felt as though it was all her fault. If she'd just been more careful, watched her surroundings more, never trusted that bastard Max—

She took a shuddering breath at the memory of her first real friend, who'd turned out to be a liar. It was almost as if he was in the room with her, a hand on her shoulder, a reassuring smile on his face. But that was impossible—she'd ended any possibility of seeing him again back in Sokovia. The look on his face as he faded to ashes was engraved in her mind even now, causing tears to pool involuntarily from her eyes.

"I'm fine, really, I am," Lucille hunched forward over her knees, wiping her tears as quickly as possible, trying(unsuccessfully) to shield them from Dr. Rashid's calculating gaze. But the more she tried to wipe them away, the more she felt herself crumble.

No. Stop, this is stupid, she thought furiously. Still, she was aching for someone to hear her, to understand her, to feel what she felt. Honestly, she didn't want to put that on her mother. Minutely, she realized how daunting it must have been for them, to have to fight her, to hurt her in order to subdue her insanity. No, she wouldn't push any more of her pain onto them. She refused. Especially when Tony had just filled the role she so desperately wanted him to for years. This was too much for them. Maybe it was too much for Dr. Rashid, too.

With a steely resolve despite her quivering lips and voice, Lucille sat up straighter. "I don't—I just want to forget it all. I know this is government mandated, but you seriously can't understand? And can you please stop calling me that?"

Dr. Rashid glanced unsurely between her file and the fourteen-year-old girl in front of her. Her heart ached for her. She had been through her own traumas, but just imagining the things listed on this girl's medical history made her want to throw up. It made her sick, seeing the sedative drugs on her prescriptions. She had been told by numerous colleagues and advisors to prescribe the girl more, antidepressants and the like. But looking at the destroyed girl in front of her, Amina was stuck. She didn't know what to do, how to help this girl without hurting her more. The wounds were still fresh, only two weeks since she'd gotten out of rehab.

The woman pursed her lips and glanced at the clock, its bland color scheme giving her whiplash to her psychiatrist's office from all those years ago. She shut the notebook and crossed her right leg over her left, leaning back in the seat, resting her folded hands atop her lap.

"Alright, Lucy. You win. What would you like to talk about?"