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TAPPING A RESTLESS FINGER ALONG THE EDGE OF her seat, Violet makes quick inventory of the waiting area—vacant, save for herself and a skinny boy with olivine skin and dark circles ringing his gaunt eyes—outside the therapist's office with a listless boredom.
White walls, smart-grey sofas and Christmas green cushions, the receptionist's desk shoved in the corner. State-of-the-art interior design, the air-conditioning acclimated at just the right temperature. Apparently, it took people months of being waitlisted to be able to catch a view like this. But Violet's always been on the fast track, as all Korchaks are. Even though it'd only taken her a full week of being waitlisted, her father hadn't been too happy with the fact that she'd even had to wait in the first place.
—THE LONGER YOU STAY INSANE, THE FASTER YOU DROWN, THE MORE YOU LOSE SIGHT OF WHAT YOU'VE COME BACK TO FORKS FOR—
Meanwhile, a week of school had gone by, unremarkable and distastefully boring. Nobody's tried to approach her, and Violet hadn't made an effort to make any new friends either. There wasn't a single person in school who didn't think she was collateral damage. She spent her hours until curfew hanging around Sage and Kit, avoiding Paul and fading his existence into the backburner. She'd written letters to her sister and dodged a handful of calls from her mother. Still, the most unbearable parts of her day were the stiff, awkward dinners with her father at a dining table that was missing two people and empty of one forever. She spent those dinner hours staring blankly at Luka's vacant chair, pretending the pickaxe of grief hammering at her heart—ache by ache, memory by memory—didn't make her miss her cigarettes.
Speaking of which...
—YOU'RE ALREADY ROTTING—
Violet cranes her neck to face the clock on the far wall. Four on the dot. Her appointment is in fifteen minutes. She has a pack of Camels in the pocket of her grey hoodie, a lighter in the pocket of her jeans, and the bathroom was only down the hall. That'd buy her ten minutes of reprieve from the anxiety crawling in her veins, like a million fire ants making a nest of her guts. Although, being left alone with her thoughts isn't such a good idea after all.
"Hey."
It's the boy. Skinny, sleep-deprived, unkempt hair, creased clothes. He's looking at her with rampant curiosity, sizing her up like a tailor making little notes of what kind of stitches to put in a suit. With pale, disinterested eyes, Violet takes measurements of her own. He's about her age, give or take, with hollow cheeks and crooked teeth, too scrawny to be a threat, but it didn't seem like he considered her to be one either. Her gaze catches on his bright orange sneakers, conspicuous as a traffic cone.
