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I don't need winter wear, after all.
Apparently, all I have to be is annoyed enough, and I don't even notice the cold. I'm mad at the jerk in the gallery, but more than that I'm mad at myself, for being even the slightest bit attracted to a man like him.
I'm still annoyed when I finally reach 44 Rosemary Square, but this time I make an effort to push all angry thoughts aside and calm myself. With help from my handy-dandy digital map, I take the stairs at the end of the hall and go all the way down to Suite 214. I glance at the name plate next to yet another pair of heavy wooden doors - Dr. Isabella Foames - and it gives me something to use as I knock on the door.
"Dr. Foames?"
Several moments pass, and I start thinking of how to best apologize for being seven minutes late. A lot hinges on my first meeting with Rosethorne's guidance counselor. No matter how you look at it, I'm the kind of student most other schools would see as just trouble waiting to happen: I'm adopted, I was accused of several people's murders, and I might be the only kid here who doesn't come from an old rich East Coast family who can trace her lineage all the way back to England.
There's no excuse for being late, but should I even try to explain?
Mm.
Maybe I should, just to make things clear?
It seems like a good idea, but when my new guidance counselor finally gives me permission to come in, the imperious note in her voice makes me start thinking otherwise. And once I finally enter her office, I'm absolutely certain of it.
Because Dr. Foames?
Not only does she appear as coldly beautiful as a porcelain doll, but she also happens to look super, super pissed.
At me.
"You're late."
And now I know why.
Hurrying forward, I hastily bow my head and make my apologies. "I'm so sorry, Dr. Foames." I take a peek at the other woman's face and immediately feel like I've been glared and scowled to death, despite the fact that Dr. Foames also happens to be one of the loveliest women I've ever seen, with her shiny black hair and fiery green eyes.
"I lost track of time—-"
The other woman suddenly slams a hand down, and the sharp sound startles me into taking a step back.
"You dare make excuses?"
I can only shake my head, instinctively feeling that anything I say will only make her angrier. Dr. Foames is obviously the kind of person who thinks tardiness is next to shittiness, but isn't she overreacting a little here?
Unable to help it, I sneak another quick little peek at her face, and my heart nearly stops beating. If I thought she was angry earlier, well...whatever it was she's reading on her phone right now, it's succeeded in making her look like a wrathful virago from the Underworld. What on earth—-
Her head suddenly jerks up, and I can only gulp anew as her enraged gaze lands on me. If looks could kill, I would have died by a thousand cuts by now, and—-
"Were you at the gallery earlier?"
Oh, that beautiful tattletale JERK!
"Answer me!"
There goes the guidance counselor's hand again, and this time I have a really bad feeling the older woman is wishing it's my head she's smashing.
"That place is private property, Ms. Mariposa! Professor Lucious is a very busy man, and he has no time for silly, infatuated schoolgirls."
Infatuated? I open my mouth to defend myself, but it's hard to get a word edgewise with Dr. Foames still intent on hauling me over the coals. Over an hour passes before her tirade finally ends, and by that time all I can do is nod at all of her stipulations.
Never bother Professor Lucious again.
Never go to the art gallery again.
Never, never, never—-
So many other nevers follow, but I just keep nodding until she finally waves me off in contemptuous dismissal.
My knees threaten to fold when I finally turn to leave her office, but I somehow manage to keep walking. I can feel Dr. Foames watching me the entire time, and I still don't let my guard down even when I'm back in the hallway.
I rarely feel passionately enough to hate someone, but I think Dr. Foames might just be one of the rare few exceptions. I distinctly remember Ms. Roo saying that my case file has been forwarded to key personnel of Rosethorne, and I'd bet my life the guidance counselor was one of those given access. Because of that file, she would've known everything about my past, and that includes—-
Sharp pain suddenly shoots up my leg, and though I try my best to reach a stone bench that's only less than two feet away, it's still too far, and the pain too much.
My injured knee gives out, and I crumple down on the sidewalk...in full view of a couple of students who seem to have just arrived back at Rosethorne.
All eyes are on me.
Just like before, all eyes are on me—-
And I start to remember the worst days of my life.
****
BLOOD. That was the first thing I noticed. The strong but unmistakable scent of blood, stabbing my nostrils as I came out of what I'd only learn later on was a drug-induced sleep. I remember wondering why. Why did Cen's house smell like blood?
Pain. It was the second thing I noticed. Pain, originating from my left knee, and I remember how it just kept hurting and hurting until I opened my eyes...and found myself in even worse pain because of what I saw around me.
Death. The word just played over and over my mind that time as I stared. For a long time, I just stared. I might've stared for a full minute, maybe even two, before I finally tried counting. One. Two. Three. It was the hardest thing to count, and I remember unable to bear to keep counting when I realized I've reached double digits.
I remember being so naïve, thinking Cen would surely tell everyone I was in her house.
But she didn't.
I remember assuring my parents that the authorities would surely find the real killer.
But they never did.
In everyone's eyes, I was a killer, and they were all so sure that I almost believed them. It was all too easy to believe them except—-
That one night I saw my parents crying, and they weren't even the type to show any kind of sadness, you know. But that night, while peeking through that narrow opening in their doorway, it seemed like their tears would never end.
I remember listening to them as they blamed themselves for not doing enough to prove my innocence, and I remember finally starting to cry myself because it was at that exact moment I realized God's answered my prayer from the very start.
Everything was a nightmare I could wake from, and all I had to do was face reality.
Most people might believe I was a killer even if I wasn't.
But if I kept acting like I had something to be guilty about, then it's my own parents I'll end up killing.