Page 47 of See Me After Class

"The rumors?—"

I scoffed, although the insides of my hands were clammy. "Rumors are the currency of the bored, Dr. Thorne."

He stared at me for a second and then barked a short laugh. "I like that. But you have to admit, his death was quite the talk of the town."

I felt a sting. "My father was a great man. I am not surprised."

Mr. Thorne’s eyes narrowed slightly. "Wouldn't you say the circumstances were mysterious?"

The man was set on forcing an answer from me. The harder he tried, I told myself, the more diplomatic I'd be.

I countered, my tone even, "Mystery often surrounds great men, doesn't it? Their lives, their deaths. It's the price of brilliance."

He chuckled, a sound that seemed to reverberate off the bookshelves. "Well said. You have your father's wit. But let's talk about you. Your upbringing, before Oswald."

The room seemed to shrink, the walls inching closer as memories flooded in, memories of cold floors, empty stomachs, and the perpetual feeling of being an outsider looking in.

Oswald had been my savior, lifting me from the depths of an orphanage that taught me more about survival than care. Stealing bread just to quell the hunger, hiding in shadows to avoid unwarranted attention—it was a life that I had left behind but hadn’t forgotten.

"Everyone has a past, Mr. Thorne," I said, my voice steady. "Some more colorful than others. Mine has shaped me, but it doesn't define me."

He nodded, the sharpness in his eyes softening. "And what shapes you now, Dessie?"

I leaned forward, the light from the window casting a glow on the desk's surface. "I have a thing for puzzles. And we're all puzzles. Some just have more pieces missing."

He scratched his unkempt beard thoughtfully. "Would you say your life before Oswald taught you this?"

"It was a life," I replied, my voice softened with resignation. "Oswald saved me from it. Gave me a future."

Thorne leaned forward. "Saved, you say. From what, exactly?"

I met his gaze, unflinching. "From a life of invisibility. Of being just another forgotten soul in a system that didn't care."

"Ah, the savior complex," he remarked, almost to himself. "Not uncommon, for a man who cultivated greatness."

I shrugged. "Perhaps. But better a savior than a bystander."

Thorne smiled and then plunged into a further set of queries.

Each query was a loaded gun, aimed directly at my heart. I remained calm, my responses measured and precise. Years of rigorous training under the tutelage of my adoptive father had forged a shield around my emotions, allowing me to navigate the treacherous terrain with practiced ease. But beneath the surface, I observed Thorne with an intensity that mirrored his own, dissecting his every gesture, every twitch of his lips, every nervous glance toward the window. The pregnant silences between his questions were the most compelling parts of the interview.

Finally, Thorne leaned back in his chair, the smoke from his pipe curling toward the ceiling like ethereal tendrils of thought. "So, Dr. Gardner," he said, his voice gravelly but laced with a hint of amusement. "Why psychiatry?"

His question hung in the air, a challenge, an invitation to delve into the deepest recesses of my soul. I met his gaze, unflinching, and a fire ignited in my eyes. "Because it's more than just a profession, Dr. Thorne," I said, my voice clear and unwavering. "It's an art, a dance on the precipice of the human psyche. It's about peering into the darkest corners of the mind and finding the light within."

Thorne studied me for a long moment, the silence stretching infinitely longer than it should have. Then, a faint smile, like the first rays of dawn breaking through the clouds, appeared on his lips. "An intriguing answer, Dr. Gardner," he said, his voice a low rumble.

"Psychiatry chose me, Mr. Thorne," I continued, my voice steady. "It's not just a profession. It's a commitment to understanding the human mind, to healing it."

Our conversation shifted, and I found myself asking him questions, almost like a psychiatrist would. "If you had to choose between a peaceful life or a meaningful one, Mr. Thorne, which would it be?"

He seemed taken aback, then thoughtful. "Meaningful, without a doubt."

"And why is that?"

"Peace is often mistaken for stagnation. Meaning gives life its flavor," he answered drily. "Have you finished interviewing me?"

I smiled. "I think so."

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