Page 92 of Echoes

"That's me," I murmur, shifting in my chair.

He glances over the manila file on his desk, scanning the papers briefly before flicking it closed. "Why don't you tell me a bit about yourself?"

I shrug. "Not much to say really. It's all in the file."

"Fair enough," he says, exasperated. "Let me guess—you usually prefer silent appointments."

My eyebrows furrow. "Dr. Smith and I had a decent relationship and expectation with sessions. Aren't you going to ask me a bunch of questions about my feelings and shit?"

"I fear there's little point," Dr. Elsher shoots back. "I can already tell that you're not very cooperative."

Blinking at him in surprise, I decide that I already hate him. It's clear he doesn't give a shit about being here, let alone about us patients.

Folding my arms, I lean back in this chair. "Is that what Whittingham told you?" I ask heatedly. "That I'm not cooperative? A trouble-maker? Incurable?"

Dr. Elsher looks up lazily, unfazed. "Ms. White, I'm not under any false pretenses here. Lilydale Foundation Center is full of troubled youths—you're not special in that regard."

"I never said I was," I snap back angrily.

"Regardless, it's no secret that sessions here will be difficult to conduct. None of you are willingly seeking therapy for your issues. Due to the nature of your admission requirements and conditions, I'm certainly prepared for pushback, as it were."

My eyes narrow. "If you have that kind of attitude toward the patients, why bother working here at all?"

It crosses my mind for a brief second that perhaps there's a reason he was chosen. Obviously there would be—Alexander seems to do everything for a reason, just like Damon. I can't help but wonder if he's known to the Lilydale board or was just the best candidate that applied.

If he's the best… then I'll fuck a cactus because this guy is horrible. At least Dr. Smith pretends to give a shit… makes an effort somewhat.

"My employment is none of your business," he says casually, turning his chair to the side, gazing out the window. "However, when you decide you wantactualhelp, let me know."

He falls silent, leaving me to gape at him. He's easily one of the worst staff members I've met in this place, which is no easy feat.

"The whole purpose of this facility," I start through clenched teeth. "Is to help rehabilitate us. Of course the patients here have mental health challenges. I'm sure you've read their files, and if you're a professional, you'll know that there's going to be pushback for reasons out of their control."

Dr. Elsher glances over his shoulder at me. "You speak on behalf of the collective, not yourself. I'm not going to waste my time being lectured by someone who struggles to grasp life in a rational fashion."

"What the fuck does that mean?" I spit out, nails digging into the chair.

He lifts an eyebrow. "Ihaveread all the files, Ms. White—yours included. Admitted here due to murder charges pertaining to your father. Your mother committed suicide when you were a teenager. You've suffered several different types of abuse and have been formally diagnosed with post-traumatic stress disorder and borderline personality disorder. However, despite taking up a place in this facility, which as you pointed out serves as a rehabilitation center, you have no desire to actually change."

I take a few seconds to compose myself. "You've sat here and spoken to me for all of five minutes. You don't know anything about me."

"But I havethe file," he taunts, tapping his fingers on the folder. "I know everything about you."

"No, you don't," I argue back, keeping my voice level. "You know my mental illnesses and my history. Absolutely none of that depicts who I am as a person. At the moment, you only have a biased perspective from Mr. Whittingham—who, I might add,has just spent his days torturing me. Other than that, all you can do is draw inferences from the information in that file."

Dr. Elsher smiles at me—but it's not a warm one. "From the moment you entered this room, I could tell what type of person you are. I don't need outside information to see that. However, unfortunately, your history and mental illnesses do make the person you are."

"No they fucking don't," I say. "Ihavemental illness. I'mnot mental illness. I'm worth more than what you paint me as psychologically."

"Ms. White?"

"What?"

"Be sure to close the door on the way out. I'll have the guard escort you to your room for the remainder of the session."

"What the hell are you rambling on about?"

I stop pacing, swinging around to face the doorway. I was so caught up in my thoughts that I didn't hear the door open or notice Damon standing there until he spoke.

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