Page 2 of Playing with Fyre

He glances across the room as if he knows I’m watching and gives me a faint, knowing smile.

Look away, Charlotte!

But I can’t. I’m transfixed. This must be what a deer feels like when he’s scoping them with his rifle.

“Sometimes it’s difficult to expose your most hidden self when there are strangers around,” Fyre says, his eyes on me. I’m convinced he’s talking just to me, but then his gaze flicks to someone else.

I let out a soft, rueful laugh and drop my head. Why on earth do I have this recurring fantasy that the world revolves around me? I’m one of his students. A troubled soul in need of healing. That’s it.

“Well done, everyone. You can put away your things.” There’s a general clatter and shuffling as my classmates start packing up. Fyre watches them, and I watch Fyre. As soon as everyone’s settled back in their seats, he says, “I have another assignment for the class.”

My fingers become jittery. I like Fyre’s assignments—he always gives us interesting ways to apply our creativity. Even me with my lowly piece of charcoal. Last week’s lesson was hope.

“You will begin a new project.”

I purse my lips and glance around at some of the other students. It’s weird calling them that since they range in ages anywhere from fifteen to seventy. But we have something in common. We’ve all been attacked and left traumatized.

By disease. By a criminal. By an event or significant other in our lives.

Some of the students shared their stories during that first class. I wasn’t one of them. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to share what happened with another human being. It was traumatic enough when I had to give my statement at the police station, then again when I was assigned a therapist. Evenshedoesn’t know everything, despite prying session after session after goddamn session. I have to see her again later this month, and I’m already dreading it.

“This time, you’ll work in the privacy of your own home, or any other place where you feel safe.” The professor’s voice draws my attention back to him. Not that it’s ever off him for long. “Your project must be completed by the end of this semester.”

A few heads turn to look at each other. Winter break is a month away. Four more lessons, then my art therapy classes are over.

Forever.

“And you will use a different medium than the one you’ve been using in class.”

I look down at my mess of charcoal scratchings. What? This is all I know. What the hell does he want from me, a finger painting?

“And class, I need this piece to tell a story.Yourstory.”

It feels like I’ve just swallowed ten frozen lead weights. My first instinct is to throw up my hands and storm out of class.

Who gave him the right to snoop? I came here because my counselor suggested it. Because I was so doped up on anti-depressants she had to prescribe me shit for the side effects. She told me this class was a safe space, that I’d never have to talk about what happened if I didn’t want to.

Tellingmy storydoesn’t sound like me not having to talk about what happened.

Somehow I swallow down the rage and the sullen, angry ache in my lower belly that never goes away. The doctor told me I’d healed down there, that I shouldn’t be experiencing any pain, and refused to prescribe me more Oxy. He probably thought I was addicted after all the morphine I had in the hospital. But I’m not imagining it.

I breathe, I hurt.

I’m already craving that small pill in my nightstand, the one that sends me into oblivion, the one that stops everything. The anger, the pain…thememories. Something to help me sleep, but it does more than that. It frees me.

The bell sounds for the end of class. The other students begin to file out, but I’m still wrangling with my emotions. I manage to calm myself by the time the last person—an elderly woman with a headscarf that makes me think she’s fighting something terminal—walks out of the door.

Fyre looks up, and there’s not a trace of surprise on his face when he sees I’m still in my seat.

“I’m counting on you,” he says, remaining standing behind his desk as if it’s a trench between two warring nations. “Don’t let me down, Charlotte.”

I was going to tell him I won’t do it. That it wasn’t part of the deal. But then he smiles at me, and that smile promises so many things. So I nod. Dip my head. Gather up my things and shove them in my bag as I hurry for the door.

“Remember, I’m always here to help.”

I stall by the door, look back at him. “What?”

His smile is still there. It feels even warmer now. Even more genuine. But I guess that’s just the teacher in him. The healer.

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