Page 2 of The Alien's Private Redemption

"I'll see what I can do," the psychiatrist said. The whir of the fan highlighted the scratch of her pen on the paper while she made notes. Angela waited patiently for her to finish, and only strained a little to see what was being written.

"Now, Private McBride," Dr. Phillips said, looking up at her. "Do you know why you're here today?"

Angela was torn. The little voice in the back of her head was supplying her with a long list of responses, many of which were not helpful, and she wanted so badly to use them. Her favorite was 'Are you here to tell me I can enter the clog dancing competition?' but she shook her head.

"I presume you have more questions for me, Doctor," she said instead.

"That is correct, Private," the doctor said with a nod. "I'd like to start with some of the things you've mentioned over the last several weeks. Do you still maintain that you hear voices?"

That wasn't what Angela had said and she hoped Dr. Phillips was provoking her deliberately rather than trying to get her to admit that she was crazy. She might actually be crazy but she wasn't about to have that as part of her record.

"Not more than most people," Angela said slowly.

"You're saying that you don't talk with other voices in your head?" Dr. Phillips asked.

"It sounds weird when you say it like that," Angela said with a nervous laugh. "I thought a lot of people had an internal monologue. Or described their self-doubt as an asshole voice in the back of their head."

"They do," Dr. Phillips acknowledged. "But they don't usually say to kidnap someone. That's a different kind of voice."

Angela sighed. "I wasn't told to kidnap anyone. And it wasn't my intrusive thoughts that told me to disrupt the ceremony. Those were verbal orders from someone in a position of authority."

"No one in your command gave those orders," Dr. Phillips said. "Were you hallucinating?"

Private McBride could feel her temper starting to fray and beneath that was the terror of what would happen if she kept up this line of questioning.

"No, ma'am, I wasn't hallucinating."

The psychiatrist studied her and Angela struggled to maintain eye contact.

"Have you ever lost periods of time?" she asked, and Angela breathed a sigh of relief. The question hadn't gone the direction she had been expecting.

"I got black out drunk a few times in high school on accident."

"Has it ever happened without drinking?"

"No, ma'am."

"Have you ever felt like you weren't in control of your body?"

That was a new question. Angela waited for her lungs to seize but, when they didn't, she shrugged. "Everybody moves on autopilot sometimes."

"I'm not talking about losing focus during a repetitive task. Have you ever felt like someone else was controlling your body?"

Panic started to build inside Angela and she could tasty the faintly viscous, coppery liquid that meant she'd bitten her tongue too hard.

"Can you answer my question, Private McBride?" Dr. Phillips stood and leaned towards her across the table.

Angela shook her head as she fought her jaw. The blood wasn't just coming from her tongue. The feel of it sliding down herthroat made her want to vomit. The taste of bile filed the back of her mouth even as she struggled to take a breath in.

"Angela, who gave you the order to disrupt the ceremony?"

Her lungs stopped and Angela felt her body thrash with a desperate need for air. As her lungs seized, Angela felt the familiar split beginning - like watching herself from a distance while something else took control of her body. The physical world began to fade, its edges growing soft and gray.

She didn't fight it anymore. Fighting only made the transition more painful. Instead, she let herself fall back into her sanctuary. The mountain path appeared beneath her feet, worn smooth by years of mental footsteps. Pine needles crunched softly with each step, their sharp scent mixing with the crisp mountain air.

Here, she could always breathe.

The cave waited ahead, its entrance half-hidden by hanging vines - exactly as she remembered it from her childhood. Inside, bioluminescent moss painted the walls in soft blues and greens, each patch positioned precisely where she'd placed it over years of mental visits. This place was more real to her than any cell they could put her in.

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