Page 17 of Envy

“Yes.”

She points to the only available chair against the wall. I find it odd that it’s so far away from her desk. She doesn’t have the customary two chairs facing her desk, as I’ve seen in other offices.

I sit.

She leans back and doesn’t say anything, watching me like I’m an animal she’s studying.

“I’m Dr. Wick.”

“I’m Rose.”

“I think we’ve established that.”

I want to tell her that I was informed I would see a therapist, not a psychiatrist, and that there must be some mistake about why I’m here, but I keep my mouth shut. The last thing I want is for John to find out I’m asking too many questions. There’s no such thing as client privacy when it comes to me. Girls like me don’t have human rights. We’re selected like cattle and then caged.

“I would like to ask you a few questions, and then you can ask me anything you like.”

“Okay.” The faster I get out of here, the better. I don’t trust this woman. She works here and is hired by monsters who run this place. Who knows what her angle with me is?

“There have been reports from dorm security that you have had issues sleeping?”

I blink a few times, convinced there must be some kind of mistake. How could dorm security know anything about my sleeping habits? My door is always closed, and I hardly see security. There are times I didn’t even think we had any. I’m still trying to figure out how Garret found me, but he’s not someone you can easily ask questions.

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

“It’s not uncommon. There are students who have nightmares. They scream in their sleep without being aware, and out of concern, other students report it. Security sends it to the school, and then it’s forwarded here to the health department. We take these types of reports seriously.”

I want to laugh in her face. Does she know what kind of school this is and what they do to the less fortunate trappedhere under the pretense of higher education and a promise of a better life? Of course she does. This woman is no better than a demon foaming at the mouth, telling you to screw yourself for her enjoyment. There is no question; this bitch is evil. How dare she call herself a doctor.

I raise a brow. “And? I had a stupid nightmare. What's the big deal?”

“Does this happen often? If so, what do you have nightmares about?”

“I don’t remember,” I fib.

Of course, I remember John violating me. I remember being force-fed when I refused to eat, raped, humiliated, touched, and drugged. But is she going to do about it?

“Do you have trouble sleeping?”

“You just said I have nightmares.”

Is she dumb?

She lets out a frustrated sigh. “How was your childhood?”

She wants to go there. What a bitch.

“I was adopted.” I smile sarcastically. “But I’m sure you already knew that.”

She smiles back, but the lines don’t crease around her eyes. “I did, but I want to see what you remember about your past.”

I shrug. “Nothing really. I was adopted when I was a kid.”

“Do you remember your parents?” she asks, ready to type my answer on a keyboard.

Pain slices through my chest, wishing I knew, but I don’t. I never will. The numbers on my skin told me the truth a long time ago when I pieced it all together.

Girls who had fallen pregnant when they were taken by rich sick fucks would give birth, and those babies were taken to a building in the middle of nowhere with minimal care. The children were undocumented—boys, girls, it doesn’t matter.

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