[sup][h1][color=black]Tiffany Graves [/color]
[color=8F2845]Tiffany Graves[/color][/h1][/sup][right][indent][i]The Spooky[/i]
Harm: 0
Luck: 0[/indent][/right][hr]
[color=darkgray][sup]Carry-On Motel: Hallway[/sup]

Tiffany had been in therapy before. Credit where it's due, the therapist tried her best. She saw a young girl before her, clearly traumatized from the loss of her mother and her father doing anything except calling for an exorcism. Tiffany bets the therapist was a straight-A student through school, had a perfect plan ever since she was little and wanting to help people. The therapist probably had a harsh home life. A mom who smoked too much and had "friends" come visit whenever her father, a hard-working, hard alcohol lover who worked overtime because it meant he didn't have to be home to watch his life decay in slow-motion. The therapist probably had a sibling or a pet (what was the difference to her?) who she confided in who probably died from suicide if only to get away from her. That was the trigger, that was the moment the therapist decided she wanted to be there for others. Be the guide to help them meet their potential. It isn't too late, it's never too late.

So a little girl in pigtails who lost her mother recently was a snap. The perfect patient. Hell, there was probably some guide book on what right questions to ask to elicit responses, the use of art or toys to get the young child to open up without realizing they are doing so. The therapist probably had a peer reviewed journal printed out and ready to use when the moment sprang that the little girl burst into tears recalling how much she missed her mother. How much she wished her father could be there for her. Boo hoo so on and so forth.

What the therapist hadn't expected was the girl sitting there staring at her. No emotion on her face. No sadness, no anger, no fear. Simplicity for simplicity's sake. The therapist would not admtit this openly (she did so later at some dive bar she went to where she downed a bottle of bourbon and decided she needed to go into a career change and wondered how much park rangers made yearly where they could live in isolation and not be bothered by, say, scary demon children), but it was unnerving how little the girl moved. There was no idle curiosity of a young child being in a new environment. There was no questions about what they would do or if they could play a game. The therapist tried eliciting responses and got one-word answers in return.

Did she miss her mother: Yes

Was she sad: No

Why wasn't she sad: Voices

What voices you ask? Or rather the therapist did. Was she on to something? Hallucinations could be a sign of trauma. Instead of answering the little girl asked for a sheet of paper and some coloring supplies. The therapist provided them, secretly hoping this would be the dtart of a flourishing career with a book she wrote about her work. As the little girl drew the therapist made pretend speeches at psychology conferences and acceptance speeches for awards she would be given for her work.

Once she was done the little girl sat back in her seat. The therapist looked at the drawing and her insides curdled. Her blood felt frozen in place. It was as if looking at the drawing was slowly seeping black ooze into the crevices of her brain. She felt the urge to scream but held it in, allowing it to fester in her organs. She would vomit later recalling the drawing. Even after she took it and burned it, it was as if the drawing lingered, laughing at her.

The little girl was never seen again. The therapist claimed insurance issues but the truth is she wanted the little girl as far from her as possible.

She wondered if Yosemite National Park was hiring.

[hr]

As Tiffany entered the hallway she felt the presence of someone else. She felt eyes on her, albeit briefly, so she pretended to not notice the man as he turned and walked away. 

Then she felt the slow buzz, the thoughts creeping into her head. 

Battered. Bruised. Broken.

She knew if she ignored it that it would get worse and grow and consume. She wasn't about to commit a felony, not yet at least, but she could pretend. She pretended every day. She pretended to be an ordinary citizen of this country. She pretended like she functioned normally, had normal thoughts, didn't think about jumping over every bridge she passed or running in front of a speeding car if for no other reason than to see if she could. Pretend like she could be just some person you passed that had an apartment she could barely aford while she worked some dead-end job that barely covered a grilled cheese sandwich let along the utilities she needed to ensure she could clean herself or not freeze to death in the middle of the night.

So she mumbled a curse under her breath, turned, and started to follow the man who did not ask for this, would never ask for this, and could very easily take her out or report her to the authorities depending on his mood. Let's just see where he goes. Maybe he is a serial killer and this will be easy or perhaps he is a father of two and a half kids and this will be less easy.

Either way, this day was getting dark.[/color]