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“Stiles Stilinski?” The receptionist says my name with that hesitation I’ve come to know so well. It says ‘Really? Your parents named you that?’ To be fair, they didn’t, but the alternative is to write down the monstrosity they actually did name me and then I’m left watching people practically seize as they attempt to sound out one too many consonants in a row. I’m convinced there should be sanctions against parents who abuse their naming privileges.
“Right here,” I say, stretching out my stiff legs before I push myself up off the plush lobby chair. The older woman offers me a sympathetic smile and I pretend not to notice it as I adjust my sling so the heavy cast on my arm stops choking me.
Nancy, as the name plate at the copper engraved nameplate reads, leads me down a hall of closed, mahogany doors. I’d be willing to bet my Precious (aka my Jeep) that the doors are lined with mountain ash and that the rooms are all sound-proofed. I expect nothing less of a Psychiatric Group for the supernaturally inclined. If I’m wrong I’m walking right out of here, past Go, fuck the two hundred dollars. I need some assurances here.
Nancy holds the door open and smiles again, leaving me in the capable hands of Dr. Bialnik.
—
Dr. Bialnik’s office is somewhat unexpected. I figured on more herbs and candles, maybe some runes decorating the walls. “All rooms in this building are soundproofed, for privacy,” she says, misinterpreting my glances, and I can’t help but snort. I know for a fact, no one with super-hearing cares about what I say, but hey, I was right about the sound-proofing, at least.
“Uh, good to know,” I say when she keeps staring at me and tug at the back of the sweaty, brown mess I call hair.
“Stiles, I’m glad you came to see me.”
My body language is giving off all kinds of tells and I hate it. There’s my normal fidgeting, long, bony fingers tapping away rhythmically at the soft, worn leather of my chair. My lanky shoulders are tense, I’m trying to eat my own face, one chapped lip at a time, and my leg is bouncing like it’s under attack. I try to control it, crossing my legs, but since it’s still bouncing, I just look ridiculous. A werewolf would be choking on my scent, Anxiety eau de Stiles, Chemo-signals for the prey in all of us.
“Why are you here?”
I catch my reflection on diploma mounted on the wall. Is that another mole? That can’t be good. Are there supernatural dermatologists?
“Parental persecution.”
Dr. Bialnik gives me a blank stare, and this woman could give Deaton a run for his money.
“Your father’s concerned for you.”
“My dad’s scared I’m going to become a crazed serial killer at this point,” I say and watch for a reaction.
“Do you feel the need to hurt others?”
I don’t say anything, because that question is a clear trap. If I say yes, my scrawny ass is getting sent back to Eichen House. And if I say now, and she’s an undercover werewolf (you never know), I’ll still end up in that hell hole.
“Whatever you say here is under the strictest of confidentialities.”
Dr. Bialnik has a thick white stripe that runs from her right temple all the way back into her bun. If not for that, I would never buy her being old enough to be anyone’s doctor. It’s probably a dye job. Or is that a bleach job? I should look that up.
She stops me as I’m reaching for my phone. “I mean it, Stiles. I take my oath very seriously.”
“Are you a Druid?”
Dr. Bialnik smiles. “We’re not here to talk about me.”
“Just wanted to know how serious you were about your oath. Were baby sacrifices part of the deal? Because I can handle a sacrifice or ten, but babies are non-negotiable. That’s just taking your whole oath swearing things to new levels, and I’ve had my fill of Darachs. I’m sure you understand.”
“No babies were harmed in the taking of my oath,” she replies and her body relaxes back against her chair. “Meeting a Darach can be a life changing experience.”
“You don’t say.”
“Is that why you’re here?”
I roll my eyes and, yes, I know it’s childish and Scott would be warning me about now that they’re going to get stuck that way, but some things demand eye-rolls. That question right there? Eye-roll worthy. “No. That happened a while back.”
“Events that happen in our past can continue to influence our present.”
“Yeah well, there were bigger issues after that. Larger death counts.”
Dr. Bialnik taps her pen against her chest and keeps staring at me. It’s unnerving to have someone looking through you, as if you’re made of nothing more substantial than vapor. “Has the death happened around you or were you ever directly involved in a death?”
I cross my arms and stretch out my legs. Talking to has caused me to calm down, and now I’m not in danger of injuring myself due to my own spastic body movements - at least, not for the moment.
“What do you think will happen if you answer my question?”
“You’ll find a way to get me locked up again.” My mouth has run away from me again and I’m going to end up gouging holes into my arms with my non-existent nails if I’m not careful.
“You’re not seeing a traditional doctor. Nothing you say will shock me and, to be locked up, you have to be an imminent threat to yourself or someone else. Are you either of those things?”
“No.”
“Then talk to me.”
I stay quiet for a moment. Truth is, as much as I talk, I’ve grown used to no one actually listening to me. Paying someone to do just that, it’s unnerving. “Aren’t you only supposed to do my meds and send me off to a therapist?”
“I need to understand before I can diagnose. Do you want me to misdiagnose you?”
“Yes. That’s exactly what I want.” I roll my eyes again.
“Talk me.”
I rub my face to stall for time and give me a chance to think - to make a decision.
“If your dad was the one in front of me today, what advice would you give him?”
“To talk.” My dad has to talk. He’s got no one but Melissa and, right now, even that is strained.
She lifts her eyebrow at me but doesn’t say another word.
“I used to faint when I saw blood,” I start, decision made. If someone is actually going to listen, what do I really have to lose?