Emerald's First Spark

CHAPTER : 1 EMERALD The cold outside the hospital doesn’t just sting. It punishes. It crawls under my skin like it belongs there, like it knows my body is already used to being uncomfortable. I let it stay longer than necessary, standing beneath the flickering streetlight, arms folded tight around myself. The glass doors ahead glow warm and fake, promising help they probably can’t give. Therapy. The word tastes wrong in my mouth. Soft. Optimistic. Like it thinks it can fix things that were broken on purpose. If Jess hadn’t dragged me here, I wouldn’t be standing in the cold trying to convince myself not to run. I hate this place already. I hate the smell of antiseptic that pretends to be clean but somehow feels invasive. I hate the idea that I’m supposed to talk my way out of damage that took years to carve into me. Some things don’t heal. They just learn how to hide. “Emerald Fenrose.” The voice snaps me out of my spiral. Clear. Confident. Certain. “Doctor’s ready for you.” Even my name sounds fake here. Like it belongs to someone else—someone lighter, someone less… damaged. I move anyway. Each step feels deliberate, like I’m walking into a trial instead of a therapist’s office. My shoulders are stiff, my jaw clenched so tight it aches. I catalog exits automatically. Old habit. Survival habit. The room is small. Too clean. Neutral walls, closed blinds, air humming quietly like it’s trying not to exist. A woman sits inside, posture perfect, blonde curls neat, expression warm in a way that makes my skin itch. People like her are always trusted. People like me know better. “Hello,” she says gently. “I’m Sarah.” “Emerald.” One word. That’s all she gets. If I say more, I might start bleeding in places she doesn’t deserve to see. She gestures to the chair across from her. I sit, back straight, hands clenched in my lap, ready to bolt if she pushes too hard. “That’s a rare name,” she says. I don’t answer. Silence doesn’t bother me. It bothers other people. I’ve learned to use it like a weapon. “Is this your first therapy session?” I nod once. I can talk. I just don’t unless I decide you’ve earned it. Words are currency. Jess earned hers years ago. My mother too. Everyone else can starve. Sarah doesn’t rush me. She leans forward just enough to show interest, not pressure. Like she’s done this dance before. “Why are you here?” “My friend forced me.” The truth comes out sharp, defensive, already braced for judgment. Instead, she chuckles softly. “I see.” That calmness needles at me. It’s unsettling. Like she isn’t afraid of what’s buried inside my ribs. Like she thinks she can handle it. “Tell me about yourself,” she says. “Your age. What you do.” I shift in the chair, irritation sparking under my skin. “Twenty-three,” I say flatly. “Finished my fucking doctorate.” For the first time, her mask cracks. Just a flicker—raised brow, genuine surprise. “So young,” she says. “That’s impressive.” I hate that my chest warms at the word. Hate that pride blooms there like a traitor. I don’t want her approval. I don’t need it. Still— “Skipped three grades,” I add. “Straight A’s. Always.” “So you’re practicing medicine?” The warmth dies instantly. “No.” The word feels heavier than it should. “I’m under house arrest.” The room stills. “House arrest?” “Not allowed to work. Not allowed to leave.” My fingers dig into my palms. “Locked up like a prisoner. Just with nicer walls.” “Why?” “I’m not allowed.” “By whom?” “My father.” The word burns. Venom slides into it before I can stop myself. “He’s a CEO. Owns half the city. Mafia ties—real ones.” My mouth twists into something bitter. “Thinks he owns me too. Says the world is dangerous, so he keeps me locked away like property.” The silence that follows is suffocating. It presses on my lungs, drags up memories I work very hard to keep buried. Sarah sets her pen aside. “Tell me about your family,” she says quietly. “How does your father treat you?” Something fractures. “He doesn’t see me,” I whisper. My throat tightens, traitorous. “I’m a trophy. Something to control. He treats my mother the same—yelling, manipulating, crushing her slowly. We’re not people to him. We’re assets.” I hate that my voice shakes. Hate that she sees it. “What do you expect from therapy, Emerald?” The answer slips out before I can cage it. “Freedom.” My chest aches. “From this fucking prison in my head.” She nods. No pity. No fear. “One last question.” My muscles tense automatically. “When everything becomes too much—anger, sadness, all of it—what do you do?” My stomach drops. “I think about hurting myself,” I whisper. “Cutting until I feel something else. Or hurting someone else. Watching blood spill so it matches what’s inside me.” I stare at the floor. I can’t watch her reaction. “Okay,” she says calmly. “We’ll stop here. We’ll talk again next week.” That’s it. No lecture. No disgust. No horror. Just… acceptance