Session 1 [Jo]

[Francesca von Hannesburg]

Francesca von Hannesburg padded down the corridor, her black schoolshoes squeaking softly on the highly polished wooden floor. She kept her ragged fringe down over her eyes, avoiding thr gaze of the few people she passed. As one of the youngest students at St Dympha's, she was also one of the smallest, reaching up to most of their elbows at a short 5"2. Because of this, she kept her head down, studiously avoid anyone's gaze as she navigated the unfamiliar corridors to her first therapy session since leaving the pyschiatric hospital. She just hoped her therapist would be more patient than the last one.
She brushed passed a dark-haired boy, flinching away as her arm, bared by her rolled-up sleeves, knocked against his, and her pace increased, glancing behind her. He hadn't looked back, didn't seem to have even noticed. Her skin was still crawling from the contact. She turned back, pale red hair flopping limply over her shoulders, her fists clenched beside her. Eventually, she reached her destination; the row of classrooms, labelled Therapy Rooms One to Twenty. They had attractive looking doors, she noticed, shiny, smooth dark mahogany. The kind of wood that contrasted beautifully with red, orange, yellow. Lively colours. But it was what lay behind that door that she was here for, and what lay behind that door that had her fists clenched so tight they were shaking. This was the moment of truth, the moment she learned if she'd been sent to heaven or hell. Metaphorically. She'd been to hell and back a hundred times over, but if this was it, this was it. No coming back from it this time. Not that she'd come back whole before.
Shaking the thoughts from her head, Francesca raised a white-knuckled fist and knocked on the door, so lightly it could have been a butterfly that had come knocking, not a thirteen-year-old girl. Then she stood silently, waiting for permission to enter, half-hoping it wouldn't come. What would she do if it didn't? Wait, most likely. Not likely. Definitely. She'd wait outside like an idiot, until she was so shaken with nerves she was ready to lie down on the ground and scream, scream out the dread she had been feeling for months now, from the first time her life had become brown and grey and green and blue, and all the reds and yellows had been taken.

[Dr. Josephine Hudson]

While Francesca was wandering down the corridors towards her office, Jo was reading the dictionary. Her next patient was yet to be late; there was still some time and she suspected that they would be late. It was nothing to do with the girl herself; just that people were often late to therapy sessions. She wasn't entirely sure why anyone would turn up late for anything, usually, but that was neurotypicals for you. Confusing. ' Wait, though. Hardly anyone here is a neurotypical. Maybe Gabe... ' It made her smile when she realized that she fitted in here. She wasn't the only freak; she was normal. Maybe some of the other staff considered her to be a little...odd, but she got along fine with most of the students. Some, of course, she didn't. Such as Morph.

He had been hanging around in her mind for quite a while; it made her slightly anxious that she couldn't stop thinking about him. He scared her, if she was completely honest, which she wasn't always. A lot of the time. But he had nearly raped her (apparently), which made her feel quite...vulnerable. What would stop him from doing it again? Shaking her head, she turned the page over, reading the P's. She liked to open her dictionary to a completely random page and learn everything on it; most of the words she would never use but just liked to know them, in case someone used them in front of her. When she heard a small tap on the door, she frowned, shutting the dictionary and reminding herself where she was, so she could continue later - phobia, which she thought was ironic. She'd have to ask Gabe if it was actually ironic, but she was quite sure it was, considering her next patient had a phobia of speech.

Selective mutism; Jo's 'specialty'. She had been particularly interested in young children with it; the children locked inside their own worlds, too terrified to talk for fear of what they might set free. Some of the things she did hear were horrendous, and she had never understood how someone could neglect - or abuse - their children so badly. It made her feel physically sick, but she had never given up working with the kids. She needed to help them get better. Although Jo had never worked with a teenager that had those problems - the oldest was twelve, and that was a special case - but she was sure that they would be much the same.

It took her a minute or two to respond to the knock on the door. " Come in... " She thought it might have been the wind, or her imagination, before she was proved wrong. A petite girl entered, slowly, and upon request seated herself. Completely silent; although she was known to scream and cry when angry or scared. Similar to most of her other children. She had had very few children that were completely silent, and that appeared to be in the worst cases of abuse. Smiling at Francesca, she leant forward. " My name is Doctor Hudson, and I'm going to be your psychiatrist now. What's your name? " Very rarely had this question worked; the children tended to look scared, but it sometimes made them more secure - they assumed that she couldn't know too much about them.

[Francesca von Hannesburg]

Francesca entered quietly and sat herself down at the woman's request. She looked nice: she had yellow hair, and a smiling face, although she looked a bit worried. Francesca wasn't sure what to do once she'd sat, so she teetered on the edge of her seat, watching the woman carefully with big, dark eyes. She only watched for a second, however; soon, her gaze was wandering around the room, taking in the bare, dull walls and dark, luscious wooden desk. She carefully reached up to touch the desk, stroking delicate fingers along the grain, eyebrows furrowed into a tiny frown as she examined the chocolate-coloured wood.
After a moment, though, she remembered the woman had spoken to her, and glanced up, a faint flush colouring her pale cheeks. ”My name is Doctor Hudson, and I'm going to be your psychiatrist now. What's your name?”
Francesca didn't answer, staring at her with huge, dark eyes. Surely she had read the file? Francesca didn't talk, why wouldn't she know that? She was supposed to be the pyschiatrist. Her eyes strayed to the file, lyng uselessly on the woman's desk. She could read it from there if she needed to know it. Francesca could see her name right there, written in neat, black print with a marker pen, just waiting to be read and put to use. She leaned back in her chair a little, watching the yellow woman (as Francesca had come to think of Doctor Hudson) with expressionless eyes. Her figners twitched, and she suddenly felt and overwhelming desire to hold something, warm wood or dry leaves. She raised her hand and resumed her stroking of the desk, quick little flicks that bought her little comfort. Her eyes strayed to the pen, left lying carelessly on the desk, and her right hand twitched. Now she rested both hands on the desk, flexing them cautiously, her eyes flickering between Dr Hudson and the pen.

[Dr. Josephine Hudson]

Jo watched as her patient began to stroke the desk. Interesting. It was a nice desk, and she spent a lot of time there. More time underneath than at her chair, but that still counted. Under the desk, where the students couldn't see unless they came around, behind her chair and crouched down, there were some pillows and some pictures she'd drawn when upset. It was nice. Being in small spaces made her calm; as long as there was an escape route. If there wasn't, that just led to badness, and she didn't like that. Then she'd curl up as best she could and cry. Her desk was large, big enough for two people to fit under with room so they wouldn't touch. If Jo had been more familiar with Francesca, and certain that she wouldn't freak out, she would have invited her under the desk. It was relaxed there. Easier to talk. She was thinking about fitting some fairy lights under there, and maybe a small shelf for books. And a kettle, for sure. She had asked Gabe and he'd said that that would probably be allowed, although she wasn't allowed to let the students touch the hot water. When she got the kettle, she'd spend much more time under there, writing notes and drinking hot chocolate.

She was expecting no reaction to that question. The only time a mute had responded to that was when he had been placed with the wrong therapist. Some of her younger - she'd had mutes as young as four before - has burst into tears, panicking. Usually caused by a bad experience in which a parent, teacher or someone else close to them had attempted to force the child to speak; after that, establishing trust was difficult. It also made it harder to talk to the children - telling them that she expected them to speak usually scared them. Jo hoped that Francesca hadn't been treated in this way; she needed to succeed with this patient. If she couldn't make a mute talk - her specialty - she didn't know what she'd do. Aside from doubting herself and possibly crying.

She stared back at Francesca, not quite making eye contact, but studying the girl. She looked like all of 'her' (as she knew them) mutes; they all seemed like they wanted to hide. Until the children started talking, she always wondered how it would feel to have virtually no means of communication. It'd be scary. Jo didn't think that she could stand that. How would she talk to Gabe it she...couldn't talk to Gabe? She wrote notes to him as well, when she couldn't sleep, with questions. He didn't appreciate being woken up to be asked a question that he didn't consider important, and would usually mumble at her and tell her to ask the next day. And would always seem quite irritable the next day. It was never good.

Looking at her patient, she considered her next words carefully. She knew that different language was needed when talking to teenagers; apparently, they wouldn't appreciate her saying 'Hi, I'm Jo and I'm going to make you better!'. No, they preferred it if she was more formal. " I realize that you find it hard to speak. That's why you've been assigned to me, okay? I work with other kids that have trouble speaking, and I'm going to help you. To do that, you need to help me though. By talking. So... Can you tell me your name? " Her attempt at being formal had gone downhill about halfway through, but she preferred it that way. Honesty, rather than formality. It always worked better.

[Francesca von Hannesburg]

Francesca didn't quite know what to think. Her old therapist had told her to talk, he hadn't said anything about it being difficult. He hadn't had such a nice voice, either. Francesca found it difficult to remember what her own voice was like; she had become mute ten months ago, and reluctant to talk long before that. Her old therapist had scared her, and she'd refused to talk at all. She'd written him notes, but done her best never to do anything that really involved words. Not a word... That was one voice she remembered perfectly. Slurring, deep, really quite pleasant to listen to. It was the words that were bad, ugly, harsh words that Francesca flinched away from. But thoughts of him always led to thoughts of the fire, and the smoke, and the pure, unadulterated joy that it had bought with it. It was the biggest thing she had ever done, and she could still see it when she closed her eyes, the heat on her face, the bright lights glowing through her eyelids. Then came the hands, dragging her away from the beauty, putting her in a cold, dark place, holding her down, tying her up when she screamed...

The yellow woman – Dr Hudson – hadn't spoken again, simply sat and watched her. But Francesca noticed she didn't make eye contact, just stared at a spot slightly to her side and down a bit from her eyes. Not that Francesca minded. A lot of people avoided her eyes, she was used to it. She even welcomed it. She knew that people paid more attention to you if you met their eyes. What if they demanded she talked? Not that it would do her much good now. Being the only other person in the room, all Dr Hudson's attention was focused on her, and it made her uncomfortable. Her long nails bit into the wood, and she shifted in her seat, gazing down at her file on the desk, desperately reading her name upside down. Maybe if she read it enough times, frantically enough, Dr Hudson would be able to hear her thoughts and take it as an answer?

Francesca's heart jolted when the woman remain silent, waiting for an answer. She couldn't! What if it hurt? What if they hurt her for it? They'd said not a word, and she hadn't, had she? She couldn't have. She'd been careful. A tear leaked from the corner of her eye, and she brushed it away, angrily, eying the pen, still lying innocently on the desk. Her hand crept towards it. The woman wasn't looking, she wouldn't notice. And she could concentrate on that, not on talking, couldn't she? Her hand slid out, smooth as glass, and closed over the pen, snapping back as soon as she had a firm hold on it. Almost instantly, she relaxed. One hand continued to finger the desk, but the other twirled the object around in her lap. Had Dr Hudson noticed? She didn't think so.

[Dr. Josephine Hudson]

Jo bit her lip. She had never had one mute that hadn't cried during at least one therapy session with her. Usually when they were trying to speak, or when they realized that she expected them to speak. Sometimes they were playing the sympathy card; just trying to get her to stop making them talk. She would relent for a session and play Scrabble with them instead. After three sessions where the same pattern would repeat, however, they usually realized that she was going to make them talk. Usually, she'd try and make them tell her their name. It didn't matter that she already knew it. It was just getting them to speak. Despite all her experience in making mutes cry, however, she always felt bad. Having been out of practice for so long, she felt worse than usual, and began to drum her fingers on her lap with slight agitation. Poor Francesca. And what if there was a physical reason for her mutism? Smoke inhalation, maybe? Jo always worried about that. That she was trying to make her patients do something they were physically incapable of doing. However, this girl had been reported to make some sounds. Hissing and screaming were not the best sounds to be making, but they proved that her vocal cords actually worked.

She could see the other girl looking at the file, apparently in a state of total confusion, and experiencing a high amount of stress. If she didn't speak within five more minutes, Jo decided that she would call it a day and get out a chessboard. Maybe checkers... It'd be nice. Relaxing. Her other patients had both tried to rape her, so it was nice having one that...didn't, although it would have been nice if the girl could talk without crying. However, if that was true, she probably wouldn't be at St. Dympha's. It all depended on how serious her problems were, behind the mutism. It was always hard to tell until the child spoke, which was why it was the first thing they tried to deal with. Therapy without any speech from the patient would be difficult.

She blinked when her pen was abruptly whisked away from her desk, wondering what had just happened. Interesting. Kleptomaniac. Jo couldn't see the attraction in her pen, to be honest, but supposed it was easier to steal than the desk. That'd be hard to lift. And more obvious. You couldn't exactly hide a desk under your coat, could you? " You can keep that until the end of the session, but I'll need it back. Can you tell me why exactly you wanted my pen? And I'd still like to know your name. "

[Francesca von Hannesburg]

She seemed worried, and Francesca felt bad. She didn't like making her upset, she seemed nice. But she'd feel a lot worse if she spoke, and they came for her. At night was when they'd come, when the only person nearby was her roommate, who was incapable of doing anything. She pulled her legs up, feet encased in big white trainers, wrapped her arms around her legs, staring at Jo with bright brown eyes, the pen safely hidden in the pocket of her jacket. She tried to make herself smaller, pulling her arms tighter around her legs, resting her chin on her knees.

The session was moving slowly. Francesca shuffled around in her chair, desperate to get out. The therapy sessions had all been like this; the person across the desk expecting her to speak just because she had been told to, thinking that they were able to protect her, that it was a different place and so a different situation. Thinking she was a different person, they were special and she'd talk to them. She'd got good at filtering out the voices by now, ignoring everything they said to her, in case, just in case, she broke. Because that wouldn't be the only thing to break if she spoke.

The woman was speaking again, and Francesca closed her eyes. She filtered out the words, but the psychiatrist did have a nice voice, and she couldn't pretend it didn't exist at all. She lowered her face so her forehead rested on her knees, not her chin, and tried not to listen. Tried to ignore the temptation. It was fading now, the desire to speak, but she still had urges. People made her want to, and that was bad. They'd said not a word, and not a word would she say until they were dead and gone, unable to hurt her ever again. That had been why she'd started the fire. She didn't want to not be able to talk, but they stopped her. Every time she opened her mouth, intending to, she whispered in her mind and she couldn't do it. Because they'd survived, and she was still under their power. No matter how many times she was told they were locked up, she wouldn't speak until they were ice-cold and six feet under the ground.

[Dr. Josephine Hudson]

Jo watched as Francesca wriggled around in her chair, obviously not happy to be there. It wasn't surprising - she'd only ever had a few patients that actually wanted therapy - but it still made her feel bad. She'd hate it if someone forced her to stay in a room with someone she didn't know and talk, when she was scared of talking. Scared of talking... That reminded her; she needed to find out exactly why she wouldn't talk. It was probably fear of hurting her father and uncle - bastards - but there could always be something else. She sighed quietly, wishing that she could make assumptions. They made life so much easier, even if you ended up making stupid mistakes.

She noted Francesca's positions; it looked as though she was trying to fold up into herself. The girl was obviously trying to ignore her words, which made it a little harder to communicate with her, so she took a breath, preparing to speak. Letting the silence go on for too long was never a good idea. When there was an awkward silence, it made it so much harder to start talking, and it just got harder and harder... What should she talk about? Jo thought quickly. Well, what did she want to find out about Francesca? She needed to determine the extent of the abuse - there wasn't much known about it - and she needed to find out the reason she wasn't talking. Also the reason she tried to burn down her house - probably an attempt to kill her uncle and father.

Jo decided to start at the end - the end of her list of things to find out, and the end of Francesca's old life, metaphorically speaking. Was that a metaphor? She didn't dwell upon it. " Francesca, please listen... I need you to tell me some things about the fire that you caused. All I know is what your file tells me. " Realizing that Francesca probably hadn't read her own application, she hastened to elaborate.

" She burned down a home, and had several records of being caught seriously endangering the health of others and herself due to close proximity to fire; as a minor, she has never been sent to prison, but incidents have been recorded, " is pretty much all I know about the fire. Can you tell me more? " She pushed a sheet of paper towards Francesca, deciding to let her write for now. " You can use the pen that you took from my desk. " She smiled , so the words didn't sound scary. Hopefully, she'd comply, otherwise Jo would have to use her psychiatrist voice. And she hated doing that.