Shrink

2

Dread formed itself a permanent little pit in my stomach, weighing like lead on me all weekend.
As I lay forlornly on the ratty couch in my apartment, I half-heartedly decided on playing tourist for a day.
Drenching myself in the shower under the hot water until it ran cold, I slowly dressed in jeans and my brother's old Capitals sweatshirt.
Even with my delay, I managed to make it to the Jeffersonian within ten minutes, and as I pushed open the doors, I cursed the lack of traffic.
The entire place crawled with activity, people in blue and grey lab coats talking or walking amongst each other's company in the entrance.
Heaving my courage up to my shoulders like a cape, I asked a stray tech where the forensics lab was.
Following her minimalistic directions, I stared askance at the sliding glass doors. Once I stepped within two feet, they'd blow wide open, and everyone on and around the platform would see me.
Once again taking my courage by its frayed handles, I stepped up, the doors gliding smoothly open to reveal the core of the Jeffersonian Institute: the lab.
No one seemed to notice me as I stood gawking in the entrance, at the bright lights, the high glass ceilings, the bridges and the platform itself, equipped with trillions of dollars of equipment smarter than the average American Yale graduate.
The smell of disinfectant, metal and the distinct odour of putrefaction played with my senses, making me a little dizzy. Leaning against the wall, I came to grips that this was my new workplace, for however long I was employed, which meant however long Doctor Brennan tolerated me.
Speaking of the devil, a familiar commanding voice called for 'Hodgins'.
She can't see me!
Scanning the surrounding doorways below the lookout platform for a hiding spot, I darted for the nearest one to the right.
This room smelled of candles and lavender, and it was hung with beautiful tapestries and paintings, the walls in between an earthen tone. A glass desk sat to the left, a leather couch to the far back.
"Hodgins!"
Cowering further into the room, I chanced upon two women and a suited man staring at a huge monitor.
"Do you think you can decrypt it?" Asked the woman with her dark hair in a bob cut.
"Yeah, but look at this," said the other woman, her dark hair hanging down her back in waves. "We pulled up the DMV database and the IRS, looking for people with the same facial structure as the victim's. The victim was one Glen Hawking, aged 46."
"He worked at a mail office five miles from the lake where the body was dropped," commented the man, whose curly brown hair was cropped close to his head.
Both women wore blue lab coats, while the man did not. I'd been so immersed in this exchange, pressed up against the opposite bookcase, that I'd let my guard down.
"Hodgins!"
"Fire in the hold!" Cried another man's voice, which was followed with an ear splitting explosion, setting off alarms, probably smoke detectors.
At this uproar, all three turned, and I was caught like a deer in headlights.
"What're you doing in here?" Asked the long-haired lady, a tablet clutched to her chest.
"This is unauthorized area to the public, young lady," said the other woman sternly.
The man, with prominent pink lips and brown eyes remained silent and observed.
Pressed up against the shelf, I shook violently, clutching at the sleeves of my sweater.
"D-don't call security," I stammered, the blood rushing to my face, making me see tunnel-vision.
"You've got ten seconds to explain yourself," said the lady I'd deduced was in charge.
Swallowing my stomach back down, I tried to answer as professionally as I could muster.
"I-I'm the n-new i-intern."
Whomp, whomp, so much for professionalism in the face of a crisis.
"You're two days early," she said, not as a fact, but as a statement.
"I was t-told to t-take a-a t-tour," I blathered on idiotically. "Acclimate."
The woman sighed, closing her eyes. I'd imagine it's hard being the boss around here. Within five minutes, she was already faced with a babbling intruder and an explosion.
"Right," she sighed. "I'll go get your card."
"D-Doctor?" I stammered.
She turned as she was about to leave.
"Saroyan," she filled in.
"Please don't tell D-Doctor Bren-nan."
Doctor Saroyan stared warily at me, throwing a glance at her coworkers before leaving the office.
Turning my attention back to the remaining two, I realized they had remained silent throughout the whole exchange.
"Sorry about that," sighed the other lady, whose office I assume I'd just invaded. "I'm Angela Montenegro. Not a doctor."
Her wide smile put me slightly at ease, my fight or flight instincts once again going dormant.
I smiled at her.
"Well?" She asked, gesturing at me. "What's your name? Or am I gonna have to look you up in the DMV as well?"
I took a steadying breath before answering.
"No need," I answered. "I'm Papillon Antoine."
"Ooh, sounds very French and exotic!" Exclaimed Angela. "I'm hoping to go back to Paris, so maybe you help me brush up on my French?"
I grinned at her contagious energy.
"Not European, just from Montreal," I admonished quietly.
The guy in the suit had moved to stand beside Angela, his hands in his pockets.
"This is Sweets, the resident shrink," she introduced, gesturing to him.
"Nice to meet you," he said, his brown eyes not flinching from my face.
I nodded at him uncomfortably, ducking my face from his intense gaze.
Suddenly, the spacious room felt so small and dark, the lavender turning to a sickeningly sweet smell that made me want to puke.
"Papillon?" came Angela's far off voice.
Her face was in my full view, but she seemed to be fading in and out, like a broken radio.
"C-can you..can I..sit?" I gasped, my gaze swinging wildly as I fumbled into my bag.
I caught Sweet's face in my field of vision, his brows furrowed, and his brown eyes staring at me still.
I felt Angelas's hand on my arm as she guided me to the leather couch in the corner.
Finally, my fingers locked on my pump, and I pressed down on the cartridge as I held it to my parched, trembling lips. I could breathe. Releasing a great sigh, I leaned back.
"Christ, are you okay?" she asked, sitting next to me, rubbing soothing circles on my back.
I didn't trust my throat not to let my meagre lunch loose, so I nodded.
"I-it happens," I breathed, clenching my fists and allowing my fingers to tear mindlessly into the cuffs of my sweatshirt. A habit I'd abhorred myself for.
"Do you need water?" Asked Angela soothingly, rubbing my back.
Nodding, I added a quick "please", as she headed out the door of her office, leaving me with Sweets.
Settling on the couch a comfortable distance from me, he lazily swung his elbows onto his knees.
"You're anxious," he stated, his voice having a weird effect when it was directed towards me.
"No shit, Sherlock," I laughed bitterly. Rude, I cursed myself. Clearing my throat, I rephrased myself. "Yeah, it h-happens s-sometimes.. I've got some issues."
Too much information!
"I'm fine."
Better.
"That's a line I've heard quite a bit in my field," commented Sweets, moving his black tie to rest squarely down his chest.
"Okay, water," urged Angela, bustling back in with a paper cup full of water.
Chugging it all down, I felt my throat release slightly, my sight clear a bit.
"Hey, Ange?" Doctor Saroyan peeked into the office. "Give this to Ms. Antoine," she held out my ID. "And we need you to look at these wounds on Hawking. Doctor Brennan found some anomalies."
Following these orders, Angela followed Doctor Saroyan out to the platform, once again leaving me alone.
"You don't need that pump," came Sweet's voice, jarring me.
"Beg your pardon?" I breathed harshly, frowning.
"You don't need it. It's simply a mechanism to destress you in cases of hyperventilation."
How would you know?
"Then it's a good thing.." I said snidely, allowing myself the tone.
Sweets shook his head surely.
"No, by using it, you'll only weaken yourself, leaving your fallback plan a simple pump that doesn't even affect you."
"L-like the placebo effect," I stifled my misbelief, my voice bordering on mild hysteria. "B-but I took an asthma test..I tested positive.."
"Because you were stressed about your results," said Sweets calmly, waiting for me to finish. "you probably had some sort of mild anxiety attack during the test."
My lips stayed parted, unable to form words.
"You're not asthmatic, you have anxiety."