A/N: Alright, it's been a while since I've updated this one (or any of my stories lol), but this one is still under majoring editing. I'm going to try to keep writing this story despite the major editing. Here we go!

(No replies today, I'm so sick right now and just want to get this updated ASAP. Sorry loves!)

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October 14th, 2013, 3:15 AM

City Jail for Men, Los Angeles, CA

"Good morning," a woman says, coming into the room. She's wearing a blak pencil skirt and white blouse tucked into the waist. The clicks of her heels on the floor echoes around the room, and I cringe; they seem awfully loud so early.

"I don't see what's so good about it," I mumble, yawning. "It's too damn early for this."

"Not for me. I'm the psychologist here, I come in when I'm called," she says with a sick smile. "Standby, I guess you can call it. I'm here to make sure that we get the full story. That way we, as in the community, can decide whether or not you go to a mental institution. . . or prison."

I scoff.

"This isn't a game, Mr. Robbins; though you may feel you're living in one, you aren't. I take my job very seriously, and if I prove you sane enough to go to prison, I won't feel sorry."

"Rawr," I deadpan, rolling my eyes. I couldn't care less about what she's saying to me. I know I'm going to prison. I can't really remember why I'm going to prison. . . all I know is that I'm not insane, and there's a cell in prison with my name engraved in the walls.

She puts down a good stack of files on the table in front of me. Something shifts in the air, we can both sense it. "You know why you're here. . . you're hiding behind the traumatized-person act. Pretending you're so in-shock that you can't remember what you did that got you here."

"Yeah, it's all an act," I reply. Okay, so the sarcasm isn't helping my case at all, but this woman really is a bitch. Aren't psychologists supposed to be helpful or something?

"Look," she spits, furrowing her eyebrows furiously. "I'm not a person to be messed with. I have proved cases even the best psychologists couldn't."

"Then how come you're not one of the bests, apparently?" I smirk. "Is this just your ego being sore with jealousy?"

She sighs, obviously taking my words harshly. "You know what you did."

"Actually, I don't," I answer honestly. I don't know what happened to me. All I know is that I received a bunch of videos, and proof that Stevie's still alive. I know I'm hear because everyone thinks she's dead and that I have something to do with it, but they're wrong.

"You killed Stevie Baskara. Remember that?" the psychologist smirks. Funny, she's not one for small talk; I didn't even get her name. Not that I actually care to know it, but who cares?

"I didn't kill her," I respond calmly. I keep eye contact with my psychologist as I speak; eye contact is key. If you keep eye contact, they won't think you're lying.

Usually.

"Then where is she?" she asks me, leaning forward on the desk. For a split second, I'm distracted by the way her elbows curve in slightly. It's freaky.

Back on track, I reply, "I can't tell you where she is. All I know is she's alive and I didn't hurt her. Where she is, I can't tell you because I don't know. Look, how is any of this going to determine whether or not I go to prison? These are questions the police would ask, not a psychologist. Shouldn't you be asking me questions about myself pshycologically?"

She looks utterly embarrassed for a split second, but masks it quickly. "Right. Getting ahead of myself, I suppose." Her voice is calm and quiet, almost like the interrogation only moments ago hadn't happened.

"Tell me, Zander—" oh, now it's first names? I wonder to myself. "—do you have nightmares?"

I think this over a few minutes. "I wouldn't call them nightmares. . ." I begin. "They're dreams, but they almost seem like flashbacks."

"Can you describe them?" she asks, taking a seat in the chair behind the desk before me. She pulls out a pad and scrawls on it with an ink pen until the ink appears on the page. Once she's ready, I begin.

"There's always this. . . anonymous figure. And Stevie, and then myself. We're always in my apartment, and the figure always hurts Stevie. Somehow. And then, in the end, he's caring for her and making sure she's okay. None of it makes any sense to me, and I don't get why I'm having these nightmares."

"Sometimes nightmares are ways of alerting us of future situations—or they help us realize things in past situations that we didn't realize before. Or sometimes we have nightmares that shadow the truth; they make the real situations unrecognizable, sometimes even beyond psychological help."

"I don't think my nightmares are shadowing anything. I think my brain's trying to tell me there's something that I'm missing. I can't remember anything after—" I trail off, not sure if bringing up the videos is a good idea.

"After?" she prompts, staring at me intently.

". . .not after. I meant before," I reply quickly. "Before I was taken into custody and put on trial. I don't care if I get locked up in prison, or in some freaking asylum—"

"—mental institution," she corrects.

"Whatever," I snap, rolling my eyes. "I don't care where I get locked up. All I know is that I want this to all go away."

"You know it won't go away like it's nothing. We will figure out what happened, and then we will see where you end up from there."

I nod my head, and finally she calls the guard back. My psychologist dismisses me and the guard leads me back to my jail cell. Home, sweet home. Not.

A/N: So, that's all I've got for this! Sorry for any errors. Microsoft Word won't work for me tonight, so I don't have word count or spell check. So, any errors I make are pretty much based on that. I would go back and reread, but I'm so sick I'm ready to pass out right now. Much love darlings! :) Let me know what you thought?