Page 35 of Mine To Hunt

I look between them. Maddie’s hopeful expression. Al’s steady calm. A united front of love and worry.

The resistance inside me finally starts to crack under the weight of their concern. And honestly… I’m too exhausted to keep fighting.

“You two are relentless.” I mutter.

A weak, watery laugh escapes me despite everything. “Fine. One session.” I say firmly. “For you. Both of you.” I raise a finger. “But if it’s weird… We bail. Deal?”

Maddie practically lights up. Relief floods across her face as she lunges forward and wraps me in another hug.

“Deal.” She says quickly. “You’re a badass for even saying yes.” She pulls back, already reaching for her phone. “We’ll book it today. Dr. Ashcroft, right?”

Then she looks back at me, determination burning through her earlier fear. “This is step one, Ree. Kicking ass starts here.”

Al nods, squeezing my hand. "Proud of you. And when you're out, my studio's open. Smash some clay. Therapeutic as hell."

The rest of the day blurs, nurse checks, bland Jell-O that sticks to my teeth, Maddie's endless chatter about bad hospital TV to distract me. But underneath, a quiet resolve simmers, fragile but real, because their faith in me feels like a rope tossed into the dark.

By the next day, discharge papers in hand with the clinic address scribbled on the back, I agree to the appointment. Tomorrow. One step. That's all it has to be.

~

Now, standing in front of the clinic door, the signboard stares back at me like a challenge. "Dr. Nathaniel Ashcroft. MBBS, MRCPsych. NHS & Private Patients Welcome. Consultant Psychiatrist. Mental Health Support."

My fingers twist the strap of my bag, heart hammering with a mix of dread and defiance because part of me screams to turn back, run to Maddie's, bury under blankets and bad movies, but the other part, the one that woke up alive in that hospital bed, whispers forward. Therapy. Admitting I need help.

It's terrifying, like handing over shards of myself to a stranger, but Al's words echo,‘Breathing room.’And Maddie's fierce‘For me?’seals it.

I gather the courage, squaring my shoulders against the flutter in my chest, and push the door open, the chime tinkling soft like a hesitant invitation.

The reception area smells faintly of chamomile tea, but I barely notice, my focus on the woman behind the desk, mid-forties, glasses perched on her nose, a nameplate reading "Olivia." She looks up with a warm smile that eases the knot in my stomach just a fraction.

"Good morning," she says, her voice friendly and efficient. "Appointment or walk-in? How can I help?"

I step forward, throat tight but words steady. "Hi. I'm Iris Whitlock. Dr. Thorne from St. Mary's Hospital sent me, said Dr. Ashcroft does free sessions for under-25s, the research program. I... I need to talk to someone. Today, if possible."

Olivia nods, typing quickly on her keyboard, her expression shifting to understanding without pity, which makes me exhale a little.

“Of course, Iris. Dr. Thorne mentioned you might come. Good man, always referring folks our way.” She glances at the screen again. “Ah, yes! There’s already an appointment under your name.”

A few more clicks, then she smiles wider. “Lucky timing. He’s with a patient now, but you’re next. About ten minutes.”

“Take a seat, fill this out if you like." She slides a clipboard across, basic intake form gleaming under the light, name, age, reason for visit. Simple. Deceptively so.

"Thanks." I murmur, taking the form and settling into a cushioned chair in the waiting area, the pen trembling slightly in my grip.

Name? Iris Mae Whitlock. Age? 23. Reason for visit? Overdose attempt. Trauma. Betrayal. The words blur as I scribble, emotion welling up because writing it makes it real, a confession on paper.

But before I can dwell, the TV mounted on the wall flickers to life with a news segment, the volume low but insistent, drawing my eye despite myself.

The reporter stands outside a cordoned-off flat building, her face grave under the midday sun, microphone clutched like a lifeline.

‘In a shocking turn for our quiet suburb,’she says, voice steady but laced with urgency,‘authorities are still piecing together the brutal murder of Ethan Scott, a 32-year-old grocery cashier with no known enemies. Neighbors describe him as unassuming, a man who kept to himself after a messy divorce two years back. No fights, no feuds, just long shifts and late nights at the corner bar. Yet last night, police discovered his body in his own flat, mutilated in a way that's left even seasoned detectives reeling.’

My pen pauses mid-word, attention snared despite the knot of anxiety in my chest, because something about the name, Ethan Scott, tugs faint, like a half-remembered face from the supermarket checkout.

Across the room, Olivia glances up at the screen, her brow tightening. “God.” She mutters under her breath. She reaches for the remote on the reception desk.

“Sorry.” She says lightly. “No one wants to watch that while they’re waiting.”