All in all, Larkin had an amazing first night in RhyDin. She showed up at the inn by herself, desperate to drink in solitude. Upon arrival, she found a mere smattering of souls, none of whom appeared to want much company or chatter, either.

At least, it appeared that way at first. By the end of the evening, they had laughed, drank way too much Elven Sunsets (whatever those were), and even danced to the self-applied tune of Time Warp. The only stumble in the night was a literal one, as the drunken Larkin smacked right dab into a stool in the middle of said dance, tumbling to the floor.

But she was fine. Everything was fine.

She even received keys to Elessaria's apartment upstairs to crash for the night. She took that offer and trotted up the stairs, eager to crash. After all, there was only so much elven sunsets and xanax pills that her body could absorb in one night (and she was at two of each so far.)

She entered the room, pleasantly surprised to find it bigger than she expected. Sleep wouldn't be far behind. She tossed aside her oversized winter coat and started to strip down layers. Her shirt, her jeans....she was left in nothing but an undershirt and panties before long. Bed time.

But wait " that crash. She ought to check out her knee just to make sure that she didn't have any cuts or bruises from the fall. Nothing hurt " but she was so buzzed, that didn't mean much. She headed over to the bathroom mirror, straining to lift her leg to examine herself. Her knee looked fine. Everything was fine.

In fact, she took a moment longer to admire herself in the mirror. Depression did a body good. She must have lost 5-10 pounds over the last few months. Her waist looked as lean as it had in years. She had to spin around to confirm " yep, ass did, too.

But then there was that face. Her face. It didn't look quite the same. She appeared gaunter than before, with the emergence of bags under her eyes that shouldn't have been arriving for another decade or more. Her chipmunk cheeks " the source of endless teasing and tears back in elementary school " didn't look so rounded anymore. She missed those fucking cheeks. This wasn't her. Who the fuck was this bitch"

In a flash she reared back and SLAMMED her fist against the mirror. She expected the entire stand to shatter like in the movies, but....it didn't. The mirror didn't even make a dent. That same smug bitch was still there, staring back at her. Punch. Punch. PUNCH. Finally " a crack. A slight crack in the mirror, representing a slight victory to her.

But she studied her knuckles, now bloodied and raw. She got the worst of this exchange. That god damn fucking mirror. She couldn't let it win. She looked around the room, desperate for help. A stool. Perfect. She grabbed the stool and SLAMMED it against the mirror " SHATTERING the glass all over the floor.

Served that bitch right.

But wait ? there could be more. Larkin stomped through the room, on a mad hunt for more mirrors that may be there, mocking her. So far, she found nothing, causing her to fling the stool aside.

And causing her to flop down next to the bed, suddenly drained by the intensity of her fight. She wept openly now, sobbing and heaving on the floor. She cried out, hoping that someone may be able to hear her. Beckett, her mom, none of them answered. Maybe she wasn't so fine after all.

Five minutes later (although it seemed like hours) she gathered the strength to climb into that bed and slip under the covers. The shame started to set in. She had trashed Eless' apartment, and torn up her knuckles in the process. They were gashed badly, even worse than she realized, and still impacted with a shard of glass here and there. She plucked them out, one by one, hoping that she didn't miss any.

And with that, counting shards of glass like sheep, she finally fell asleep.

For the majority of her life, Larkin hated going to school. She didn't hate the lessons, necessarily, but the act of going to school. Dealing with the kids. The teachers. The judgment.

It didn't help that she was a little chubby as a kid, earning the nickname "Chipmunk" for her puffy cheeks. And it didn't help that she was a slow reader. She got anxiety whenever the teacher would call on a classmate to read aloud. She'd sit there, with a pit in her stomach, worried that she'd be called on next. She'd have to stumble through the words, through a chorus of snickers and giggles. Maybe their laughter was only in her head, but she heard it loud and clear.

It got better, in some ways, as she lost the baby fat and came into her form. She found subjects of school that she could excel at — art and music, primarily. For once in her life, she actually felt good at something. Like she had a talent worth sharing. As far as English and math and history were concerned, she could suffer through them as long as they brought out the oil paints in Period 7. There, she could lose herself, and forget about every piece of anxiety that had been tugging her to the floor. With a paintbrush in her hand, she was weightless.

Throughout junior high and the start of high school, she never enjoyed a single non-art class. English was the worst. No one had to read aloud much anymore, but the "smart" kids would warble on with their pretentious theories and allegories that they probably ripped straight out of Cliffs Note. Fucking pricks.

All that changed in 9th grade. Larkin had been assigned Mr. Mastin's class, and he came with a reputation as being a "cool" teacher. He was in his 30s and a little paunchy, but he still rocked some hipster frames and actually pulled it off. Larkin wasn't surprised to hear that had a smoking hot wife (a photographer, no less.) There were rumors about Mr. and Mrs. Mastin — that they smoked pot, that they had a jacuzzi, that they were "swingers" — but Larkin didn't believe much of that. She didn't believe many of the rumors swirling around campus, because she knew firsthand that the ones about her were usually bullshit. No, Clarke Seagal didn't "finger her" on the field trip to the botanical gardens; they made out and had some over-the-clothes petting, thank you very much.

She only believed what she saw and heard — and by that account, Mr. Mastin turned out to be pretty cool indeed. Whenever he sensed that the class was losing focus, he'd break from the lecture plan and talk more casually, engaging with the kids on their own level. She never dreaded English class; she actually looked forward to it. Sure, her papers were still only marked with "Bs" and "Cs" — but that wasn't so bad. She didn't feel that dumb.

In fact, she earned her first ever "A" on an English paper. The class had to write a journal on the Odyssey from the perspective of one of the characters. She picked Calypso, naturally. Along with the "A," Mr. Mastin scribbled in red that she should "see him after class." At first, she worried that he'd accuse her of plagiarizing, but it turned out to be the opposite. He loved it. There were a few grammar mistakes here and there, but she showed a lot of creativity. He heard she was a great painter, so he wasn't surprised by it, either.

Holy shit. Mr. Mastin not only liked her paper — he liked it enough to talk about it, and her, with the only teachers. Maybe they gossiped behind the scenes as much as the kids did. And they all thought Larkin was creative" Really' She had a rush of confidence surge through her in an area that she never expected. Mr. Mastin even encouraged her to keep writing creative essays and short stories. He'd read anything she wrote on the side and critique it.

It wasn't all bullshit, either. Every once and a while during the school year, Mr. Mastin would ask if she had written anything lately. Eventually she gathered up enough nerve to write a short. About Calypso, again. Calypso living in modern times. Hey, it worked the first time, right' Mr. Mastin liked it — or at least claimed to — and asked if she'd ever want to come to his writer's group. At his house.

At his house. She had to soak that one in. Suddenly, the line between teacher and friend started to blur for her. Did she actually like writing short stories" Or did she actually like Mr. Mastin himself" There was no doubt he was more interesting than any of the boys in her class. By now, they had all started to show an interest in her, but it wasn't mutual. To them, farting into each other's faces was high comedy. Mr. Mastin on the other hand...

Larkin took him up on the offer, not knowing what to expect. It wasn't an accident that she wore her black bra — her "sexy bra" — over to his house. She had a brief mental image of him, lounging in the jacuzzi with his wife, naked, inviting her to join. She wasn't sure if she dreaded the thought, or became excited by it.

As it turned out, the "writers group" turned out to be a writers group. There were a few of his former students — college kids now — as well as another hippie English teacher from a nearby school named Mrs. Kleiner. Mr. Mastin's wife — Dakota — wasn't as "hot" as she had been led to believe, but she was friendly and even served them all hummus and pita chips. They read their stories and gave notes. Larkin's was clearly the worst, but they all humored her anyway. She didn't really belong with these people, but they didn't make her feel stupid, either.

The second writers group, the following month, was a little stranger. There were only 4 people at the house there this time, and Mr. Mastin and Pete (one of the college kids) spent about an hour of the session excusing themselves to go smoke pot. It felt less scholarly, and more social. That wasn't so bad, necessarily, but made Larkin all the more aware that she was only 15. She didn't belong with them as writers, but even less so as friends and peers. The frizzy-haired Mrs. Kleiner noted it as well, even going so far as to ask: "Do your parents know you're here?" Larkin wasn't invited back anymore. Apparently Mr. Mastin realized the awkwardness of their association as well and cut it off.

The school year went on, with less and less mentions of her writing, and less and less friendly banter between her and Mr. Mastin. She was back to just another student. Back to getting her "B's" and "C's" and rolling her eyes any time one of the kids would blab on about symbolism.

Then on Friday, after class, Mr. Mastin stopped her. He mentioned how he missed chatting with her, and that she should "stop by" the house this weekend.

What the fuck did that mean' Was there going to be a writers group" Did he want to hang out with her alone" Was he hitting on her" Aside from that one fateful make out at the botanical gardens — that's right, "make out," not a fingering, Stacy DiMezzi, you fucking gossipy bitch — she didn't have much sexual experience with men. In fact, the closest she had ever gotten to sex was one odd and ill-fated experiment with her electric toothbrush.

Larkin didn't know what to think, but she buried the anxiety away and actually followed through. The next afternoon, she made an excuse to her parents that she was going to a movie, and stopped by his house. The gate was open. He was hanging by the pool and — surprise surprise — smoking pot. Apparently his wife Dakota was out of town this weekend on some photography assignment, so he was left alone and "bored." He thought they could hang out. There was no mention of writing, or school, or anything that resembled a normal teacher-student or mentor-mentee relationship.

He offered her the joint, but she declined. She had smoked pot before, but something about doing it with a teacher felt inappropriate to her. He made her all the more uncomfortable with his follow up: "If you're going to be a writer, you need something to write about." Challenging her. Acting as if she was just some doe-eyed innocent wrapped in a bubble all her life. In the grand scheme of things, maybe she was, but as far as 15-year-olds went, she felt fairly badass. To prove it, she took a few hits on the joint.

Mr. Mastin wanted to go swimming, but Larkin didn't have a suit. "You can grab one of Dakotas if you want." Somehow, in that moment, it didn't sound so ridiculous. Maybe it was the pot.

But Larkin left Mr. Mastin down by the pool as she went upstairs to their bedroom to look for a swimsuit. She felt like an intruder — in this woman's privacy, in this woman's closet. Of course, that didn't stop her from rummaging through the drawers out of curiosity. Dakota had all sorts of clothes — formal clothes, party clothes, bras and panties a lot lacier and sexier than Larkin's "sexy bra." She also had a little green toy that Larkin would later realize was her vibrator. In hindsight, much better than a toothbrush.

Larkin found the swimsuits — mostly bikinis — but felt reluctant to try them on. Maybe the top would work, but she couldn't share bottoms with some lady like that. She slipped off her shirt and bra and fastened on a green top. It was too big for her, so she'd have to try another. She considered a few the other tops when Mr. Mastin came back in. "Did you find them?" He apparently had prepared for the swim himself, because he had his swim trunks on and a towel wrapped around his neck. No shirt. He had more chest hair than she'd ever seen in her life. Her discomfort with it, and the bare chest, showed. She could barely make eye contact with him.

She also crossed her arms, suddenly aware that she was in a bikini top herself. An oversized one at that, hanging loosely. Mr. Mastin seemed less sympathetic about the poor fit than amused by it. "Maybe you should just wear your bra instead."

Larkin didn't want to change back into her bra, not with him there. She didn't want to swim anymore, she realized. There was her Spidey Sense, kicking into high gear. She had fantasized about what this situation may have felt like, but in reality, it didn't feel good. She felt that anxiety, ripping knits in her stomach again.

"Have you ever been with a guy before?" Mr. Mastin asked, sensing her nerves. Of course, that question didn't help. It only highlighted her discomfort and flushed her cheeks. But somehow, the tension in her body only emboldened him. He stepped closer to her, knowing she was too frozen still to move.

And then, that same line. "If you're going to be a writer, you need something to write about." He took her hand and lowered it, to just where you'd expect. Larkin never felt anything like it before. Suddenly, she realized why the boys called it "rock hard."

But then, her survival instincts took over. She snapped out of her shock, and KNEED HIM IN THE GROIN. He doubled over in pain, screaming, as she snatched her shirt and ran out of there. She'd never allow herself to be a victim like that. She'd never allow herself to be his plaything. She had too damn much respect and strength for that.

At least, that's the story she told herself on the car ride back. That's the story she told herself in the shower. That's the story she told herself when she cried herself to sleep.

Gossip travelled fast in McCleavy — sometimes real, sometimes not. Did you hear that Nurse Bethany jacked off Fredric in the supply closet' Did you hear that three-headed aliens landed in the kitchen" Did you hear that "Froggy" was getting out'

The last one happened to be true, at least. Larkin, or "Froggy" as she had come to be known, had her transfer processed thanks to a friend's intervention and would be saying goodbye to the institution for good. Or at least, she hoped it'd be for good. She didn't have many good memories of this wretched place. She hardly had any memories at all. It all felt like a prolonged daze, sapped of any color or feeling at all. She'd drifted through weeks and months there.

But now....she was getting out. Heading back to the world outside those steel gates. A world of vibrant colors — a world full of vices, foes, and freedoms (which could be even more dangerous of them all.)

As she cleaned out her bunk, she had one final visitor. Minor. Oh, sweet schizophrenic Minor. A 300-pound obese man with a childlike innocence to him. When he wasn't throwing chairs or punching walls, anyway. "Froggy — I just wanna say somethin'..."

Larkin expected a declaration of love; he'd made them almost every day prior. She expected a physical threat; he'd make those from time to time, too. But she didn't expect him to declare that, "I always believed you. About that witch."

Larkin's story about the witch, Mallory, had elicited eye rolls and snickers for her entire stint in McCleavy. But apparently, Minor believed her. There was a genuine steadiness in his gaze when he said it, too. He followed it up, with a soft spoken question of his own. "Did you believe me" About the bites?"

Oh right, the bites. Minor had maintained that demonic bed bugs had bitten him when he was a child and implanted small eggs that hatched evil thoughts in his head. "The bites" are the reason he heard voices. "The bites" are the reason that he skinned his own kitten alive with a pocket knife.

Larkin considered him carefully. She didn't know what to say, but she didn't want to lie, either. "No, Minor. I don't."

She could feel his soul deflate in his body. His spirit crushed. She could sense a reservoir of tears about to unleash. So she continued, "But look....all it would take is for me to see one demon bed bug to believe you. All it'd take is for them to see one witch to believe me. All it'd take is one conversation with God for me to get the holy spirit. Everything we know, everything we think we know, every firm belief that we have in this world, is dangling on by a thread, just waiting to be severed in two."

Minor considered her carefully now. He wanted to give a long, thoughtful response of his own. And in a way, he did. "I knew you believed me, Froggy. You and me, we got the bites."

The road to mental health wasn't a straight line. Larkin knew that there would be bumps and detours along the way — and maybe an uncontrollable crying jag once and a while.

But all in all, she felt good. Relatively. Therapy had been cathartic, and made her more open about talking about her problems in a way that didn't fill her with shame. She had been frequenting the Red Dragon Inn and even making some friends along the way. Freddy was a jovial goofball. Tanya and Tahlia reminded her of friends back home. Better yet, she hadn't had any ugly interactions with Mallory's crew.

Of course, a lot of the casual banter at the Inn always curbed back to dating and sex, which provided a stark reminder to Larkin that she hadn't experienced much of either since Beckett's death. Aside from the tryst with Mallory/Beckett, she hadn't gotten laid since she found the body. Most of the time, that didn't bother her. But every once and a while, especially on a long sleepless night, she felt that urge. She didn't need to date, and she sure as hell didn't need a boyfriend right now. But she needed to get fucked. Hard.

At 2:30 am, it didn't feel safe to go roam the streets in a low cut top and hope for the best. So Larkin did what any responsible young adult would do instead: download an app that would put her in touch with creepy strangers directly. She found one called Tumble. Some strange and sleazy combination of Tinder and Bumble. Perfect. A quick candid snapshot of herself and she was good to go down the rabbit hole.

No. No. Hell no.

Turns out, the fellas trolling for poon at 2:30 weren't exactly fielding calls to be named the Most Eligible Bachelor in town. One beefy guy wore a Power Rangers t-shirt that looked like it hadn't been washed in a week. Come on, dude. Put a little effort in.

The first cute guy that she saw had a simple profile. "My life is simple. I chill, I hang, I do me." Okay, douchebag. You'd have to "do you," because you could go fuck yourself. Larkin may not have been looking for Prince Charming, but she needed some standards.

No. No. No. No. No. Okay wait, hold up. The next guy posed shirtless, which would have been an immediate "no" if his six-pack didn't look so defined. Who could blame him for showing it off" Do you, bro. Do you. He got her first 'right swipe' of the evening so far.

And he messaged her, quickly. "Sup!" Ugh. She'd have to scroll back to the picture of the abs again just to wipe that opening line out of her memory. She responded back, "Got anything more clever than that?"

He did not. "lol ur hot. and feisty. I like it." Uh huh. She'd heard that a thousand times. Shirtless must have sensed that, because he had to quickly write a follow up. "but ur lip ring freaks me out. I don't wanna get my dick caught." That forwardness caught her offguard for a moment, although she should have known better before downloading this crap. Her instinct was to snap back at his obnoxiousness, so she typed in. "Sorry no can do. I was planning to hook your measly little cock like a worm so I can use it as bait for bigger ones." The conversation stalled out from there.

Moving on. No. No. Wait, was that a centaur" Cool. But no. No. No.

About an hour in, Larkin finally had a meaningful conversation on the app. And by meaningful, that meant she chatted with an attractive man who didn't once mention blowjobs or anal sex. Progress. He was the bass player for a punk band (she never heard of it) and even used full sentences and punctuation. He claimed he only downloaded the app to goof around, never intending to actually meet up with anyone on there. Uh huh. She knew that was a lie, but she appreciated it nonetheless.

After twenty or thirty messages back and forth, he finally asked if they should meet up for coffee or dinner sometime. Whoa, boy, slow down on this epic romance. She had been looking for anonymous sex, not a life partner. She got to the point instead. "It's too late for coffee. But you can come over and hang out if you want." Mr. I Never Intended to Meet Up with Anyone asked for her address three seconds later.

She gave it to him. More or less. Still skeptical, she gave him the address of the apartment complex next door. That way, if he turned out to be a serial killer, that annoying granny with the barking dogs could get murdered instead.

In the meantime, Larkin did her best to prepare for her first dalliance into online sex. She showered — she shaved any lingering stubble on her legs. She changed into her cutest bedtime tee, just to act casual and cool. And then, the app buzzed. "Here." He was here.

Sort of. He was actually there, as in one building away. But Larkin could utilize that ruse to peer out the window and judge him from afar. She saw him, wandering back and forth outside the building. He looked like he did online. He looked appropriately anxious about his own decision making. He looked like a nice guy who most likely wasn't a serial killer.

But he was still a stranger. A stranger that she was going to invite inside" Inside her" Could she actually go through with that' Another buzz. Another text. "Hello' You there"" She waited some more, still trying to decide. Another ping. Dude must have needed to get laid even more than she did.

But it all felt overwhelming to her — the buzzing of the phone, the swirling thoughts in her head, the memories of Beckett. She hadn't had sex with anyone but him (or his ghost) for years. Maybe she could bury her head in the pillow and pretend it was him pounding away, but she'd know the difference. They'd developed a rhythm and chemistry that two strangers could never match. That perhaps no guy would ever match again.

Christ, another text' Chill the fuck out, dude.

Fuck him. Fuck this. She didn't need to deal with all this aggravation. She was on the road to mental health, remember? And this needy asshole was trying to ruin it just to get his rocks off. She shut the blinds. She shut off her phone. And she climbed into bed, trying to forget all about the last two hours she'd wasted.

As for him' She had no idea how long he waited, pacing back and forth outside that building. Larkin hoped that someone opened up the door for him and gave him that sex — maybe the cranky old granny. She could use some action. He could use it, too. And sure, Larkin could use some action herself, but not that badly.