Screw it, here's another update!

...

"Can I take a-"

"Red eye coffee and a guava Cuban pastry, right?"

I blink, though the barista only chuckles warmly.

"You're a regular and you order the same thing every time. The only thing I don't know is your name," she explains while moving to make my drink. Once done, she hands me the mug and leaves her hand there to shake. "I'm Ally, by the way."

"Lauren." I grin, taking the coffee and shaking her hand.

"So, what's got you hooked on red eyes? Lotta caffeine in that" She questions, sliding open the pastry display to retrieve my heavenly lunch.

"My job." She looks up with warm eyes, so I elaborate, "I'm a psychologist. I work at the prison."

She hums sympathetically and hands me the pastry, which I trade for my debit card.

"I have a couple of friends who work there. It's tough." She looks to the side in thought for a moment, then back at me with what must be her signature cheery smile; either that, or it's pure customer service. "Well, I'm glad we can offer even a little peace."

"Oh, yeah." I nod dramatically. "This place is amazing." Taking back my card, I grin. "Thank you."

"Of course."

I head to my usual table near the window and look out at the huge concrete block across the road.

"I'm not okay. Not ever."

"What do you mean by that?" I questioned, trying to pull my hand from hers to regain professionalism. She only gripped tighter.

"I mean... I'm never just okay, y'know? I'm always... terrible, or fucked up. I don't know which is normal."

I cleared my throat. "Can you elaborate?"

"I either wanna die, or... kill."

I pull my laptop from my satchel, quickly connecting to the free wi-fi and opening my email. I type out a message to the warden addressing Camila's absolute lack of fundamental necessities. 'Absolutely appalling', I call it, 'that any inmate must go without their human needs fulfilled'.

Once the email is done, I drink down the rest of my coffee, looking to the building once more.

"You want to die?"

"Sometimes."

"Have you ever... attempted?"

Her gaze faded and her nose twitched. She squirmed in her seat. Her words were fast. Desperate. "I'm supposed to want to kill. That's what Cabellos are supposed to do. That's what we do do, when we get angry, or just when we feel like it. Can you make me feel like that instead? I just... I just want to be normal."

"Is that what seems normal to you?"

She looked down. "Yes."

"Everything alright?"

I looked to my side to find Ally standing by my table, a concerned look on her face. I realise it's begun to rain.

"Can I get you another?" She questions, pointing to my empty mug.

I shake my head, thank her, and pick up my now-cold pastry, wrapping it in the napkin it comes with and slotting my laptop back into my bag. I send the barista another kind 'thank you' before slipping out into the wet weather. Hurrying to my car, I shield the pastry with my body and sigh once I make it, drenched to the bone. Gentle music beings to pour from the radio, and I hesitate for a moment. Finally, I decide to plug my tablet into the car, choosing to replay the video on my drive home instead.

"You say you feel two extremes, but never in the middle, correct?"

She sighed quietly, tipping her head down. I had a feeling that, if she could, she would have reached up to itch the back of her neck anxiously. "Yeah."

"How long have you felt this way?"

"My whole life. Mami said I was like that even as a baby—always crying, always screaming; una molestia."

"She'd say that often?"

"Whenever she had to." She looked up to me, then added, "Whenever I complained."

"Did your parents often describe you negatively?"

She blinked quickly, almost as though her eyelids were fluttering, and gulped. "I was not a good daughter... Can—I want to talk about something else."

My heart breaks again as I remember her meek expression, the self-hatred coursing through her entire being. It's clear just how it consumes her.

When I get home, I hang my bag from the hook by the door, toe-off the laced ankle boots I wear daily, and head straight to the bathroom for a shower. My condo isn't huge, but it's stylish. I've kept an industrial, modern look to the place to make it easier to sell, but ensure my touch is visible in the bohemian accents. I'm lucky enough to have a loft apartment, meaning I have almost two whole floors rather like a conventional house and a little more space than my neighbours on the floors below--although my second storey, which takes up less than half of the space, holds only my bedroom and is complete with a balcony overlooking the rest of my apartment.

Throughout my shower, my washing routine is done mostly on auto-pilot as my mind is occupied by Camila once more. She is the most interesting patient I've had and, if I must admit, the most attractive. There are so many levels to her that I know I haven't discovered yet, some that it isn't my job to know about, but I want to explore each and every one.

But she's my patient. I can't fall for her beguiling ways. I simply have to ensure she is mentally healthy... and save her from the impending doom that is death row.

I push her from my mind as I step out of the shower into the steam-filled bathroom, wrapping my already-cold body in a soft white towel and slipping my feet into a pair of bath slippers my mother had bought me for Christmas, my initials embroidered into each with gold thread. I try to focus my mind on my family instead, remembering the antics I often got up to with my siblings and reminding myself to shoot them a phone call as it has simply been too long. That too, though, is only a slide that leads me back to Camila. I can't understand how any parents, even those with reputations like hers, could call their own daughter a nuisance, make her feel utterly and entirely hopeless and as though she could never be good enough. I wonder if it was simply a tactic of theirs to keep her under their control. As twisted as it is, it'd make sense.

I head into the kitchen where I pop my pastry into the microwave for a minute or so before moving to the living room to unwind. God knows I need to.