Agnes Schaffer crossed and uncrossed her legs for the thousandth time as she stared at me. Her gray hair was loose around her face in ringlets, there was a gap in between her front teeth, and the red lipstick she was wearing was like a beacon against her starch white skin.

I'd noticed all of these things during the past fifteen minutes I'd spent sitting in her office without saying anything.

It had not been my idea to visit Agnes Schaffer. It had been doctor's orders, and I had no choice.

I'd been reassured that Agnes Schaffer was the best therapist in Manhattan, and that I had nothing to worry about, going to see her.

That wasn't the problem, though.

If I told this Agnes person about what was really going on...well, that wouldn't go over too fantastically with anybody. I wanted to stay far away from any pysch ward, thank you very much.

"You know you're going to have to say something sooner or later, Archer."

I glanced up from picking a loose thread on the edge of my jeans. Agnes was watching me intently, as if something about my movements would tell her everything she needed to know about my nervous habits.

I felt like I was being placed under a microscope with a bright light fixed on my face.

"No," I said. "I really don't think I have to."

I was being stubborn and childish, but I had nothing to say to this woman.

"And why is that?" Agnes asked, not concerned with what I just said at all.

"I have nothing to say to you."

"Dr. Mercer said you did."

"Dr. Mercer knows nothing about me. He just knows what's in my medical file."

Agnes sighed, flipped open the file in her lap and skimmed over the pages in front of her.

"It says here that you were in therapy once before," she told me. "Back when you were eleven, and only for about six months."

"Okay."

"Why did you stop going?"

Why had I stopped going to therapy? Because I'd been tired of reliving the night I'd found Chris every night in my sleep, and I’d been even more tired of telling the damn therapist about it every visit. It was as simple as that.

"Look, Agnes," I said, shifting uncomfortably in my seat. Why was she staring at me like that? "You seem like a nice woman."

Agnes smiled wryly. "Going to try and change the subject?"

"No. I'm going to try and make a point."

"And what point would that be?"

"Don't try to get into my head. You won't like it."

"Oh, really?" Agnes raised an eyebrow in question. "Now, what would make you say something like that?"

"What would make me say something like that? Well, let's see," I said sarcastically, clasping my hands together. "I grew up under the same roof as a murdering psychopath that used to abuse my mother right in front of me. I found my father lying dead in the middle of our kitchen floor. Apparently I have a numerous amount of untreated mental problems and my wife is about to have a baby. D'you want me to keep going?"

Agnes spent several moments shrewdly staring at me. I realized too late that I had inadvertently said too much with that little spiel, but it wasn't like I could take my words back.

At least I didn't say oh, and I'm also under Death's orders to face my fears or have this stalking not-quite-a-demon guy that's dating my cousin come and murder me and my family. How's that for mental problems?

"I see," Agnes finally said. "And that's why you're here?"

"I'm here because I have to be."

"So you don't want to be here."

"Gee, did it take you this long to figure that out?"

Agnes shrugged, apparently not bothered by my very rude behavior. "I'm just trying to understand you, Archer."

"Didn't I just say that's exactly what you shouldn't be doing?"

Agnes sighed again after staring at me with her x-ray-like eyes for another few moments. "I sense a lot of hostility and rage coming from you."

I wanted to throw back my head and laugh. Loudly. But I didn't.

"Wow," I said. "You're really good at your job, d'you know that?"

Another shrug. "I've been told that a few times before."

"That's nice."

I watched the coffee cup shaped clock above Agnes's desk for about ten minutes, following the short hand tick by slowly with my eyes.

I was very tired with this. My patience was waring thin with Agnes Schaffer, the therapist that didn't want to leave me the hell alone. I wasn't sure how long I could handle this before I stormed out of the office and slammed the door behind me on the way out.

"You just said your wife is going to have a baby."

I glanced away from the clock and stared at Agnes. "She is."

"Are you excited?"

"I'm ecstatic."

"Sarcasam?"

"Little bit."

"Do you not want your wife to have this baby?"

"Did I say that?"

"You know, your file says you're twenty-six, but you're awfully juvenile."

"Old habit."

Agnes drummed her fingers on my file as she watched me for another five minutes.

This was starting to get very creepy.

"And being juvenile is your defense mechanism," she explained. "Isn't it? You're rude and sarcastic to push people away."

"You're very observant," I answered. "Please, tell me what else you've discovered in this short time we've spent together."

"What does your wife think of this behavior?" Agnes asked randomly. "Your family? Do they put up with you acting like this?"

Why did everybody have to ask me about Hadley? Did we have some entirely unhealthy co-dependent relationship where I couldn't even stand on my own without her? Yeah, I loved her, or I wouldn't have asked her to marry me. It was as simple as that, end of story.

And yes, Hadley was helping me with this whole face your fears thing, but I had been doing the majority of it on my own, hadn't I?

I propped my elbow up on the arm of the chair and rested my chin in my hand, giving Agnes a blank look. "My wife is a saint for putting up with me, I'm not going to lie about that. But believe me, she lets me know if I do something she doesn't agree with."

Agnes chuckled. "Most wives do."

"Okay. Sure. But Hadley's different."

I silently cursed at myself. Damn. I said too much.

Agnes raised her eyebrows, looking curious. "What makes Hadley different?"

I shrugged. "Certain circumstances."

"Like what?" she asked.

"Nothing I'd share with you."

"Do you not feel comfortable speaking with me, Archer?"

What the hell did this woman get off on? I just met her, for God's sake. I don't even feel comfortable talking to my own mother sometimes. And I was just expected to talk to this woman like we were bosom friends?

"I don't even know you," I said, forcing myself to keep my voice from rising. "And you think I want to tell you my whole life story right off the bat?"

"Well, not your whole life story," Agnes said, shifting her seat. "I'd just like to know a little bit more about you. More than just what your file says."

"And what if I said I don't want you to get to know a little more about me?"

"I'd say I think you have no choice in the matter."

Of course I didn't. It was oddly saddening to think that was how I'd felt almost my entire life. That I didn't have a say in anything that had to do with my life.

"Why does this even matter to you?" I got to my feet without thinking, crossed the small, heavily perfumed room to stare out through the large window. It had snowed overnight, covering the city in a thick blanket of white. "I'm a stranger to you."

A beat of silence, and then, "Do you think you don't matter, Archer?"

That was a question I had asked myself thousands of times during my life, and I still didn't have a definite answer. I was aware of what I meant to my family. I was the constant male figure in my little sisters' lives, and they deserved that. I had no right to take that away from them. I knew my mom leaned on me more than she'd probably like to admit. I had no right to leave her in the dust.

And Hadley...I didn't even need to think about it. We probably did have an unhealthy co-dependent relationship, but I'm sure we weren't the only married couple out there like it.

"No," I said. "I know I matter."

"I'm glad," Agnes said. She didn't sound glad. "That's an important thing to realize."

"Congratulations to me, then."

Silence fell again as I stared out the window, watching cars chug along on the streets down below.

"Why do you think you're here, Archer?"

The first honest answer came out of my mouth after a moment of hesitation.

"Because I don't know who I am."

"And why do you think that?"

That question was simple to answer.

"I don't know anything else but the way I've been since I was eleven. I'm not sure if I can even be anything else."

I turned back to look at Agnes, an uneasy feeling creeping over me as she stared at me.

"You've let your father's murder define you."

I mulled over that thought for a few moments.

"I suppose that's one way of looking at it."

She was probably right. How could it have not defined who I was? The unfortunate things that had happened in my past were the only things I'd known almost my entire life. I had grown up expecting that horrible things were going to happen to me because they had happened so often.

In a way, I hadn't been able to stop that from happening. I was only eleven when Chris was murdered. But in another way, it was also my fault because I had been too stubborn to admit that I needed help and to actually ask for it.

"And are you happy with who you are, Archer?"

That question I didn't even need to think about.

"Not really, no.”

“And why do you think that is?”

“I don’t really feel like explaining that.”

There were many reasons why I wasn’t happy with who I was, and I doubted I would ever be able to accept that.

Agnes sighed, flipping my file shut. “I think we’ve made real progress here, Archer. But, unfortunately, our time is up for today.”

She said that like it was a bad thing. I didn’t think that was a bad thing at all. I’d never talked about myself so much in a short amount of time. It was weird, and I wanted to be done with it.

“Okay.”

“I do expect to see you back here next week, same time,” Agnes told me sternly. “We’ve got a lot of work to do.”

“Wow, Agnes, is that your way of telling me I’m really that messed up?” I said dryly.

Agnes frowned, looking up at me curiously. “Do you think that?”

“Oh, I don’t think. I know.”

She sighed again and then stood, walking up to me. “I’m going to give you a little bit of homework, Archer.”

Homework? Great.

“Every day, I want you to write down something you like about yourself. I want you to bring this list when you come back next week, okay?”

I couldn’t imagine something I’d rather do more. Not.

I left Agnes Schaffer’s office after making another appointment with the receptionist out front.

I wasn’t sure what I was going to do then. I needed a distraction, something to make me forget everything that I had just unwillingly talked about in Agnes’s office.

As much as I hated every minute I had spent there, maybe it really had done me some good to talk about it. I had no way of knowing. But I was even more aware now that I needed to get these damn fears over and done with.

I took the subway home and was relieved to walk up the stairs in the apartment complex to our place.

When I walked into the apartment, I was surprised to find Hadley curled up on the couch, fast asleep, my mother at the table in the kitchen, reading the paper and sipping at a cup of coffee.

“Ma?” I shut the door as quietly as possible, twisting the locks. “What’re you doing here?”

“I called Carlo, had him come over to help the girls at the coffee house,” Mom said as she stood up, giving me a smile as she walked over to hug me. “I wanted to be here when you came home. How’d it go?”

“Fine.”

Mom raised her eyebrows, unconvinced. “Really?”

“Okay, no, it was miserable. I hate talking about everything. It solves nothing. All it does is rehash old wounds, Mom. I don’t want to do this.”

“Oh, honey.” Mom gave me a comforting squeeze. “I know you don’t. Just give it time, okay?”

I gently pulled away from Mom and headed over to the couch, bending down beside Hadley.

“How is she doing?”

“Fine,” Mom answered. “She’s just tired. Being pregnant will do that to you.”

I could only imagine.

We sat there in silence for a few minutes, both of our minds in different places. It had been a long, unpleasant day, and all I really wanted to do was take a long, hot shower and then sleep.

I was just about to get up and head for the bathroom when Mom said, “You’re really brave, you know.”

I looked up at her, concern taking over me when I saw the saddened expression on her face, the look in her eyes that made me think she was about to start crying.

“What?” I said confusedly. “What are you talking about?”

Mom tucked her legs up underneath her on the couch, staring determinedly ahead at the black TV screen.

“Going to visit St. Pierre. I never would’ve done it.”

“Oh.”

She glanced over at me, frowning, reaching out to place a hand against my face. “I just want to know…what made you do it?”

Looking up at my mother, I was suddenly overwhelmed with the urge to tell her everything. I mean everything. I wanted to tell her about Death, about Havoc, about the deal Hadley had made to save my life. The more this continued, the more I wanted her to know.

But even though she was my mother, I wasn’t so sure if that would stop her from sending me straight to a mental hospital.

I shifted uncomfortably, picking at my fingernails. “Mom, I just…”

“You just what?” Mom pressed.

“I wanted answers,” I said hesitantly, unsure of what to say. “I wanted to know why he did what he did. Why he hurt you, why he killed Chris. I mean, what did you do to him? Nothing. What did Chris do to him? Nothing. The man is a bastard, and I just – “

“Archer, stop, please.” Mom slid off the couch to sit beside me, grabbed my hands to squeeze them reassuringly. “I know. I know exactly what you’re thinking. Those are questions I’ve asked myself thousands of times. And fifteen years later, I’m still not even sure if I’m ever going to get answers.”

I undoubtedly agreed. Mom and I were probably never going to get answers for what had happened.

I dropped my head against Mom’s shoulder and squeezed my eyes shut, trying to block out everything.

“Moroso, what’s wrong? Why are you asking all of these questions now, hm?”

She’d asked me that question two weeks ago and I still didn’t have an answer to that without giving away everything supernatural that was going on.

“Ma, I don’t know. I really don’t know.”

We sat for another few minutes in silence, and I was thankful for it. It was nice, knowing that no matter what happened, I had my mother, as childish as that sounded. God or whoever was in charge of the universe had definitely been kind in choosing my mother.

I gave a startled jump when I felt fingers gently stroking my hair, and I twisted around to see that Hadley was awake, giving me a small, tired smile.

“Hi,” she said, fighting back a yawn.

“Hey,” I said, smiling slightly. “How are you?”

“Exhausted.”

That made two of us.

Mom stood, stretching, saying, “I think I’ll go get started on some dinner.”

Hadley waited until Mom was moving about in the kitchen, opening the fridge and cupboards, before she spoke again.

“I’m really proud of you, you know.”

I frowned, confused. “What are you talking about?”

“What you were talking about with your mom,” she said, running her fingers through my hair again. “That took a lot of guts.”

I shrugged, unsure of what I was supposed to say.

“It was something that needed to be said.”

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Okay, so I'm not so sure how I feel about this chapter, but I think it layed some groundwork for some pretty heady stuff, so...I hope you like it anyways! Votes and comments are always super appreciated. :) So let me know what you think!