"How are you today, Miss. Saunders?"

"Go to hell, Robert."

Robert's watery blue eyes snap up from the clipboard precariously balanced on his knee to pin me with a frosty glare. "It's Dr. Brown in the office," he warns in that nasally, but ever so patient voice of his.

I roll my eyes to the ceiling and take a calming breath, silently cursing Vera with the dying fumes of the last one I took. It's her fault I'm here with this nutcase. I thought I'd be rid of his patronizing glare and upturned but somehow slightly bulbous nose when the two broke up years ago after a debate over the use of their combined finances turned sour.

Yeah, that right. They dated. My Brazilian bombshell of a best friend dated this pale and pasty therapist for a solid three years. I'm still not quite sure how she was ever satisfied with Robert's disappointing penis, but who am I to judge? Penises are the reason I'm here.

Just the thought of the male reproductive organ makes me shudder, so I return my focus to my surroundings. I'm sitting in, you guessed it, a therapists office. It's a stuffy room with paint the lightest shade of lavender and a neutral grey carpet, with a white couch just long enough for my five-foot-six frame to lounge on comfortably. Robert sits on a swivel chair behind a dark wooden desk, which backs to a wide window shaded by sheer curtains.

Out of everything in the room, the window is the most comforting to me. It lets in the light from the sun, which settles warmly on my pale skin. It also allows me a view of the rolling green hills of Ireland. Sheep dot the vast landscape, and the sight of the newborn lambs teetering on their new legs brings a small smile to my face.

The view aside, the one plus of being in this office is the height. Robert's office was converted from an abandoned tower left abandoned in the country. No one is quite sure what it was used for, but the graveyard of crumbled stone that covers the surrounding landscape makes it obvious that it was once attached to something much larger. It was possibly once a great castle, but I've never cared enough to ask or look it up.

You see, in my spare time I don't lay in my room or go clubbing or dancing. I jump. When I was younger, it started out with the steps leading out of the back of my house. I would jump down all three with my chubby little toddler legs in my rush to escape my father. Then when the abuse escalated, the heights increased. I would jump from trees, roofs of the small houses in the village, and even full flights of stairs just to feel the freedom of freefall.

My father died when I was sixteen, but my adrenaline seeking tendencies did not. I left school for a week as soon as I could to spend my saved up cash on sky diving with my oldest brother Daniel, who at the time was more than happy to indulge me. But it wasn't enough.

Eight years later, this past weekend actually, I found myself at the top of this tower, nearly ten stories high, staring down at the ground. I wanted to jump. I would have, if security hadn't found me crouched and ready at the edge just before my feet left the rooftop.

Now Vera is the editor for Weekly Widgets, our small village of Dimastus' only source of local news and gossip. So naturally she found out about my attempted suicide within hours, as news spreads fast in a small town and she always picks up on those types of things. She promised to keep all news about my mishap out of the papers because she knew of my unhealthy obsession with heights and what caused it, but forced me to go to therapy to get my shit sorted.

So here I sit with this idiot who looks at me like he knows exactly what is going on in my head and why I do what I do, when in reality he's just as lost as I am. He doesn't know why I get the unquenchable desire to fall, just as I don't know why he even tries to pretend that he understands. No one ever has, and no one ever will.

Slowly, I slide my eyes from the ceiling to lock with his and smirk when he flinches and quickly glances away. The unnatural shade of vibrant gold that burns in my irises tends to do that. "Dr. Brown," I drawl lazily. "Go to hell."