The corridors of the Denver brought in Lavender an uneasy mood. They were familiar and cosseting and yet somehow alien and wrong. It was a feeling of such familiarity that one supposes one has never been away and yet the opposite is painfully true. For Lavender, the opposite was true. She walked them cautiously, alertly, watching the eyes of those she passed. Had they heard things? What had they heard?

Lavender had spent most of the time the ship was at Vulcan at Starfleet Medical receiving emergency counselling and some intensive therapy. It seemed showing up to a café on Vulcan with other officers totally wasted got one noticed. But Lavender admitted the therapy had to happen. It should’ve happened years ago. She had been a wreck. Now, she was somewhat of a new person. The same humour was lavished over a plate of feelings like gravy, hiding the reality of the food laying beneath, but now those feelings were not just neurosis, anger and pain. The doctor still had a lot of work to do, but she had made good progress. She now was no-longer a risk to those around her, the last thing a doctor would want to be. Lavender had always espoused the importance of counselling and how the process of striving for good mental health should not be a taboo, yet she haven’t been able to put that into practice herself, not until now. Lavender turned the last corner and found herself outside the door to her quarters. It hissed open.

Lavender surveyed her surroundings with a sinking feeling. No, this wouldn’t do. This place was all bad memories. She had some nice ones of Arin’s quarters but this place was all pain, nightmares and alcohol. The nightmares had subsided a little now, but when she did have them, as she did regularly, her response to them was much more positive. Her appearance had changed now too. Her makeup was softer. She no-longer felt the need to wear armour. C.B.T. had told her that the fleet were not her enemies, her colleagues were not judging her (too much) and that to try to integrate was a better idea than forcing herself into isolation. Her striking eyeliner struck out with sharp points of black. Her hair was still purple and black with whisps of white. Her rings remained around her lips but her lips were clad in a soft, pretty pale pink, not black. Her hair was up, professional. Her demeanour open, her perpetual frown eliminated. Lavender dumped her bag on the floor.

“Computer, send the following text message to Riandri Nalam. New quarters required at earliest possible convenience. Hope your leave was enjoyable. Yes it really was me who sent this. Lavender. No, replace the word Lavender. Doctor Haigh.”

“Sending.”

Doctor Haigh. This was part of her therapy. She was a doctor. She was an officer. She had to stop bringing the streets of M’talas prime to work. She’d just done that. Lavender scanned the room. In terms of possessions she didn’t have much, what she did have needed to be devoid of issue. She looked at the orchids that littered the room. They were mementos of her mother, who had loved them. But did she love them herself or was she just growing them to hold on to something of Sofia? Even as she began to ask herself the question Lavender knew the answer. She scooped them up and bundled them into the replicator in an untidy mess of soil and roots.

“Love you, Mom. Recycle.”

And they were gone. Lavender set about replicating more bags and started to pack up her various dresses, boots and makeup. Some of it went in the replicator. Some stayed and was packed. The sooner she was out of here the better. A handful of minutes saw her laden with three duffle bags in an otherwise empty space.

“Computer, send the following text message to Arin Jones. “I’m back.”

“Sending.”

Lavender took a deep breath and walked smartly out of the room, the doors closing on her time as an alcoholic.