the world we'll never see (is the one that ought to be) – prelude
She's never felt more ashamed, or alone. These are familiar things, of course, but somehow in the last year or so she had managed to forget about them. Basking in the glow of achievement, of proving herself right after all, showing everyone that she could make her dreams come true. Yes - in spite of being short, of having an 'ethnic' nose, in spite of every mean and nasty thing anyone had ever said to or about her, which she had then repeated inside her head many more times.
And yet, here she is, back in Lima, hiding under an enormous floppy hat and huge, dark sunglasses, with the black cloud of failure and humiliation hovering over her like a dog that won't stop following her. This was so not part of the plan. How had it come to this?
That's why she's here, in this office, peering over the pages of some outdated news magazine, hoping no one she knows will enter, that no one will recognize her.
Yes, she's been to therapy before – but she never needed it then the way she does now.
She's hoping and praying that it will help her to exorcise these excruciating feelings of humiliation and self-loathing, the ones she felt not all that long ago because of the words and actions of others, but it's worse now because she did it all to herself this time. She brought it on herself, and she's finding it nearly impossible to bear the burden of the weight she's placed upon her own small shoulders.
Her name is called, and she cringes. She looks around to make sure that no one shows any sign of recognizing it. Only when she's satisfied that the expressions of boredom and ignorance on the faces of the other patients and the office staff haven't changed at all does she toss the magazine back where she found it and rise from her seat.
She tries to hold her head up and walk like she's still the person she used to be, but the rhythm she had before continues to elude her. She's been missing the beat for a while now. She wonders if she'll ever be able to find it again, if it's even possible.
Stopping in front of the door, she reads the name inscribed on the gold plate above her head. Her dad had assured her that this person could help her, could fix what had gone wrong inside her, help her to rediscover who she'd been, retrace her steps back to the moment when it had all started, so she could get back on the right path and reclaim the destiny that now seemed irretrievably lost to her.
Yes. This would work. It was the only way. It would be hard, and painful. But she wasn't a stranger to that either.
She swallows the hard lump that has suddenly formed at the back of her throat, turns the knob and walks through the door, into the therapist's office.