Keuse

. ... .

I sit alone in the waiting room of the psychologist's office with my head tilted back against the wall and my eyes closed, usually vibrant red hair a dull copper in the quarantined lighting. The Doctor (just another hidden mask of a word for the shrink) wants to see me, but of course she has failed to mention that she has an appointment scheduled for the hour she called me, and is (unfortunately) unable to meet me. My thoughts are drifting to the most random of subjects, despite how everyone else's thoughts seem to turn into a glorious dull static once they enter the almost painfully-lit building.

I open my eyes and look up when I realize in paranoia that I almost could not think, quite suddenly, for the anxiety that I had been building up and shoving away on closet shelves has come quite suddenly crashing down. That crash – and the struggle to set everything into order again – hurts. The static in my mind has been replaced with a restful silence; but not it is too silent.

And then, I hear it: a tiny thought, very soft, almost inaudible, says, I'm scared! Oh my gosh, I'm scared I'm scared I'm—, and then it is interrupted and drowned out by a louder version of the thought: "It's going to be okay. The lady just… wants to check in. She wants to make sure you say your prayers."

Then the tiny thought responds, almost sarcastically, I don't believe in God. Not really. But I speak again, and what I say is so selfless and stubborn that it almost scares me; I am too used to being selfish. "I'll believe in anything that will save me."

A door that seems to appear out of nowhere opened, and a frightened young woman walks out, making way to the secretary's desk. The door closes with a slam that makes me jump, and the door seems to have faded into the wall again, invisible against the stark white paint.

Then an elegant, older woman in her forties with softly folded skin and a maroon dress steps out, ever-present smile making her eyes shine like diamonds – like she never has a care in the world.

"Lily?" she asks when she sees me, and beckons me towards her with a single commanding gesture. I rise and follow her into a cool room, where the only light comes from the slanted windowpane. She ushers me to a futon, where I lay down, and watches me with uncanny analysis.

"What are you looking for?" I ask, drawing the woman away from her thoughts with a heated defensive that might have made the Doctor—and nothing in the world could ever bothers her— jump out of her skin.

Almost of their own will, my arms cross over my chest and my lower lip sticks out in a scowl… but my lip is quivering, only slightly, like always. Like I am on the verge of tears.

The psychologist does not answer for a long while, actually pondering what to say. At first, she had not been looking at me: she'd been looking at the wall, which suddenly and unexpectedly had become very interesting. She could not say that, of course.

I am the only patient Victoria Pratchett has with such a complicated convoluted messed up case. I most definitely do not want her to think of me as… well, as a freak. I sit with her for an hour in silence, because it is my choice. And anyway – the government is paying for this session. There is no one else to cover it.

This is when I clear my throat, tapping me foot against the linoleum impatiently. Victoria surely has realized that she is going to have a hard time dealing with me—because she is always able to keep her cool around patients, she told me herself the first day I met her; it is becoming painfully obvious that I could easily get under her skin, force her to reveal almost anything about herself, while still keeping my most painfully kept secrets. If I wanted to, of course – that means the woman will use everything in her repertoire so that I will not want to.

"Are you deaf? Mute?" I say, still venomously defensive and also painfully precise in my viciousness. I know every second of desperation she is feeling as she steps closer now, standing almost directly in front of me. My green eyes narrow into her deep, soulful brown, and I realize that I have no idea why I'm here, or and she has no idea why she's here.

That quiet, sensible voice in my head is spinning circles now, because deep down I know that there is a perfectly plausible reason for Victoria's silence—and there is—but the voice is starting to make my head hurt, hearing an obnoxiously persistent mind-voice fretting and complaining about a million things at once. "You could definitely talk last week."

"No." The Doctor says softly, turning bright eyes and a worried frown onto me, the girl whom she does not even really know. But still, she insists on making me worry and cry and a million other things about whatever could possibly happen.

There is a pause, and then, "So you were ignoring me?" The scowl and lip-quivering pout vanish in an instant to be replaced by a vicious smirk. I am obliviously good at hiding my emotions. My arms drop to my sides, bending at the elbow so that my hands settle in my pockets. The fluorescent lights catch my eyes as well, making them shine like the anger Victoria can see in that smirk.

The Doctor sighs and sits back in her chair, looking down. From the corner of my eye, I see her expression change, and almost read her thoughts on her face: is this girl really worth my time? But I probably had imagined it.

"Of course not. I was trying to think of something to say, and you distracted me—," she begins to say, but I cut her off.

"Distracted? Where the hell did that come from? You're not distracted. You just can't think of anything to say." My eyes narrow, and I roll over, staring intently at the soot-grey colored fabric of the futon.

She laughs then, expression changing (again) to something of amusement. "You're kidding. You're interesting, Lily. I can't help but imagine what you've been through."

I roll my eyes. "You keep trying to see me as an experiment. But you can't." It is a simple statement, and my voice seethes out a little loftier than I want it to, a delicate cadence rising and reverberating through the room, quite casually sharp.

Her already-wide eyes immediately widen more and her breathing hitches slightly in shock. "You're so bizarre that you can't even talk about it. Of course I can't think of you as an experiment." Of course – the lady in the comfy office chair meant 'bizarre' in a loving way; I have enough sense to know that. I sigh, and then she sighs, and there is a burning silence lingering in the air.

"Is it that noticeable?" I ask finally, my voice slightly more than a whimpering squeak that threatens tears. The anxiety closet in my mind is creaking open again, and I am inebriately trying very hard not to break down right then and there.

Victoria nods. "You look like you've been here all night and didn't sleep a wink."

I bite my lip, debating whether to tell her my story or not. She stays silent, too, obviously trying to shut her thoughts up— and I do not want to say or show something that could jeopardize whatever this is. And she looks at me again and smiles calmly, and I know she will not rush me.

I swallow a lump in my throat—great, now I'm feeling sentimental, too?—and my fists clench. I cannot think of anything to say and I can tell she senses that there is more that the court papers and orphans' home transcripts—my mind is full of memories now, and she can see that there is nothing really there for me anymore.

That is especially painful for me—my family is broken and has changed so many times over the years that I forget most of it; it is different and massively dysfunctional on the best of days, but I am all alone.

Finally, I get up the nerve to break my own reverie. "I'm sorry to hear that," he said, and he meant it. For reasons unknown, I have always tried to make myself seem so strong, so untouchable, but at the same time frightened and vulnerable. At that moment, realization dawns on me that my story is nothing but bits and pieces and shambles, and I cannot quite tell it.

And I cry, silently, shivering into the velveteen fabric.

There is a painfully long silence, during which I stare at the wall because I am too used to being alone. I always have, and I always will be.

I stare at the woman now, then shake my head.

"Maybe next time."