"And where did you get the burns?" Dorian asked, dusting off his formal pleats and focusing in on my hesitant eyes.
Finally. I knew he would ask sooner or later. I sighed, moving my fragile hand up to my collarbone to touch the burn's ghostly pain. And I noticed the soft pink polish on my ring finger was chipping away. I situated myself again, propping my head against the scratchy arm of the couch. I hadn't been repressing this memory. I hadn't denied that anything happened. I rehearsed what I would say when he asked. I made sure to use the perfect most pitiful words. But now that he asked, the panic came. Dorian was already getting impatient, as usual, and I had already spied the little cellophane package of colorful gumdrops threatening me on his desk.
"Where did you get the burns?" Dorian asked again, each word spilling out in a gruff and ignorant tone as if he was a stern father trying to figure out the truth. His eyebrows lowered as he tapped his moon colored pen to the pad that attempted to interpret my thoughts. I never could help but wonder just what he wrote there. He never wrote much, so it seemed, and he always wrote something at the most insignificant moment while he ignored writing anything at the most important.
My voice was ticking like a bomb. 3…2…1…
"It was more than a year ago," I started after my second sigh. "I almost died."
Now he sighed, ready for my next sob story, ready for my next near death experience. I twirled my twisted russet tendrils of over-brushed hair and moved into a seated position, no longer comfortable laying down. I ignored his ash filled eyes that seemed to be completely concentrated on my emotion.
"They thought I was a witch," I continued, choking on every syllable.
"A witch?" He questioned with a sly laugh, "Who?"
"The children… their names escape me but-- there was a boy, and a girl. And they were lost in the woods behind my old house."
I pulled at the hem of my lavender dress, just realizing I used to live in the woods. I sounded crazier than usual. I'd wished I could have stopped talking then, stop embarrassing myself. But I had already begun. The gumdrops were still in clear site. Dorian noticed what I noticed.
"No, Julie, you don't need it, please, just tell me why they thought you were a witch."
Now, the tears started coming. As usual.
"They- tried to take the candy."
"What candy?"
"You know, Dorian, I don't know why I come to you if you can't just be patient with me, I mean, you know I--"
He stopped me.
"Julie. Really. I don't want to hear it."
Great. A psychologist who doesn't want to listen.
"You know I wouldn't be so damn panicky if you could just let me have one gumdrop."
Dorian sighed again and rubbed his temples, then looked up. His eyes seemed to spin with wind.
"Fine," He whispered, surrendering.
I gave a quick smile, then hopped off the ancient couch and fixed my dress. I could feel my eyes glimmering. I patted Dorian's shoulder thankfully on my way to the vermillion tinted desk. Without any delay I grabbed the bag and fervidly slipped off the ribbon that held the rainbow gumdrops together. One of the sparkling candies hit the desk with three bite sized taps, teasing me with it's sugary coat. I ferociously threw it in my mouth ; any speck of ladylikeness I had possessed dissolved. Liberation. Every god filled flavor sung as the gumdrop fell down my throat. Dorian snickered sarcastically when I revealed my gratified grin that denied anything else that mattered in the world.
I returned to my seat, flattening my dress once more, and caught my breath.
"So here's how it went."
As the words decided to finally fall off my tongue, my thoughts went elsewhere.
I don't love Dorian. I don'tlove Dorian. I have always loved Dorian. Since I started going to him last year for my candy addiction. I don't know. It's probably because he doesn't care. He doesn't comfort me when I start crying. He doesn't pity me when I want sympathy. But it isn't because he wants to make me stronger, because he always gives in when I need the candy. He does, though, want to hear my story. That's why he is so impatient, I know, because he can't wait to hear what happened. I am beautiful, and we both know that, and I am a conformist- when I'm not talking to Dorian. To the rest of the world, I'm a sexy, materialistic, modern bitch. Same goes for all the people I call my friends. But in Dorian's office, I'm a crazy candy addict who nearly killed two kids and is now a nervous traumatic wreck in need of sympathy. My façade is one of many. I've found comfort in beauty alone, now that candy has almost given up on me. But I get the attention I need. I know this, and Dorian knows this. My burns are not so obvious to others but to him, because I wear a dress when I see him. I want him to ask what they are and where they came from. And I want him to look at my chest, too, of course. Because I love him. I do.
"They thought I was a witch, I told you. I was living far away from here then. That's when I was… veryaddicted. I…" I stopped, tedious to tell the truth, "I had a house… covered in candy, and I had secluded myself in it," I stopped again, while he uttered out a blatant laugh.
"You had a house made of candy in the woods?! You, Julianna Reinhold had a house made of candy in the woods?!"
"I know I'm crazy." I told him.
He smiled. He had perfect teeth. No candy cavities. "I know you know."
"Well… the kids found it. They were lost and hungry, so a candy house would be a dream, right?"
"Right."
"So what do you think they did?"
"Why don't you tell me?"
"They ate it. They ate so much of that decaying candy. Do you know what that did to me?"
"I still do know. I know you, Julie."
I love him.
"When I opened the door there was makeup running down my face…"
"There's mascara running down your face now…"
"And so they thought I was a witch. And what they did turned me into one."
"Why do you have to cry all the time?"
"I wasn't myself, Dorian! I wanted to kill them!"
"You don't have to cry, you know, I'm still listening."
"But they caught me in my fucking plans and the fucking kids shoved me in a fucking oven."
"Your life, your life…"
"And that's where the burns came from."
"That's where the burns came from."
"Yes. And now I'm here."
"You're here."
"What are you doing?"
"More like what am I not doing."
"What ARE you not doing?"
"Well, I was going to kiss you, but then I thought, no, that'd be too cliché."
I paused. I had no answer to shoot back. I heard what he said, I didn't need to ask him to say it again. This was so Dorian. And I believed him when he said it, so what was there to doubt?
"You love me," I replied finally, no coy smile or shy grin. You love me, I said, blank faced.
"I love you."
My life has suddenly turned into one of those telltale stories of a princess who goes through a perilous journey to meet a prince who will solve all of her pesky problems. Just like in the story, the man and woman meet and fall in love, hardly knowing a true thing about the other. How did it happen? There is no psychological reason at all. There are no significant notes to take down. That is why love is no lifetime guarantee, and you can't refund your money if it isn't what you ordered. Hearts just connect, if hearts can even do that. The heart has no eyes or ears or anything to give meaning to it… but this is how love goes. Love doesn't come with a brain. Love is stupid. Love knows no limits or consequences. Love is a little child who knows nothing of the world but a colorful candy that they want to take a bite out of. And love is an undeniable addiction. And I am the princess in this one. And every princess has a costume, a disguise, a hiding place. A façade that she shares with so many others. A beauty that she seeks comfort in. A secret that will set her free from what has bound her from love. People of this modern world are always hoping for that fairytale romance. But that fairytale was right in front of them all along, in the eyes of their truth. In the eyes of their interpretation and creation. That's all love is. A sugar coating of messy make up. Once the façade is washed away and the mask is broken and discarded, all I am is a character in a fairytale, but this time, it is my own. And so… the witch and the psychologist lived happily ever after. We never know what happens to them after the end anyway.