Burn
Fourteen
Therapy
Therapy is held in a cozy, brightly lit room with tons of cushiony chairs and couches. The doctor is a tiny, rat-eyed woman with red hair, scribbling furiously in a notebook; the rest of the group are various kids.
A skinny boy with long, red hair is playing on a handheld game station on the couch, his long legs splayed. A bulky guy with dark, curly hair sits in a corner by himself, ignoring everyone. Two boys are playing some sort of hand-slapping game.
Two girls, one so skinny it's a surprise she hasn't blown over yet and the other so big I can't help but wonder how she fits through a door, watch me without saying a word.
"Oh, good, Chloe," says the doctor, smiling wide. One of her teeth is crooked and I focus on that instead of staring into her beady little eyes.
"Everyone, take a seat," she tells us and I pick a seat in the middle, somewhere between too far and too close, facing the window and shafts of sunlight piercing through the glass.
The extremely thin girl takes her seat next to her scabby-kneed friend, twittering quietly.
"Okay. We have a new member here," the doctor says excitedly, clapping.
All eyes slowly turn to me and I hug my knees to my chest, staring down at the fraying thread on my sleeve.
"I'm Dr. Gil," the woman says with a smile, flashing that crooked tooth; I absently wonder if I punched her would it straight out.
"Why don't you tell us your name?" Dr. Gil sits in her chair in the center and gets out her notebook, ballpoint pen posed above the paper, ready to jot down my every twitch.
I stare at the thread, wondering if I'll unravel too because my throat is so dry and I really don't want to tell all these hungry strangers my name. I close my eyes and breathe deep, filling my lungs with air and I can hear them crackle, inflating balloons.
"Chloe." My voice comes out scratchy and pitchy, like I'm losing my voice but I've said in a rush, a short huff of air, and she can't make me say my name again.
"Why don't we tell Chloe our names?" Dr. Gil suggests in a cheery voice.
"I'm Amber and that's Mila," the skinny girl says with a smile, brushing away her brittle blonde hair. Her dark-haired counterpart gives me a half smile, revealing yellow teeth and raw gums.
"I'm Brady and that's Peter," says the boy who'd been slapping his companion with brown eyes.
Peter peers at me with eyes too big for his small face.
"I'm Ramon," offers the bulky boy, his eyes staring deeply at me.
"I'm Nate," the redhead laughs.
"Is that everyone?" Dr. Gil asks, flipping through the pages on a clipboard she pulled from under her chair. She chews her lip, eyes flickering between the clipboard and the chairs. "Yes."
She claps her hands.
Ramon rolls his eyes and Nate snickers, hiding his smile behind a deformed hand.
"What are you in here for?" Nate whispers, switching seat so he's next to me. He's invading my space, my sanctum, and I can smell him, the heat that his body gives off and his hot breath and his hot, hot sweat. His eyes are big and eager, staring down at me, so eager for me to spill my secrets and my deepest, darkest fears.
I'm dying, drowning, and I can't breath; my throat is constricting and his hands are around my throat, tightening, tightening, squeezing, harder and harder, his nails digging in.
"Woah, dude, back up," Ramon says softly and his arm slides into my peripheral vision.
My skin crawls and I can hear Royce's loud bellowing laugh right in my ear, drowning out everyone. I haven't seen him since this morning and I really wish he would shrivel up and scatter himself across the Pacific Ocean, where he can't find me because he's floating in the ocean bed and he's too far apart to draw himself back together.
"You thought you lost me, didn't you?" he whispers, his voice faraway as he smiles, teeth sharp. He looks like a starving wolf, closing in for the kill, his eyes gleaming dangerously.
I can see myself in his big, black pupils, wide-eyed and pale, washed out hair clinging to my gaunt cheekbones.
"I'm never leaving," he continues, snapping his teeth and his tongue catches between the rows of sharp, white razors. The front tip flies off, spurting blood everywhere and I rock back violently, feeling the hot spray hit my cheeks and dampen my sweater.
He grins, wiggling his wounded tongue at me like it's funny, blood dripping down his chin in thick, red globs of candle wax, dripping to the floor.
I'm crying, hot tears boiling my skin and leaving second degree burns in their place. His blood keeps dripping down onto me, poisoning my skin, sinking into it, absorbing his hate and his rage and his black soul. His lifeless eyes are smiling as he notices the blood.
"Chloe, it's okay. You're safe," Dr. Gill says and I blink hard.
I'm in a sunny room, crowded by strangers with greedy eyes and sandpapery tongue, ears ready to listen to my sob story of broken bones and stalking and burns but I clam up and refuse to speak for the rest of the day.
Royce never leaves.