The first story I've written on my new shiny laptop. Please review, it's only little. Sorry in advance that it's typical of my writing, in that I seem to repel happy endings. And I suck at titles, so any suggestions for title improvement would also be welcome. m
As Kate Waits
Kate is in denial, or so Kate’s counsellor would have her believe. Kate herself will not accept this diagnosis. Doing so would be admitting that she might be depressed.
Or so Kate’s counsellor says.
It isn’t even her name elsewhere. Kate is a tag for this bright, forlorn, forsaken patient room. Kate’s counsellor only calls her as such to seem sunny in face of it. First thing, she reeled off denominations, as options when ordering coffee is too vague. But Catherine was a spelling mistake. Kath and Kathy were thirty. Katie was four.
Frankly, Kate is yet to respond to anything.
She sits with her shoulders up. The sleeves of her hoody, as her arms cross for the day, stretch over the bandages which shackle her wrists. And so, Kate waits for a question to shun.
Occasionally, her heart beats to reminder her of its presence. Other than that, she sits, she blinks, she swallows. And she wonders what it must be like to feel at all.
Kate waits.
She waits to escape from this place. To look down and not be startled by the brightness of her bandages. To stop burning when they refer to what she did as an episode, as self destruction. They cannot define to one moment the things she has felt, or not felt, for years. And now, Kate’s counsellors pry to know these things she cannot tell them. As she drowns, she understands less than they claim to themselves.
She waits.
Soon, they will fit Kate into their formula, their pitied teenage norm, for which there is cure, while all the time telling her that she is special and strong, or unique, which is their word.
Kate’s counsellor, young, approachable, wan water smile and soft sweeping fringe, sits.
Kate hates
.