It may not seem like a romance from this chapter, but I don't want to have the story unfold too quickly.
Anyway, I love this novel like a child, and I hope you enjoy it
Chapter 1 – Carpentry = Holy Vocation. Psychology = One way Ticket to Hell…?
“I’m not doing this.” I whispered, faced with the door to hell.
“You don’t have a choice, Rory.”
I breathed in and out slowly, trying to control and consume the bubbling rage eating at me.
“I don’t care," I snapped. "We’re going.”
“No Rory, I am going. You are staying right here.”
I knew better than to argue with Mom when she wasn’t contracting her words.
“Fine,” I mumbled and folded my arms over my chest. Cautiously, I wandered further into the receptionist’s area.
Gnawing away at my nails, I peered around the small waiting room. I tried so hard to breathe normally and pretend this didn’t scare me. I may have fooled mom, but I couldn’t manage to fool myself. You come to a shrink and you expect it to be happy and colorful, right? You know, with all the depressed cutter kids being dragged in there and all. But it was decked out with all this white minimalistic crap. The place was a polystyrene nightmare.
“I don’t know why the receptionist isn’t here. Think I can knock on her door?”
“What do I look like? The Knocking Police?”
She sighed and hammered on the door, jaw tight. “You know, you’re sarcastic just like your father w-”
“Hey,” I hissed. “Do not bring dad into this!”
The door opened then and cut my mom off before she could bite back. A pretty lady in her late 20’s stepped into the white doorframe. She was wearing a gray dress suit, matronly shoes and her shiny blonde hair was up in a neatly shaped bun.
This could not be my shrink.
“Hey there. Well, aren't you just the most beautiful thing?” She grinned triumphantly at me, and I was delighted to discover her annoying southern accent. “I’m Leigh. Mrs. Lovett and Rory, right?"
“Yeah,” I said flatly.
“You can fill in those forms,” she said to my mom and pointed at some pale yellow papers on the receptionist’s desk, “and leave them there when you’re done. My assistant Lauren won’t be a moment.”
Mom looked back at the receptionist’s desk. “Oh, okay.”
“You can discuss payment options with her and fetch Rory in an hour.”
Then she practically yanked my arm off pulling me in her office. She slammed the door in my mom’s face after that, which, really, seemed rather weird and antisocial to me, especially since this lady was meant to be a master in communication.
I took a reluctant step inside. It was a large, open-plan office with giant glass windows and high ceilings. There wasn't a single picture on the wall but her qualification certificates hung in a line behind her desk.
The room was uncomfortable to say the least. White, impeccably clean and sharp, just like the waiting room. Her messy desk was the only thing that looked out of place. Patients files and notes were strewn messily along its surface.
Something in the semblance of the room was wrong. From the fake, waxy plants and egg white walls, to her syrupy smile and intense gaze; they all screamed disaster waiting to happen.
“So Rory,” she said, “what’s been happening?” She gestured to a couch and I sat down awkwardly.
“Nothing,” I replied, not volunteering any information. Rubbing my fingers along the white leather, I began to count down the long seconds until I could leave.
“Well, your mom seems to disagree there. She thinks you need someone to talk to.”
“My mother doesn't know what she's talking about. I can manage fine on my own,” I replied quietly, gritting my teeth.
She sighed and left her post at the door to sit in a white leather chair of her own, placed directly in front of me. She fidgeted with her hair and crossed her legs.
“But you do acknowledge there’s something to manage?” She waited for my reply. “Rory?”
“Don’t really feel like answering the question.”
She sighed. “I know kids feel like their parents don’t get them, but in my experience, I’ve come to learn that mothers know their daughters best. And your mom is very concerned about you. If she thinks you need help, I suggest you take it.”
“With all due respect Miss, I don’t really care much for your suggestions.”
She widened her eyes and budged in her seat. “You think you're fine, then?"
“Yes, as I’ve managed to say three times in the last minute.”
She smiled and twisted in her seat. She retreived a clipboard and a pen from the desk behind her. “It’s funny, most kids can’t wait to get in here and scream at me about how bad their lives’ suck.”
“Guess I’m not most kids, then,”
“Clearly,” She laughed.
My eyes jerked upward. “What do you mean, clearly?”
She waved off my question. “They’re really emotional, y’know? The other kids, I mean. They’ll scream and shout and moan like their lives depend on it,” she paused and looked seriously at me. “That’s how I know you’re not alright.”
“Um, no,” I barked impulsively. “I’m fine.”
She smiled again and wrote something down on her clipboard. “I'm not expecting you to open up to me right away, but I'm sure I can help you through what's been happening. Everyone needs someone to talk to. I'm here so you don’t have to be strong all the time. If you aren’t vulnerable, you don’t allow yourself to get hurt and you never let go of the pain you're experiencing.”
I sighed deeply and looked around the room for something to inspire my lie. Due to the tragic lack of color or anything slightly interesting, I came up blank.
“I get hurt,” I snarled. “I just don’t crave pity like every other person I know. Is that so wrong?”
“No, I suppose it isn't," she answered hesitantly. "I can see that it's going to take some time for you to trust me, and that's okay. I just want you to understand that I know what you’re going through.”
I laughed. “Of course you do.”
She smiled.
“God, I'm so over this.” I said, deciding I’d had enough. I rolled my eyes and went for the door.
I sat in the waiting room for forty-five minutes until my mom picked me up. I refused all Leigh’s offers to come back inside once I had ‘chilled out’. Please, she hadn’t seen anything yet. I’d love to see how she'd handle me when I was genuinely upset. But, fortunately, she would not have the chance to fail at that too. There was no way in hell that I was ever going back there. Mom didn’t seem very impressed with me when I told her this. She informed me if I wanted to live to turn eighteen, I would be going back.
“For God’s sake, Rory!” She hit the steering wheel and I flinched away. “Why can’t you just listen to me for once and do what I ask?”
“I’m not wasting my time on some psychobabble bullshit I don’t need just to please you.”
“Psychobabble bullshit? Rory, please! It’s been an awful year and it's obvious you need help. You don’t have any friends, you never speak to anyone, and you refuse to go to school?! You’re going back there and talking to her,” her face lit up. “Oh, and you’re going to school tomorrow, too. It’s not healthy to lock yourself away from the world like this. The principal does understand that it’s been tough lately, but you’re going to fail all of your classes if you don’t go back.”
“Oh, failing. There’s a concept I’m entirely new to. Come on, I’ve pretty much failed as a human being already, who gives a fuck if I fail school?”
“Hey, don’t you dare use that disgusting language, young lady!”
“Fuckity fuck, fuck, fuck.” I retorted under my breath.
She sighed heavily as it started to rain. She mumbled something to herself, gripping onto the steering wheel for dear life. When we turned a corner, she hit the indicator so hard I thought it might snap right off. Then she did the same with the windshield wipers as the loud drops continued to fall onto our silence.
As we pulled into the driveway, I jumped out the car and sprinted for the house. Hard drops hit my skin like little pieces of heaven.
“Hey! Rory Anne Lovett!” She screamed out the window. “Just watch what I do to you, little girl!”
I jiggled the key in the front door, scurried downstairs to the basement and shut the door excitedly behind me. The adrenaline didn’t last for more than a few seconds though. After turning on the single bulb that hung from the roof, I was back to feeling like shit.
I came down to the basement often. My dad and I turned it into a darkroom when I was eleven. It was a quiet place for me; a place where I didn’t have to think so much. I went in there to be alone. Well, more alone than I already was. But now, it was just a bad memory I deserved to relive. A year ago I came down here because the photos and smell of developing liquid made me happy. Now I came down here because it all made me feel like crap. And I deserved it.
I collapsed onto the cold floor and stared at the light bulb directly above me. The yellow taper flickered softly and issued a faint hum. Little flares of white tore through the gold in intricate patterns and my vision blurred into two. After a while my neck ached and I was sure I’d done permanent damage to my eyes. I laughed at how much I’d earned the pain.
I stretched my legs out and tapped my feet against the door irritably. Mom was pacing up a storm above me. It was only a matter of time until she blew through the door with her next lecture. Who was she to give me advice on how to live my life? I wasn’t the psychotic emotional firecracker/workaholic bitch.
Glaring at the obscure wooden lines in the door, I thought about what this room symbolized; a cold and sad place where nothing could enter or escape. It was a dark, soulless prison.
Funny, it kinda sounded like me.
