“So Emily, how are you?”
I exhale loudly, and focus on the wool afghan that’s wrapped around my legs.
The therapist sighs. “Emily… talking will help.”
I let the frizzy-haired woman enjoy the silence as I roll the various hairs around my fingers – a long blond one, probably belonging to a pretty lady whose shell cracked; a curly brown one and a bright red.
“I know you don’t want to talk, but it will really help. Trust me.”
“Maybe I don’t want to.” I snap, avoiding her pleading eyes.
“There we go…” she says. “What is stopping you from talking?”
I shrug. “Silence was always in my house. I guess it’s natural.”
“How do you feel about that?”
I zip my lips. How do you feel? How do you feel? How do you feel? That sentence is too over-used.
Nobody really wants to know what you’re feeling, they just want a response so they can muddle around in your personal business.
I throw the blanket on the floor. “Just leave me alone.”
“I’m trying to help…” she reaches for me. “It really will do you good.”
“You know what’d do me good?” I bite back.
She stares at me expectantly, her eyes wide.
“Having my mom back would make me feel wonderful. But, that’s not going to happen.” I snap, before stomping towards the door.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I unlock the front door and step inside, shaking the water off my boots. I’m hanging my coat on the rack when my father stumbles through the door, struggling with a paper bag.
I take the bag from him and set it on the table, lard-grease seeps into my fingertips.
“How was your session with Dr. Reynolds?” Dad asks, peering into the bag.
“It was fine,” I say, tucking a lock of hair behind my ear, “really interesting, actually.”
“You don’t sound very sure…” he observes, removing things from the bag.
I open a burger carton. “I am, Dad. Don’t worry about it.” I lie.
He stops what he’s doing, turning to face me with his blue-grey eyes.
“What’s the matter?” I ask, fear crawling up my throat.
“I don’t believe a word of your bullshit. Stop lying to everyone around you, Emily.”
“I’m telling the truth!” I plead, putting my food on the kitchen table.
“Oh, are you really? How can I believe you, Emily? All you’ve done since your mother died is lie, constantly!”
I laugh. “And you think your doing much better?”
“I think so, actually.”
“Give it up!” I yell. “You are falling apart! Underneath your perfectly-constructed façade of working constantly, you can’t handle it. Things like the chat rooms are only a distraction – something to delude you from the pain that’s eating you up.”
“Watch your mouth. And don’t you fucking tell me what I am,” he advances towards me.
I inch back. He comes closer. Unsure of what to do, I shield my face with my hand. He reaches around me and slaps me on the cheek.
My face burns where his hand touched it. I stare at his wild eyes before scrambling out of the room.
“Emily!” he shouts after me. “I’m sorry – I didn’t mean to…”
I claw my way up the stairs and run into my bedroom, locking myself in it.
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The blade whispers sweetly against my skin. Pain licks my arm; cut, cut, cut.
The ghostly shadows that are hiding escape with the blood. Drip, drip, drip, fat seeds fall to the floor.
I wince against the sharp rush of pain, biting my lip clear through.
But, somewhere in the ocean of pain, some kind of relief bursts through. I smile at the sudden calm.
I blot the blood with a sweatshirt and throw it into the laundry hamper, if dad asks: its girl stuff. If the counsellor asks, I’m screwed.
I hide the razorblade in my bedside table, in a drawer amid paperbacks, tissues, and other useless junk.
I inspect the zigzag damage. The bloody paint covers my arm, but [though I should be ashamed] I’m contented with the gallery-worthy results.
