The Family: Long Road Home (VOL. 3)

Prologue

The hands on the clock's face are unmoving which is in sheer contrast to my own refusing to remain still. I pick at the chipped red nail polish clinging to a couple of my fingernails, etching away at the remanents until my bare nails shine through.

That damn clock. I swear it's broken. Or maybe it's not. Maybe this place is another realm in the Twilight Zone. Time moves differently here. It doesn't move at all. Maybe that's normal.

What's stopping you from getting up and running out that door, Tilly? Absolutely nothing. So why don't you just get up and go? Say adios and hightail it out of here. It'd be easier than enduring this torture.

The sudden appearance of a hefty mug in my face, some inspirational Bible verse printed across the front, brings me around to reality. This isn't the Twilight Zone. It's a therapy office. I can't decide which is worse.

 Ms. Zola Medina holds a steaming cup of Chai tea out to me. "Be careful, it's hot," she warns without breaking the smile that never ceases to be on her rosy lips.

I wonder if her face is frozen like that. I was always told as a child if I make an ugly face it might freeze and I'd be stuck with a silly expression or scowl forever. I thought it was a myth but it sure would explain how her pleasant grin never wavers. My cheeks ached when I repaid the cashier at the gas station with a smile after he told me to have a nice day this morning. I guess I'm not used to smiling anymore. Not a genuine one at least. I think I've forgotten how after all this time.

"Did you sleep well last night, Matilda?" 

"As well as I could," I reply, staring down into the milky tea. "The dreams...they make it hard to sleep the whole night through."

She makes a "tisk, tisk" sound and takes a seat across from me in a grey upholstered chair. "I'm sorry to hear that. I suppose I was asking because you seem a little distracted."

My eyes dart toward the paned window beside the couch I'm sitting on. Past the glass, there's a world outside that's as tranquil as Zola's office. Vibrant green Elm trees shading the neighborhood sway in a gentle dance partnered with the breeze. A woman pushes a stroller up the sidewalk, the toddler strapped inside waving at an elderly man checking his mailbox. A calico cat sunbathes on the steps of a pink house where an older lady who looks strikingly similar to Betty White tools around in the front garden.

It's unnatural. It's stupid. It's reckless.

These people, they go on about their mundane, daily lives without a care in the world. They don't stop to consider the danger that's out there waiting for them to turn their backs and let their guard down. They don't know what the people around them are capable of. They don't know what they themselves are capable of. No, I guess they wouldn't.

Lucky them.

"Matilda?" Zola speaks up, her voice firm.

I snap my head in her direction. "I'm sorry. Were you saying something?"

"Only that you seem to be preoccupied." She lifts the mug of tea she made for herself to her lips and sips on the beverage. The steam rising from the cup fogs the lenses of her glasses.

"Oh, I was just thinking." Thinking thoughts I'm not supposed to have according to Zola. Dwelling on the past isn't healthy, she says. Living life as if I'm still in perpetual danger won't set me free, she harps. I have to let go in order to heal, she lectures. 

"Care to share what about?" She sets her mug on the coffee table between us, freeing up her hands to lift the oval glasses from her face and buff the lenses on the cuff of her emerald green, chiffon, blouse. The color compliments her warm skin nicely. It's a little mature for a woman her age, but it does well to make her appear professional which I suppose is her goal.