Asystole ✷ Mark Sloan

𝟬𝟯𝟭 limb

𝙓𝙓𝙓𝙄.
LIMB

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"SO YOU SAID 'Deal'?"

Her tone was inquisitive and she seemed to watch me closely, one eyebrow hitched up to the point that it nearly flew away into her hair. 

I pressed two clammy palms together, nodding with a slightly cautious jitter.

"Yes."

"You started over."

"Yes."

"Just like that?"

"Yes." The word came out more impatient than before.

"Why?"

I'd come to the conclusion that hating Mark Sloan was beginning to feel like a burden rather than fuel for my hellfire. 

I was tired. Tired of feeling as if he deserved to be anything more than a ghost in my rearview mirror. Tired of feeling like I cared whether Mark Sloan would feel my wrath or not. Tired of not being able to grow up.

A truce was the closest I could get to getting rid of Mark Sloan.

So I took it.

But still, in that first therapy session, I shrugged.

"I don't know."

The first sessions were always the hardest. 

I'd chanted that to myself all the way to my early appointment, from the moment Charlie had kissed me goodbye at the door to embark on my little bus journey across the city. I'd had therapy before, but not since I'd actually become a therapist. 

Rehab had been filled with sessions like this, heart-to-hearts when I'd been so affected by the withdrawal that my hands had shaken violently and my blood had pounded through my ears.

The thought of letting someone pick my brain made my stomach ache.

And now there was this doctor, Dr. Laurel Hargreeves who'd come highly recommended by Katherine. Apparently, you could make a career out of being a therapist for therapists. She had a degree over the door for it. From Yale. From the moment I'd stepped into her office, she'd insisted that I called her Laurel and attempted to clear the air around us— "Just imagine we're two friends just catching up."

I couldn't help but cross compare. The woman sat across from me was lounged comfortably in her chair, in a way that was friendly and approachable but still seemed to exude a sense of control. 

One leg folded across the other. Flats, not heels. She was in a blazer and had this kitschy Leslie Rosen in First Wives Club hair cut. Eyes sharp but mouth curved warmly.

Meanwhile, I was in a blouse that was a tad bit too big for me, shifting at irregular intervals, swamped in a mess of fabric. 

My legs were stock-still, my posture slightly off-beat as if I was trying to copy a Wikihow article on how to be as uncomfortable as possible. I still held my head high, hands pressed against my thighs and my thumb tapping softly to a random beat I'd heard on the radio.

The air in the room felt stiff. There was no music to fill the pause in between question and answer. It smelt sterile, like a hospital should, but didn't look like it at all. The bookcases lining the wall didn't look like they were government grade, nor was the carpet underfoot sanitary by any means.