inferno | 18+

XXXIII

"he isn't coming back
whispered my head
he has to
sobbed my heart."
- rupi kaur

DEVINA

I look at the therapist in the middle of the circle. She seems to be seated comfortably. As if all the eyes on her don't bother her the slightest. "Devina?" she asks, and I blink the haze away looking at her.

"I'm sorry...what was your question?"

She sends me a smile that doesn't reach her eyes. Collective listening. Collective faces. All something you learn in psychology.

"I asked how you're feeling," she repeats and I slowly nod my head, dazing out from the room. There are others here, which came as a surprise to me when they let me out of my room after a while of me being immobile lying in my bed for weeks. We never let Zakaria out when he was here.

"I'm okay," I reply, and she smiles again, nodding before moving on to another patient. The other patients are telling us how they don't remember what happiness feels like, and how they wish they could go back home to the person who makes them feel safe. It never occurred to me before that home isn't four walls, but two arms.

I feel like a homeless maniac. I close my eyes, and let my mind take me to my safe haven.

I was in Italy, in a garage with a car parked, the hood popped up and a guitar hanging on the garage wall. There was a man sitting on a chair at the popped up hood, working on it. He was wearing a pair of headphones. I took a seat on the garage steps, watching him in awe. There was a mug between my hands, and it was filled with hot coffee.

Snooping isn't our thing, angel.

I smile, the memories warming my cheeks.

I wouldn't call it snooping.

The man was walking toward me.

No? What would you call it then?

He grabbed my chin, and locked it in his hand so that I was forced to stare into his eyes. His eyes were so beautiful; so mesmerising. They were the colour of an oceanic trench, right before it turns blue again. The blackest of black.

You're an absolutely stunning, murderous little creature.

After that we played his guitar together. He'd told me to sit on his lap and then he'd grabbed my fingers, put them on the guitar strings, and helped me play. I remember smiling because the tunes we were creating were beautiful. He had admired my tattoo, and then he asked me; What is it you do to me, Devina? All I remember was being scared. Scared that it would go the wrong way. Scared that it would catch up to me in the end.

"Devina."

I open my eyes, and see the therapist looking at me again, this time a little annoyance behind her jade eyes. I silently apologise, and notice she motions for the door with her head. I run my eyes toward it, and see one of the nurses standing there. He looks annoyed as well. I hesitantly stand up from my stool, and walk around the circle, toward him. He opens the door, using his keycard and then he places a hand on my back, leading me out of the group therapy, and into another room.

There's a couch in the room, and a chair across from it. At first I think it's for a meeting with a possible psychiatrist until I see his face. His plump dark lips. The melanin. The dreadlocks. The almost-black eyes. Bile runs up my throat, and I feel myself becoming more anxious. He greets the nurse standing outside of the room, and uses a keycard to enter it, before letting the door close behind him.

Tears well my eyes the second I smell him. His personality fills the room in less than a second. For a second he stands frozen looking at me, as if he's seen a ghost. Then he tilts his head, and strides toward me. I lower my head, letting my hair cover my face. Silence rings in my ears, as I wait for him to say anything.