Red Hair, Black Soul (Red & Black #1)

03 | Fancy

Ms. Brownstone is my therapist. She is a tranquil thirty-two-year-old woman who always wears her straight, brown hair in a perfect bun. Her last name reminds me of a Guns N' Roses song but I've never told her that, afraid that she would ask me for the origin of the association and find it somehow peculiar.I visit her three times a week - on Mondays, Thursdays and Saturdays - to talk about my many problems. We get on quite well, with me pretending I'm happy to share the usually fake details of my life and her pretending she cares about them. And I'm really not sarcastic saying it. It's not her fault that she's more interested in the celebrity's hot news than dark confessions of a depressed teenager with red hair and a dark soul who needs to find purpose in her fucked-up life.

Today is Monday, which means that after a very productive day at a new school, I find myself in her office, staring at the powdery blue wall in front of me.

Ms. Brownstone's office doesn't look like one of those classic therapists studies, with an armchair made of brown leather and a settee standing at its side. It's decorated with the lightest shades of sky-blue and brown. There is a rectangle, mahogany coffee table in the middle, surrounded by two creamy leather armchairs and a couch. A window on one of the walls looks out onto the street. A big, oil painting representing God-knows-what hangs on the wall behind the couch, successfully gaining the attention of the guest the moment he or she steps inside. I guess that's why Ms. Brownstone chose to place it behind the couch on which she usually sits her clients. Looking at the swirling mass of red-blue-yellow-and-white doodles is sure to give you a nystagmus after you stare at it for thirty minutes.

I think that apart from Ms. Brownstone, the only living thing in the room is some kind of a palm tree standing in a big flowerpot in one corner. During my second visit here, I decided to name it Fancy because it looked like a Fancy to me. When I'm tired of looking into Ms. Brownstone's big, watery blue eyes, I always engage in a staring contest with Fancy. And during the nearly a year I've been coming here, I've never won.

Generally speaking, everything about Ms. Brownstone's office is sterile and perfect to the point of breaking. So if a patient - or a client, as she'd rather call us - comes in without any damage on their psychics, they are sure to have it after they step their foot out of here. Believe me, spending half an hour in a room as perfect as this one can make you go crazy.

Today, Ms. Brownstone is wearing a dark blue cashmere sweater and jeans. She doesn't have her glasses on, which makes me anxious, since it means I'm going to have to look her in the eye without any barrier between us. She welcomes me when I come in and despite me having been here about a thousand times before, she tells me to sit on the couch. I comply, wondering for the hundredth time what she needs the other armchair for. It's not like she'd ever let me sit in it. Maybe she just reserves it for her special clients.

As I try to make myself as comfortable as I can, she fulfills our ritual by asking what tea I am going to have. She no longer asks if I want coffee after I'd explained to her politely and clearly that the smell of it alone makes me nauseous. Ms. Brownstone has been drinking tea since then, even though I know of her strong addiction to caffeine, which makes her drink even eight cups of coffee a day. Maybe that's why her eyes are so big.

As always, I ask for an earl grey with no sugar. She already knows I like my tea strong and bitter so she leaves the tea bag inside and passes me the mug. I have my own special one here. I got it after I'd shared with her my dislike for small cups that remain empty after two gulps. It's a blue porcelain containing almost half a liter of tea. A perfect amount for surviving a thirty-minutes-long session.

"How are you feeling today, Ada?" She asks, sitting down in her armchair.

"Depressed." It's my usual answer. One that brings a slight smile to her lips.