purpose (book two)

pastel walls

viii.

pastel walls

The office smells distinctly of old paint brushes and coffee creamer. I sit, slouched so far downwards that my spine aches, in the lumpy brown couch that is covered with intermittent, unidentifiable stains. My arms are crossly tightly across my chest, my expression bitterly sour.

I think back to the two-week period where I was in prison, and decide I'd much rather be back behind peeling bars than sitting in this stupid couch. The last thing I want to do is talk about my feelings.

"How was the drive?"

The doctor is a pudgy, gray-haired woman who looks as though she should have retired years ago, her thinned lips nearly disappearing beneath a layer of wrinkles. She's nestled in a tiny leather armchair that matches the brown couch, peering over at me through thick, circular glasses from the 1970s. "Any traffic?"

Her question cuts through the silence before it can turn awkward – something she probably learned to do in grad school. I'm sure falling into uncomfortable lapses in conversation with your client doesn't look good.

"It was fine," I reply shortly, knowing she really doesn't care about the traffic in the first place. Maybe she'd really like to know that I relished every moment of the drive here, because it was the first time I left the house since the ambulance brought me to the hospital.

I'm only allowed to be here because the doctors ordered it. I'm still on probation, and I'm still forbidden to leave the four walls of my mom's house – except, now, for an hour meeting at the therapist's office twice a week. The only part of this whole ordeal that I'm actually okay with is the twenty minute drive.

"Why don't we start with why you're here today."

It should be a question, but it isn't. The doctor – Dr. Delaney – is still watching me through her glasses, though they've slipped over the bridge of her nose and she reaches with a brown-painted fingernail to push it back in its place.

I feel scrutinized under her watchful gaze, like I'm in a lab and she's waiting to shock me so she can write down my reaction. It's making me uneasy, and oddly, bitterly defiant.

"Because the hospital told me to," I tell her dryly. "They don't like it when you try to off yourself."

The wrinkled corner of her lips twitches – was she about to laugh? Either way, Dr. Delaney coughs into a fist and shoulders on. "I understand you got into some trouble earlier this year. How are you handling all that?"

I sigh heavily, picking at the chipped, worn polish that has stained my nails red. "I fucked up once, that's all. I'm just getting through probation now."

"Right. But how are you handling it?"

My eyes flick up to glance at the clock so they won't roll into the back of my head – fifteen minutes in. Ask me one more time how I'm handling it, I think heatedly, continuing to peel the nail polish until a small pile has formed in my lap. I dare you.

The doctor must sense my annoyance – really, I'm not trying that hard to hide it – so she scraps the question and tries again. "Well, how is it being back home with your mom?"

My expression remains impassive, but the memory of my mom bending over me and struggling to pull me out of the tub flashes behind my eyes. I didn't think it could get any more awkward with my being home, but turns out, it could. Now I'm lucky if I get more than thirty seconds to myself before she's hovering over my shoulder, anxiously checking to see whatever I'm doing, to see if I'm crying, or worse. The locks on all the doors have been cut out, so I can't even hide in the bathroom to smoke a cigarette in peace.