The Road to Nowhere

Chapter One

Chapter One

The room was cold and the friendly smile of the counselor sent a shiver down my spine. She wore a bubble gum pink top, pink lipstick, a pencil skirt, and had her hair tied up nicely in a bun. If that doesn't tell you enough I don't know what does. How could someone be so friendly...so happy? I heard her voice talking to me, but I can't understand how she expects me to talk to her. She has no idea what I've been through, yet she wants me to talk to her; tell her my problems and pretend that she understands? Yeah, right.

"Bridget, I know you don't want to be here. That is all your parents told me. I'm here to help you. You can trust me." Her voice was so bubbly and peppy it made me sick.

She looked at me, expecting me to respond to her, but I only held her gaze and remained silent. She told me what she tells everyone else. She doesn't care about me. It's her job to talk to me.

"I know that it is never easy, Bridget, but you would really be surprised that talking about it really helps." She gave me a bright smile as if that would make me happy. If that was ever possible again, it would take a lot more than a bright smile to change it.

I'm not sure if it was my anger at my parents for bringing me here and expecting me talk to her, or if it was my frustration at this counselor trying to get me to open up after months of shutting people out, but I just snapped. "What do you want me to do, talk about my problems with you? You don't care about me. You only care about the pay check that comes at the end of the week. If it means that you have to talk to me in order to get your money, then that is exactly what you are going to do!

"And don't think that because you have a degree and talk all bubbly and smile that it is going to have any impact on me. You have no idea how I feel and what I have been through. Don't try to sit here and tell me that you care and that it's hard for everyone. What's the worst that has happened to you? You broke a nail? Daddy wouldn't pay for your manicure? Well let me tell you, for some people, it is a hell of a lot worse." My face was beat red and my hands were shaking as I sat there. I hadn't realized that I was screaming at her.

The expression on my counselor's face was stunned. Before she had the chance to yell at me or ask me if that made me feel better, I stood up from my chair and walked out of the room. I made it a point to slam the door behind me.

It didn't take me very long to figure out how to get out of there. I heard my name being called, but I didn't stop and wait for her to catch up with me. When I walked into the lobby, I found my parents sitting there reading magazines like nothing was wrong; like they were a normal family.

"Are you done already?" my mother's innocent voice asked. "It didn't take very long." She didn't seem to have a problem with how upset I was. She didn't seem to have a problem with dumping me with a councilor and not even bothering to tell me.

"Bridget! There you are!" The councilor came running through the door with a distressed look on her face. "I see you got a little side tracked looking for the bathroom." An instant pang of guilt hit me. She covered for me. If my parents knew that I had run out I would never hear the end of it.

I didn't know what to say without sounding like an idiot. So instead of speaking, I just nodded at my parents and turned to follow the counselor.

Once we got back into her room, she started speaking. "Listen, Bridget, I know we got off on the wrong foot, but I would like to try this again." Her voice was still bubbly and annoying as ever, but there was a sense of care in her voice and plus, I owed it to her.

"I'm Ms. Demillo, your counselor. I'm here to help you and I will listen." Wow, that was a different approach. Now I guess I was the one with the stunned face.

"I'm Bridget," was all I could offer. I wasn't ready to talk to anyone.

"I understand that talking to someone is hard at first, but it doesn't have to be. Is there anything you want to talk about. Anything? It doesn't have to be why you are here. It could even be what you had for lunch. I just want to get to know you better."

I really hated owing someone because now I just had to push through this and last for another hour. "Well, I used to play soccer."'

"That's a good start!" Ms. Demillo encouraged. "Tell me more about yourself. Did you change or cut your hair reecently? Change your favorite color?"

Thinking back to sophomore year, it was a shocker how much I had changed. My long, wavy, dirty blonde hair had everyone in school jealous. I used to wear dresses to school and wore such a colorful wardrobe. Friends used to surround me as I walked through the halls. It seemed like I never was alone. Now, my dirty blond hair is cut to my chin and is died jet black. The clothes I wear are considered goth and I shut everyone out that year.

"Bridget?" Ms. Demillo asked, startling me from my trip down memory lane. When I looked up at her she continued. "You don't have to answer if you don't want to."

Truth be told, I didn't want to answer her. That wasn't a choice though. That stupid feeling inside kept nagging me, reminding me that I owed her. But I wasn't able to speak.

Pulling out my phone from my pocket, I browsed to find the picture from the first day of school this year. Before showing it to her, I said, "This was the beginning of sophomore year. I'm halfway through my sophomore year." Ms. Demillo took a look at the picture. Instead a horrified face like I'd imagined, her face was straight, like she was trying to soak in all the details the picture had to offer.

"If I over step any boundaries, let me know," she said as she handed me back my phone. Looking at Ms. Demillo, she reminded me a lot of myself. She had the straight blonde hair and that perfect appearance that could make anyone jealous. She was just an older version of what I used to be, minus the bubbly voice.

"What happened to you, Bridget?" It was clear from Ms. Demillo's face that she knew now that something was really wrong with me. She knew that I didn't just go through a clothing change because I felt like it.

"My brother died."