"Want ten dollars?" She waved the ten-dollar bill in front of my eyes, a sly smile forming on her lips.
"Who doesn't?" I smirked and tried to yank it out of her fingertips. She stepped back and began to tattoo creases and curves and wrinkles onto the dollar bill.
"What about now?" She held up the folded and damaged bill. Nodding my head, I reached for it once more. Still, she stepped back and had another mischievous smile on her lips.
She watched it twirl onto the floor, decorating the rug with a tint of dullness. My eyebrows furrowed as her foot stepped on it, repeatedly, and crumpled it into the dirt. "And now?"
"It doesn't look so bad, still has worth."
"I thought so." She patted the space next to her once she sat down near the dollar bill.
"What's the purpose of this again?"
"Right here, right now, you just admitted that the ten-dollar bill lost no value—that it is still worth something. Throughout our bitter human lives, we've been stepped upon, crushed into thousands of pieces, crumpled and torn. Don't you ever feel as if you are completely useless? Worthless? But no. No matter how many times we get crumpled up and stepped on, we never lose our value. You will always be priceless to anyone who adores you, loves you, cares so much about you. Do you know how much you're worth?"
"How much?"
"The answer lies ahead by the person you are. Not the people around you, or what we know, but who we are. You are so damn special; never forget it."
YOU ARE READING
therapy
Short Story"they told us that we needed therapy, as if medication and tainted words could fix broken toys."
