The next morning, I followed the usual mundane routine of getting up, showering, eating and watching a movie. George had told me he would book a therapy session for me immediately, and text me the address this morning, in hopes I could get an appointment today. I hadn't entirely wanted to go, as part of me was scared he would be listening in, or paying extra to find out about me. It sounded deluded, but it's just how my mind worked. I felt he was out to get me, despite helping me. Though, there'd be nothing to help if he hadn't made me this way.
My phone buzzed, a twitter notification. I unlocked my phone, confused, but soon understanding as George's dm popped up on the screen.
Joji: 62 Grand St, Brooklyn, 11249. Therapist's name is Mel, I have seen her before. She's great.
I wondered why he'd needed therapy, as his life seemed to be straight forward, easy going. Perhaps it had been due to his medical condition, and controlling emotions. That was something he certainly had needed to work on - and thinking back to last night, he definitely had. Not once did he raise his hand to me.
Me: thank you, when is the session?
Joji: today, the only slot was 1pm. sorry for short notice.
oh, and would you mind giving me your number? and deleting these messages - if i get hacked i don't want this info out there.
Sighing, I did as he said, putting the address into my phone first. I didn't like that I had to delete our first interaction in years, but at least we would share texts. It was depressing the comfort I'd found in simple messages, from my abuser. I didn't understand how I still had feelings for him. I wished I could just erase the memories. Even though what had happened may have moulded who I am today, I truly believe I would be a greater person if I hadn't had the experience. Without him, I could be in a stable relationship, I could be less depressed. I wouldn't second guess every person in my life.
As it had already been 11:30, I decided it was probably time to start planning my route. After Googling the location, I decided the quickest way to get there would only take 15 minutes. It was odd to me that the office was so close, yet I had never crossed paths with George on the way up. I wondered if he had ever seen me, and just chosen not to say hi.
-
Upon arrival, I was greeted by a receptionist behind a wooden desk. The entire interior layout had been of rustic style, a clean dark wood floor, auburn walls and gold plant pots filled with green leaves and tall stems. She looked to suit the decorations well, with ginger hair, and glowing green eyes. She wore a black shirt and a pair green pants.
"Hi, I am here for an appointment, scheduled for 1." I said, glancing around. The waiting area was empty, only a few chic looking pillows and benches waited.
"Is that for Miss Burns?" She questioned, and I nodded unenthusiastically. She responded with a smile, showing her glowing teeth, and gestured over to the seating area.
"Take a seat, I'll go and get Mel for you."
Reluctantly, I walked to the bench, sitting down. I started to notice my breathing quicken, through anxiety.
The receptionist hadn't been gone long, before returning with an older lady, probably in her early fifties. She was tall, and thin, with frizzy, greying hair cascading down her back. The first feature I'd noticed, though, was her warming smile. I could see why George liked her, as immediately I'd felt my heart rate decrease from the erratic pace it had been before.
"Hi," she says, extending her right hand, smiling. I try to return the beaming grin, though mine was probably a joke compared to hers. "I'm Mel, follow me." She turned swiftly, gripping a pale coloured clipboard under her left fingers, leading me through the styled waiting room. We walked past a few rooms, until met at the end of the short corridor with an oak door.
Inside her office had been the typical therapist lay out. The comforting couch, and beckoning you in, and of course, a place in which you could lay down. It was funny, really. I felt like I was in a fucking movie. She took her place in front of a coffee table, opposite the burgundy couch. I sat, slightly reluctantly, facing her.
"So, Isobelle-"
"It's Belle. I really hate Isobelle." I interrupted, nervously. I'd understood why George had given my full name, as I would have called in as Joji Kusonoki if I was calling for him. George wasn't his legal name - Belle hadn't been mine. Though I still knew he knew I hated being called Isobelle. I think he'd only called me that when extremely angry, which may have been a factor to that.
