Someone Out There Loves You (Adopted by Frank Iero)

1

ALEXA

I sat forward in my chair trying to hold in a gasp, my hands grabbing the arm rests for support. I hated this.

My psychiatrist, Melinda, was determined to get me to open up. However, that meant delving into depths that should never be explored out of fear of what it will stir up. There's a reason we don't explore the deepest parts of the ocean. I wasn't sure when she would realise that. I have already given her a brief rundown on my past, what traumatised me as a child, the problems I'm dealing with now. I had to give her something. Enough to give her the impression that I was trying, that I wanted help, that this was helping me. That didn't mean I would give it all away. She should know that by now.

Once you've told someone all your secrets, what do you have left to hold on to?

As Melinda sat across from me, her wooden desk separating us, she rambled on about coping mechanisms and our plan for next week. I was too busy staring at myself in the reflection in the glass window behind her to bother taking a word in. Long, blonde hair, half straight and half wavy. I tucked a strand falling in front of my face behind my ear and sat up straighter. I never made an effort. My big hazel eyes framed by dark eyelashes should have looked lively. My olive skin, the only nice thing I inherited from my father. I should have been pretty.

"I think we can wrap it up there, Alexa, unless you have anything else you want to talk about?"

She peered up at me, finally looking up from her notepad. I didn't realise I was bouncing my leg until she spoke those magical words: 'I think we can wrap it up there.' I shook my head at her and looked down at my hands.

"You did well today."

It wasn't hard to tell that she was unhappy with my progress, or should I say, lack of. I smiled at her anyway, making it as realistic and non-forced looking as possible. She was always kind to me, I had no reason to hate her. I just hate being here. I hate the constant prying. I hate being forced to go into places I don't want to. I hate people pretending to care.

"Thank you, Melinda," I said quietly with a nod.

I let out the breath I didn't realise I was holding. It felt like my lungs were suffocating with every passing minute in the small room which was made to look kid friendly. What does that even mean? The green walls and stuffed animals on the bookcase couldn't fool anyone.

As I pushed myself up from the stiff chair, it squeaked against the vinyl floor and I held in a cringe. It was the same feeling as nails on a chalkboard, that whole body shudder. For some reason unbeknownst to me, I had to make a scene one way or another.

I kept my head down and hurried out of there before Melinda could say anything further because I could feel growing awkward tension in the air. It was always like that when you would wrap up a session - that weird in between of her finishing her notes and typing them up on the computer and me trying to leave without drawing more attention or somehow finding a way to fuck it up. One time I opened the door to leave only I hadn't opened it wide enough and so my right shoulder slammed into it in a way that wasn't able to be played off and all it did was make me look like an idiot. Sometimes I hated myself, then other times I hated myself.

I was eager to escape from my one on one session because I had just been given my privileges back for showing 'improved behaviour'. The constant supervision because of my little 'stunt' was growing old. I was glad to have some freedom restored, and even more glad to get back to the the art and music therapy room.

If you ask me, the doctors and nurses were being dramatic with the whole restriction-and-supervision business. Yeah, I might have 'forgotten' to give back the knife when the nurse came round to collect our plates from dinner. And yeah, I might have tried to use said knife to get out of my head for a bit. But come on, you can't do much damage with a plastic knife. I couldn't even cut through the lousy hospital food potatoes.