This Isn't Me.

You think you know?

I don't know what's going on. I'm back in the small sparsely furnished room that is 'Sherlock's. He's seated behind a tiny rickety looking pine desk and I'm opposite on an equally unstable chair. I look round as a woman enters the room, I couldn't call her a lady. She's dressed smartly, or at least she would be if the brownish paisley patterned pencil skirt fitted her properly and the expensive-looking silk pussy bow blouse, with mauve and orange stripes running diagonally across it, didn't clash horrifically.

"You must be... Laaayla!" She cooed, like an overenthusiastic aunt of mine.

"I am Miss Brass, yes." I replied. Not wanting to get off on the wrong, friendly, foot.

"I'm a child psychologist, La-" she paused, "Miss Brass." She corrected herself with a sideways glance towards 'Sherlock'

You're a child psychologist, I thought to myself. "I'm a teenager." I replied shortly.

"Yes, I'm aware of that." There was a false kindness in her voce that suggested she'd been here before, knew what she was dealing with, knew me. You think you know? I asked silently. You know NOTHING! "I'm just here to talk to you today," she continued, "I thought we could get to know each other! I don't believe we've met before." Still the aunty-like enthusiasm continued.

"Would you like me to leave the room?" 'Sherlock' asked the obviously preplanned question.

"It's up to you, I'm really not bothered," you really don't intimidate me. One of you, two, three, a hundred! Why should I care? It makes no difference. You all quote from the same book, ask the same questions, search for the same weak spots. Higher numbers can't intimidate me, only maybe get on my nerves- it'd be like a room full of echoes, a room full of clones.

Why did they insist on putting me throught this? Why do they seem to think that making me talk to a bunch of blithering idiots about my 'issues' is going to make any difference at all?

***

"Why are you here?" I ask the crazily-dressed woman "I just don't understand, we have Sher- the, erm, school psychiatrist... So why do I 'need' you?" I already knew the answer' of course, but she didn't know that. Don't want her thinkin I'm after her job now, do I? Not that I'm not, after her job, that is, when I'm older, better -if I ever get better... I want to be a psychologist. I am not sure exactly what kind yet (there are so many) but I do know one thing- I plan n being far better at my job than any of these idiots are at theirs...

"So you see," she finished, "That's why I'm here. I'm just more of a specialist in your kind of situation." I hadn't even realised she'd been speaking. It's a good job she didn't say aythig more than I expected, could've made myself look like a complete idiot!

"What happened whenn you first... Stayed off school?" The 'specialist' asked with a facade of innocence, pretending not to be digging for dirt, I mean 'valuable information about my case' that could 'help my future' yeah, of course I meat that.

"You mean when I first became ill, don't you?" I know you don't, after all you don't even believe I am ill, do you?

"Okay then" a false smile played on her lips, the same trust-requesting one 'Sherlock' seemed rather fond of. This particular kind of smile isn't quite like the usual false sdmile that doosent reach the eyes. I looked into her eyes now and saw them widen by a tiny amount, an attempt to look innocent? Trying to portray a friendly, kind-hearted curiosity? Maybe just a gesture, an invitation, for me to say more. A way of telling me: it's okay! you can trust me, open up... Go on say whatever you want. Just between you and I, eh? No. No way.