Octavius

xxxiv

PAPI OCTAVIUS

        "It's been a while since I've seen you. Hasn't it? How are you dealing with everything?" The young woman asked in a low voice, dark eyes peering at me through thick-rimmed glasses. "You know there's no point in paying for therapy if you're not going to actually talk?"

"Good." I answered, my voice deep and gruffly exhausted with worry. My gaze flickered down to the cherry scrunchie around my wrist, gently tugging at the hair tie every few seconds. The young woman's eyes landed on the simple, insignificant action automatically reading my body language.

Dark eyes squinted at me, almost condemning my words. "Good? That's all I get? I've been seeing you for weeks now, Octavius, I think I deserve a little more than 'Good'"

        "Great."

        "Who was it? I mean it has to be someone pretty significant in your life because I've never seen you like this. Is today a significant holiday? Perhaps an anniversary?"

        "Cheryl." I released an frustrated sigh halting her words. Threading my hand through my dark tendrils of hair—curls that had grew longer over time—I crossed my legs and I slowly began to twist the silver rings carved into my fingers. "I don't know what you're expecting from me but I'm great. Wonderful, in fact."

As usual Cheryl—the new therapist I had started seeing—blatantly ignored my statement, her curious gaze flickering to the hair tie around my wrist. "Let's talk about that. You've been picking at it for the last hour. What's the significance?"

"Nothing." I answered a little too quickly. Fuck. Cheryl raised a blond eyebrow, then grasped her black pen and scribbled some therapist shit on the thick paper she held. Probably something along the lines of refusing to open up or some shit.

"It's hers," My deep voice murmured in hushed whispers, uttering the same words I hadn't spoken in a while.

Cheryl nodded slowly, jotting some therapist notes on her notebook before she glanced back towards me. Scrutinizing dark eyes behind thick-rimmed glasses silently demanded for me to continue and so I did. "Tsk. You don't get a name, Cheryl. Not today."

"Fair enough. Did you love her?"

My lips pursed thoughtfully and I carefully considered her abstract choice of words. "Do I love her? Yes, I do. I know where she is every minute of the day—every second.  Some might say I may be even obsessed, but I believe they go hand in hand. Obsession, love. Love, obsession. They may even be the same."

Glancing down at my fingers, I tugged harshly at the cherry scrunchie—her fuckin' scrunchie. "My previous therapist—forgot his fuckin name—encouraged me to step back. He said it was.. unhealthy. What do you think, Cheryl?"

        "You used present tense. I assume she's still alive?" Cheryl muttered under her breath, scribbling whatever the fuck she had been writing down for the past hour. Bingo. Smart.

        "You didn't answer my question, Cheryl."

        "You never answered mine." She dropped her black pen firmly on the paper, breathing in a deep sigh. Dark eyes behind those rimmed glasses, traveling to my face, and slowly yet silently observed my tattooed body.