Our Blood Is Tainted

Hollie

Chapter3

Hollie

I could feel their eyes boring into me from behind the mirror. They obviously thought I was thick, and that I believed the mirror was there to help me apply make-up, and not there for hundreds of psychologists and cops to have a good gawp at me without me knowing, but I’m not thick so I know.

The seat was uncomfortable. One of those plastic ones you get in schools that make your backside go numb so you have to fidget to try and get comfortable. Only that doesn’t work because there’s a person droning on and resembling an angry wasp telling you to sit still.

I knew that the walls around me were anything but brick or concrete or plaster board. They were like rubbery cotton, just in-case I decided to bang my head against them or something they expected somebody like me to do.

The panic is rising, like an overflowing river. You can’t stop the river over flowing; you can’t grab the water and throw it back in. It’s unstoppable, so all that you can do is let it happen. That’s how I feel right now. And I know that I’m failing.

But I’m not going to show them my fear; that’s what they want. They want a slight reaction. They really need that little bit of fear, panic, distress to make me crack. Deep down I can feel myself becoming more fearful. I’m scared and I have one hell of a reason to be.

“You’re scared.” She informs me, taking a seat on the table top.

“Go away.” I tell her, breathing deeply. I look directly at the mirror. I know that they’re all talking, they’re listening.

“I’m here for support.” She replies, crossing her legs and settling into the table.

“Support?” I scoff, “You made me like this.”

“Actually I didn’t. Your traumatic experience made you like this.”

“Then she made a mistake.”

I look away from her, knowing full well that she’s making me feel how they want me to feel. It’s her fault. It’s her fault that I’m like this. It’s her fault that I’m in this mess. I fix my gaze on the door, waiting, practically begging for somebody to walk in. To start a normal conversation.

Normal. That word feels so foreign to me now. I’m anything but normal. But then what is normal? Who or what can be called normal? Not me, that’s for sure. I remember begging my Mum to call me normal, repeating it over and over in my mind during the night.

But she didn’t. My Mum that is, she never, not once called me normal. I was always the Black Sheep, unique, special and gifted. Never normal. Never what I longed, hoped, dreamed of being. Most little girls dream of being a princess or being a famous model or being a ballerina.

Me? I dreamt every damn night for the first ten years of my life to be normal. The door clicked. I looked up, my heart skipping beats. She was short with bobbed red hair that jumped around her shoulders as she moved forwards, towards me.

She took a seat on the opposite side of the table. Smiling, she introduced herself. “Hello. I’m Debbie and if you’re comfortable we’ll start asking some questions. Is that OK?” Her high pitched voice echoes the room. I nod; barley, but she didn’t want an answer.

“I need some yes or no answers and then we’re going to mingle.” She told me as she settled into a padded seat.

Again, I nodded.

“Your name is Hollie, yes?”

“Yes.”

“You are,” she checks the papers she’d laid out in front of her, “fourteen years of age?”

“Yeah.”

“Your current address is Glass Street?”

“Sometimes.”

“You go to school?”

“No.”

Debbie looks up, almost glaring. “Why not?”

“I don't like it.”

“Would you like to elaborate on that sentence?”

“No.”

I’m amazed that she has been quiet for this amount of time. I’m waiting, dreading her to start doing her normal ritual. She’ll start it in a moment. She’ll push me towards cracking. It’s fun for her.

“Alright. I’m not going to make you do anything your unwilling to do. Now we’re just going to have a chat.”

“Fine.” I reply, suppressing the urge to take the biggest breath possible.

“Tell me truthfully, Hollie. Are we, meaning you and I, the only ones in this room?” Debbie asks.

“Tell her yes.” She demands.

My eyes swivel back to Debbie. “Yes.”

“Are you really sure about that?”

I can feel her now, her hand resting on my shoulder. “Say yes.” She hisses.

“Yes.” I lie.

Debbie frowns. “I believe both you and I know that statement is not true.”

“She’s telling me to lie.” I blurt.

Debbie nods. I feel her move behind me, feel her hand rising. “Leave me alone!” I yell behind me. I know what this looks like, a demented teenager pretending for all her life’s worth for attention. Or somebody absolutely crazy.

“What is she doing?”

I shake my head.

“Are you shouting for no reason then? Were you talking to me?”

“No... Yes... no.”

“I’ll ask again. What was she doing, or going to do?” Debbie probes.  I shake my head.

“I don’t know, but I can feel it when she’s around me.”

“She?”

I nod, knowing that when I’m alone, she’ll get me. She could kill me if she really wanted too. She would. I can feel the anger inside her; she’s waiting, holding her breath. Daring me to say something, to let slip about who she is.

“Does she have a name, Hollie?”

“If you tell her, you’ll be sorry.” She snaps.

“Yes. But I can’t tell you.”

Debbie nods again. “Is she telling you that if you tell me, that something bad will happen?”

“Yes.”

I look up at her. She glares at me. “Look at you!” she explodes, “What a pathetic excuse of somebody. Poor Hollie.  Be nice to Holly everybody, she’s all alone. Abandoned. Unwanted. A discarded item. Poor Hollie. Awwww. Is Holly going to cry? Poor little Holly. What’s wrong? Do you miss them? Poor, poor Hollie.” She taunts.

“Hollie?” Debbie’s voice pulls me away from listening to the constant, frequent jibes. “Are you alright?”

“Tell her your fine.”

“Fine.” I tell her, shifting in my seat.

“Are you afraid of her?” Debbie asks leaning forwards.

“A little.”

“Do you know why she’s here? With you?”

“No.”

“Don't trust them." She growls, but there's importance in her voice. I ignore it.

“You can find out. Let us help you.”