Love Stamps

1 ~ Tick Tock

Tick.

Tock.

Tick.

Tock.

"Remind me again why I have to do this?" I huff in frustration through gritted teeth at Dr. Richard Atwell, my shrink, who sits leaning back in his plush leather chair with his arms crossed.

The white walls blend in easily with his skin tone; Atwell is an old irritating man, with a balding grey head and spectacles which makes his green eyes look huge on his mousey face.

He is one the most frustrating men I have ever met, and what he's asking me to do is exciting and terrifying and the same time.

Tick.

Tock.

"Because it is one step closer to help your healing process. You need to communicate more with other people." Atwell replies calmly, scratching his pointed nose before clasping his hands in his lap again. He's too used to dealing with my tantrums.

It's impossible. I won't do what he's asking.

I can't. It's against the rules.

Tick.

Tock.

"And waiting for the letters will help improve your patience. For what you went through, you sure have freed your fiery personality." He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, entwining his fingers.

His chair is opposite the glass coffee table, his half-drunk mug steaming on a 'best grampa' coaster. My full cup sits on the glass, next to the coaster he laid out for me; I always do this because I know it annoys him, and its one of my tricks I do in hope that he will send me home quicker. I want to be at my little apartment before rush hour to minimize social interaction.

He knows it's against the rules, but he wants me to do it anyway.

Tock.

I roll my eyes at him dramatically, trying to mask my fear and anxiety. I can't talk to a man. Its against the rules. I know what happens when I go against the rules.

Tick.

My hand automatically goes to my left thigh, the scarred flesh bringing back unwanted memories from my past. I'm here to forget, not remember. Forget not remember.

Tock.

Atwell's eyes soften when he notices my hand, which I retrieve quickly, shoving it back into my comfy grey hoody. The clothes I'm wearing are simple - my hoody and a pair of black sweatpants. My options are limited near to none: hoodies, sweatpants, long sleeve shirts, turtlenecks, baggy jeans, sweaters... Basically everything you don't want in summertime. Or ever, because it makes you look homeless. But beggers can't be choosers.

Tick.

"I suppose they don't have to be male. We can see if any female prisons participate in a letter program." Atwell suggests, noting this may have been a bit too far. This makes me relax a little - there is no rule against talking to women. As long as nobody asks too many questions. People in letters usually ask a lot of questions.

Tock.

That thought makes my stomach turn, and my anxiety is instantly back, hitting me like a truck. Women are very judgemental. If I tell them about my personal life they will compare it to theirs and brush it off as no big deal. I don't think I could take that. Or the rejection of no one replying to my letter.

Rejection makes me feel weak, and I don't want to feel weak again.

"The program I was thinking about signing you up for doesn't get many writers. A person there wouldn't reject you as they fear no one else talking to them."

Tick.

Damn. Did I say that out loud? Atwell continues,

"They don't submit what they were incarcerated for either, so you would get to know that man or woman based soley on who they are. They may choose to tell you, and you may choose to tell them what-"

Tock.

"I would never!" I shriek, leaping off the plush white couch which I was awkwardly sat on. I run a sweaty palm over my hair which I pinned up in a ratty loose bun. Atwell jumps a little but regains his composure and adjusts his glasses. He is aware he made a mistake. It's too early in the process to think about storytelling.

Tock.

"So, what you're saying is I should write a letter to a person I have never met, who is in jail for God knows what crime which you won't tell me, and pour my horrific life story out to some violent stranger who doesn't give a fuck?!" I ramble loudly, pacing back and forth in the small gap between the couch and the coffee table. My stress level is off the charts; my heart feels like it's about to burst out of my ribcage.

"Miss Ava, please sit back down!"

"Ava, sit the fuck down you useless whore!"

My muscle reaction takes over my body in an instant. I sit exactly where I sat before, my head bent a little with my legs pressed together, my elbows resting on my lap. My left hand wraps around my right forearm, my fingernails aligning with the four moon shaped scars I know are there below my hoody.

Tick.

The moment I realise what I have done I feel immediately ashamed, but I know Atwell feels much worse about himself. A tear slides down my cheek.

"Oh, so now your fucking crying! Boohoo. I caught you out with your new boy toy, how the fuck did you expect me to react?"

Tock.

I rush to wipe it away using my sleeve, the painful memory slicing through me, and I don't dare look in Atwells direction, but I am forced to when he cautiously takes the seat next to me, clasping my hand which I wasn't even aware was shaking in his.

Tick.

"Look at me." He says, softly touching my chin with his fingers so that I can see his apologetic face. "You are not there. You are here. In this room. Not there."

Tock.

I nod and try to regulate my breathing. After a couple minutes, Atwell gives my hand a squeeze, then slips back into the seat opposite me.

Tick.

"They will be a stranger, yes, which means you don't have to worry what they think of you. You can simply say what you want and not feel pressured into anything." He says this slowly so that I don't freak out again, and I appreciate it. I need a calm voice.

His voice was never calm.

"You won't see them or even hear them talk over the phone until you're comfortable with it." Atwell takes a quick glance at the clock, which reads nearly the end on our session.

I begged him to take the clock down. The excruciating sound reminds me so much of my past that it nearly knocks me back to square one in the healing process every time I come in, but he said that facing the hostile nostalgia is a valuable part of moving on from it.

Somehow, I don't believe him for a second.

"Please just think about it."

I nod, getting slowly to my feet. How could I not think about it? My even more restless nights would become even more frequent now. I head to the door at the back of the room, and I reach for the handle when Atwell says,

"Oh, and Ava?" I turn my head to look at him, guilt still written all over his face.

"He doesn't control you anymore. Remember he's locked up, and he can't get out."

I give Atwell a small nod then walk out of the door, refusing to let him see the tears which prick at my eyes.

Yes, Flynn is paying for his crimes.

The only complication is that I am too.