Final Room

18 | clarice starling

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN | CLARICE STARLING

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

          I decide to live, then.

          If there's one thing I know how to be, it's stubborn.

          After skipping every single meeting after the first one—and sincerely hoping no one devoted any precious time to discuss my less than appropriate behavior—I discover Claudia is no longer speaking to me.

          She tried to at first, reaching out via text during the remainder of the week and attempting to strike up a conversation with me during World Literature lectures with Nadia's help, but my lack of effort to reciprocate those communication attempts made her give up along the way. Though she hasn't adopted the passive-aggressive tactic of pretending I don't exist, things aren't how they used to be before I walked out on that group, and I'll have to learn to deal with that.

          My new sense of normalcy is fueled by the realization that my whole life will never go back to how it used to be, when my biggest concern was what to wear to university the following morning. If I can't go back to that, even though I agonize over everything I've lost every waking moment of my day, I'll have to make do with what I have and find my new normal.

          September fades into October, giving place to warmer, slightly duller tones, and Juneau is coated in hues of orange and yellow. I have to start wearing thicker clothes from the very beginning of the month, clothes I wouldn't wear until November in Chicago, and choose to look at it as something I'll have to adapt to instead of as an obstacle. If I can't be normal the way I once was, then I can at least try and find something new and comforting to hold on to. Not everything in Juneau is starkly different from Chicago.

          Halfway through the month, I put on my big girl panties and walk into Doctor Albott's office with my head held high for the first time since I arrived. A nagging voice at the back of my brain begs me to look back over my shoulder because I haven't done it once since leaving the house, which surely means I'm being followed and am in danger, and I almost give into it. Keyword being almost.

          It's not that big of a deal. Really. There are far bigger leaps I'll have to make, far bigger more difficult things I'll need to face, but Doctor Albott holds small steps with an iron grip and routinely insists I need to feel proud of myself for doing the littlest things, even those that seem insignificant.

          Fighting against a compulsion is exhausting. It takes every ounce of energy and motivation buried deep within me to do it and, even worse, to keep doing it even when I don't want to, even when giving up and letting go is the safest choice . . . in theory. The actual fear has yet to vanish, following me everywhere I go, and, just because I'm not giving into the temptation of checking my surroundings, it doesn't mean I'm not wary. 

          Today, I'm shaking like an earthquake when we meet, but I don't look nearly as wrecked as I did that one time I had to tell her all about the duality of Jake Horton. It's not necessarily an improvement as much as a return to baseline, and that's the one thing I'm not patting myself on the back over, but I don't ever want to see myself hit such a low point again.

           She doesn't offer me tea because of that, I believe.

          I'm shaking from the cold when I get in, only relaxing when she closes the door behind me, a habit she adopted after a month of sessions because I assume I must have been pretty annoying when I was unable to stop glancing at it. I feel much safer when she closes the door in my place, saving me from looking stupid around people who don't give a damn about me, and I suppose I should tell her that, but it's not something one knows how to word in a way that doesn't sound absurd.