⌁ Thunder ⌁ Lana Del Rey Fanfiction

chapter thirty-four: focus

"...Alejandra?" His voice registers in my mind with a hazy fade.

I'm still thawing out of the coldest, most frozen-still depths of my mind, and this mind is a projector running through a collection of frames, of stills, on a long strip of film.

the one I was focused on, turning into the only one I'd like to vacation in for the rest of my life.

"Sorry, I—what was that again?" I ask, feeling a shameful smile overcome the tightness of my lips.

Dr. Harrison chuckles to himself. Writes, like always, a little note in his journal on my observable behavior. I wonder what he writes.

Maybe that my smiles indicate I have a wandering, distracted mind. I want to know what he writes. Maybe that in itself, indicates something else.

"Ah, it's no use seeing you're not focused." he snaps back. But it comes out less like a snap, and more like a gentle, well-meaning reproach. At least I think.

I hope I come off as someone getting better.

I rub my palms together in my lap, pursing my lips as I shift my body uncomfortably. It's cold in here, colder than usual it seems. Usually it's warm and smells of lavender and clean laundry, probably meant to calm me down. But maybe it's all in my mind.

because of it, too.

"No, I'm here." I reassert, "For good." I clench my hands together, the grip of them in themselves more like hands clawing a hold onto an icy, slippery cliff that I could fall down from at any moment.

"Okay." he replies. His gaze falters, tells me his words are doubtful. "Why don't we talk about your focus for a bit, though?" he suggests. I know by the way he phrases it that it's less of a suggestion and more of a marker for what I should prepare myself for.

"Okay." I reply. I'm not mocking, just doubtful. Exactly like he was.

He squints. "You're thinking about—what's her name again—Lana, right?" his finger wags in my direction rather accusingly.

I try to keep my gaze straight, my mouth level, and my mind blank, but I fall apart as soon as he falls to a chuckle. My pursed lips form that upturned curve like a bad habit. "Stop," I whine, throwing my arm up to my face and burying my vision in the jagged corner of my inner elbow.

"No, let's do this. Right now." he blurts between his chuckle. I lower my arm just a bit, just to get a little peek into what his face says aside from his words.

am I ready to know what he writes?

He presents this situation lightly: but I know better than to take it so weightlessly.

I let my arm fall. "Let's do this." I repeat flatly. My cheeks burn a pink, I can feel it. I'm eager, but I'm also scared.

"You're invested in this relationship, if I'm not mistaken." He lifts a page or two, maybe just to make it seem as if he can prove this through a few nonsensical hieroglyphs. In reality, I know he says this from the top of his head.

I also know he means well.

I hum a yes along with a nod. I could say more, but I so so so want to know what he writes. Even if it's counted as hieroglyphical scribbles by my ego.