Sympathy For the Devil

2

I stewed in my silence. I was skilled at remaining silent even as the tension grew. To my shrink, Luke, I was just another degenerate kid with a shitty attitude. I didn't bother trying to unravel my traumatic rollercoaster for someone who is only here because he gets paid to be. And I am only here to appease my dad.

Most of the time, Luke allows me to be silent. Silence seems to be more telling than filling the void with nonsensical chatter based on how many notes Luke jots down as I sink into the couch cushions further as the minutes tick by excruciatingly slow.

The therapy room is small and stuffy with one window with the curtains always drawn closed. The walls are brushed copper and the decor is riddled with dust. There is a bookshelf in the left-hand corner with a few outdated young adult novels that have probably been abandoned here. Most of the shelves are vast and empty. Luke's desk has no personality. There isn't even a knick-knack on the mahogany desk to reveal anything remotely interesting about him. Not even a single picture of his kids or wife that he probably has based on the golden band around his ring finger.

He does bring his dog to the office, though, Failinis, who always lays his head in my lap during these dragging sessions. Failinis is an interesting-looking dog with jet-black fur and eyes that are black and menacing. You would think that he would be aggressive, but he is the sweetest dog I have ever met. I would not want to get on his bad side, though, his teeth are jagged and sharp. He looks at the secretary like she is a meal whenever they cross paths. His baritone growl rumbles and shakes the room when he is in a mood. But Luke always seems to calm him down with a simple hand gesture.

"How are your brothers?" Luke began with his pressing questions.

"Fine," I spoke softly.

"And your father?"

"Also fine." Testiness seeped into my voice. Luke was pressing all subjects I did not want to talk about. Not that I wanted to talk about anything in this suffocating shoebox of a room.

"And are you also fine, Ellie?" I squeezed a blue stress toy tighter until it nearly popped within my grasp. The compression made it squeak in my grasp until my grip relented.

Instead of lying, I told the truth, "No." I let out a tired sigh. "I don't think I have ever been fine. Not completely anyway. I'm not even capable of understanding the complexities of being fine at this point."

Failinis whimpered at my candor as he burrowed himself further into my lap, licking my hand as I rested my hand beneath his chin. I gave him a light scratch to calm him down.

"Then what are you feeling? It doesn't have to be just now, why don't you generalize the feelings that have been stirred up the most within the past week? And explain to me why these feelings have been so heightened as of late?"

"Angry. I am so fucking angry. My anger has numbed me. I don't even think I feel emotions properly anymore. I just feel this building pressure within me that is going to erupt like Mt. Vesuvius one day." It felt like a weight had been lifted off of my chest that had begun to crackle and break.

I don't know why I suddenly decided to be truthful when the lies rolled easily off of my tongue, but a part of me relinquished control of my sniper tongue and the truth pooled out like word vomit.

"But it's more than anger, isn't it, Elle?" Luke set down his notebook and made full-fledged eye contact. His green eyes matched mine. For a moment his concern seemed genuine. He was listening to me when nobody else had bothered to listen to me for quite a while.

"Of course it is. I worked so fucking hard for my senior year and now my best friends stare at me like I am this deranged psychopath and my dad won't even let me try out for the musical this year because he is more concerned with my mental health. I get the importance of mental health, but being stuck in that fucking house is unbearable. And he won't move. So we stay in the stagnant death house where my mom, my fucking mom killed herself and everyone thinks I am going to be next. People usually die in threes. Why shouldn't I be next? Would anybody even care if I was... Next." I let out a shaky expel of air as I began to breathe again.