Her Favourite Angel

The man sat across from me was your everyday, fairly annoying psychiatrist with cropped black hair and a slightly too big suit and shoes, accompanied with a black leather suitcase and a formal red tie. His eyes were on the small side- and his nose was strangely long, his mouth seemed to be stuck in an unsatisfied tug and hands were forever stuck together in contemplation. He held an air of someone who was ridiculously neat about him – his office reflected this with immaculately piled files, clean white surfaces and abstract paintings of, what was in reality, just a few strokes of grey paint on paper.

The desk was made of glass and silver metal; a lonely plant pot inhabited one corner of the desk, the plastic plant with-in a dull faded green, the flower a near invisible shade of blue. The chair I sat upon was structured so I had no choice but to sit up-right or face having the annoying curve dig uncomfortably into my spine, it was made from a black plastic which the surface of was rough. The guy in front of me however sat in a very comfortable looking cushioned desk chair, made of a soft, crème material.

I stared at him a second longer then suddenly found an interest in the window, it was slightly open and small noises from the outside world could be heard, tempting me to escape from here.

“Mr Williams?” My eyes snapped straight back to him, and he gave me a blank, emotionless face. It was all part of his job, to hide his emotions, never imply anything. When he was satisfied he had my attention he nodded.

“We have 5 minutes left of this session and you have yet to answer any of my questions “he informed me, his boring monotone voice going through one ear and coming out the other, I stared at him for what seemed like an eternity, he just stared right back, his mask didn’t even slip under my obvious discouragement.

My eyes slipped from him and back up to the clock, the main focus of my attention for the last half hour. It was only a simple white plastic clock, with the usual pointed black hands, but for that half hour every Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday my life revolved around it. 12:28pm; only two more minutes. My eyes fell back to him; he was still watching me, no doubt finding some fault with my behaviour and writing down on his little clip-board to add to my file later. I returned his emotionless look, just staring straight into his eyes, he didn’t look away like most did, he just kept the steady eye contact going until a particularly loud click from the clock clinging on the wall told me it was time to go. I rose to my feet and picked my Spitfire cap from the table, stuffing it over my dark head; I shot him an analysing look before heading towards the plain door and opening it. Before I stepped out into the reception beyond I heard him bid me good-bye in his practised, bland way. I closed the door behind me.

The girl behind the reception desk glanced my way then back down at her papers she was neatly organising into sections. I ignored her and made my way over to the waiting area, a gathering of two sofas and separate chairs, a table stood in-between, littered with various gossip magazines and out-of-date newspapers. I sat down on the edge of a crème sofa, and took my iPod from my pocket, switching it off hold I placed an ear-phone into my left ear and pressed down on play.

I’m not for you

You’re not for me

I’ll kill you first

You wait and see

You devil undercover

You’re not a prince

You’re not a friend

You’re just a child

And in the end,

You’re just one more selfish lover

I frowned as it started half way through the song, skipping the start and the chorus. I pressed forward and dropped the iPod into my lap, hoping I was in the mood for the next song. Hunching forward I trained my eyes on the entrance and waited for a man with dirty blonde hair to walk in with a familiar saunter and a wink at the receptionist.