Acquainted ⇒ Brett Talbot

I. Reflection

The waiting room is a bland beige walled room with ugly patterned seats and a small television. All in all, I thought that perhaps a more cheerful room would do patients some good. After all, we were all here because something was wrong with our mental stability.

This is the third time I have found myself in this waiting room. Disappointingly, it hasn't gotten much better than the first time. The walls still feel too close and a melancholy fog of negative emotions seems to suffocate everyone in the room.

There are only two other patients waiting today: a sullen middle aged man with deep sunken wrinkles and another teenage girl with hair swept across her forehead and eyeliner pooling under her eyes. The two seem pretty content with keeping to themselves, as is the case at Devenford Mental Facility.

Of course, we have all been forced here by someone else. For me, that was my auntie. June was a lady of forty with a no-nonsense view on everything and believed that I was an injured puppy that needed closure.

I knew my parents were dead. I didn't see how a therapist was going to help. But even so, I went to these stupid therapy sessions. I was old enough to move on, no matter how much it hurt. People die, life goes on. It was pretty simple, really. However, what the practical side of my brain failed to comprehend was why I would sometimes find myself awake at three in the freaking morning, curled into a ball and sobbing until my eyes were raw.

Either way, the therapist hadn't helped much at all. Her questions were monotonous and clinical. I never felt a hint of comfort in any form after our weekly sessions.

One by one, the other two patients silently slip out of the room to their own therapy sessions. I check the time. Two forty-five. Half an hour past my scheduled appointment. I don't know why I still bother showing up on time since Dr Clarkson is almost always running late. Of course, my auntie insists on hurrying me out the house as soon as it hits quarter to two.

Ten minutes later, Dr Clarkson enters the waiting room and calls my name. "Lenore Harrington," she says in her sickly sweet voice.

I have a severe dislike toward Dr Clarkson. The woman is just too perfect. Like those aliens that fester inside of human beings in those apocalypse movies. Her black hair is pulled into a tight bun at the nape of her neck. Her eyes are a bright turquoise and her lips always have impeccably applied fuchsia lipstick. Her milky, unblemished skin is pulled taut over her sharp cheekbones. I have no doubt that she's had some work done - her skin looks like it's been through one of those retouching programs.

"Please, sit," she says. I slump back into the plush cushioning of the couch, shifting in my seat. "Lenore," she says, her lips curving into a smile. "How have you been since our last meeting?"

My lips twist into a smile of their own. "Great," I reply, folding my hands in my lap. "Just great." I fail to mention the three a.m. crying sessions.

"Mm," she coos. "I see. You don't need to lie to me."

I raise my eyebrows. This is the first time she has ever acknowledged my lack of honesty with her. "I'm not lying," I protest, raising my voice slightly.

Dr Clarkson holds up both her palms in a gesture of defence. The woman thought I was going to go fucking violent sociopath on her. I clench my jaw. I hate feeling like that. Like everyone is expecting me to one day snap and hurt somebody.

"Calm down, sweetheart," she says calmly, her eyes softening. My hands are clasped together in my lap, my nails digging into the flesh on the back of my hands.

I exhale loudly. "I'm sorry," I say, smiling sweetly.

"It's alright, Lenore," the therapist says. She lays both hands on the table. "Now, let's move on. The first step of getting over grief is accepting it. Lenore, you need to understand that your parents are gone. Even though it might seem like the end of the world, it's not."