The Craters in the Moon

One day, I woke up and realized that I wasn't the person I used to be. Deep in my bones, there had occurred a monumental shift; comparable to removing a blindfold from one's eyes, some may say. But in the simplest of words, I had been sucked under a tidal wave called reality, and I had reached the realization that happiness was solely a screwed up, mental delusion that didn't agree with me.

Now, my mom and I were driving down I-95 in the direction of an interrogation room that others may dare to call "a therapist's office." I didn't need to go. I was perfectly normal, despite a natural case of "sadness" I had come down with. My mother caught me five days ago with a handful of assorted pills in perilous proximity with my mouth, so, pretty much overnight, I was deemed suicidal. Which was great.

Hence, the stupid therapy that wouldn't do anything except aggravate me beyond measure.

My mom turned into the gravelly parking lot and crookedly slid into an empty spot close to the entrance, which was a measly windowless door slapped on the front of a sleek, dark prison cell-esque building. As she turned off the ignition, she sighed and placed her hand on my knee. "You'll be fine."

"I don't want to be here," I grumbled, flaking her hand off my skin. I could think of a thousand places I'd rather be. Heck, I'd even take school over this.

I got out of the car and made my way towards the door, counting the steps my white converse made against the gray pavement. The air smelled stale and dead and stringy clouds overtook the dull sky. Maybe the universe was just as sad as I was.

We entered the stuffy waiting room and my mother went to check in with a receptionist. I sat down in the one seat I could find that was the furthest away from everyone else's, as routine. It was its own little island, and I liked that, so I pulled out a book I was almost done with and started reading -or rather, tried to. It was hard to concentrate with the knowledge of my impending doom. My mom came to sit across from me after a moment and flipped through an issue of some out-of-date magazine.

I folded my knees up to my chest so I'd look as small as possible.

Maybe she wouldn't see me.

But after just a few unsatisfactorily short minutes, the woman stuck her head out from behind a doorway. Nice hair, simple make-up, well-dressed. I could sense her Chanel perfume from where I was sitting ten feet away, and it struck me that I should have brought a gas mask.

"Arden?" she questioned, her voice lilting on the last syllable. I looked to my mom and she egged me on with a tip of the chin. I rolled my eyes, but stood up anyway. I pretty much had no choice.

"Hello, Arden," said the lady, who I'd come to know as Miss Berkhart. I coughed a bit as her poignant scent overtook my nostrils.

I crossed my arms and muttered a "Hi," not because I wanted to, but only for the sake of social protocol; a thing I detested. I never understood why exactly humans had to have a set collection of rules constricting all public behavior, commanding you to act opposingly to your feelings. Just another way society shackles us into doing what it wants.

Her heels clicked as we walked down a narrow corridor, and she led me into stuffed-smelling room. She sat down in a backless chair that easily rolled across the carpet, crossing her legs daintily at the ankles. I perched opposite from her on a musty, puke-colored couch, that I assumed had been occupied by hundreds of lost causes in the past.

Miss Berkhart revealed a black notebook from her purse and opened it up to a blank page, while pulling off the cap of a pen with her teeth.

"How are you feeling today?"

She glanced my way, putting the attention on me. Her pen was perched on the paper, eagerly ready to weasle it's way into every corner of my life.