The Pieces He Needs

Chapter three ↠

I step out into the cold air, the wind brushing past my face and sending shivers down my spine. Scandinavia was always cold, but it was early December, so it was even more than usual. I squelch my feet into the snow for a second, feeling the iciness under my feet. It wasn't the nice, soft kind of snow, but rather the lumpy, disgusting type. Gross. I trudge lazily towards my car, my whole boy aching from last night. But especially my arms. It takes all the energy I have to open the car door and hop inside, but once I'm in I release a breath of sheer release. It felt good to sit down. Not having to worry about cooking breakfast for Sam and giving him his suit and making sure he has everything. I'd learnt my lesson a long time ago, that if I forgot to remind him of something or feed him in time, I would have hell to pay. It wasn't his fault, though, he was working a big job and long hours. I would be exhausted too. And he provides almost everything for me. Our house, food, the fact that we live in such a nice neighbourhood. I work, but it doesn't pay much.

I switch the engine on in the car. It was time to meet my therapist.

***

"Hello and you must be... Amanda?" The receptionist questions, typing something characterlessly into her keyboard. She looked like a cake, her entire face coated with makeup. I couldn't help thinking she could be quite attractive behind it all. "You have an appointment with Mr Ben Davis.. is this correct?"

"Yes" I try to smile sweetly, but I find it hard to manage. I haven't smiled genuinely for as long as I can remember. 

"Just take a seat and he'll be here with you in a minute" She says in a monotone voice, typing frantically once again.

I take a seat next to a young girl, around the age of 18. She wore small glasses and shiny blonde hair. She was quite striking, pretty even. But I couldn't help but notice how skinny her arms were, like twigs. I could see the bones through her thin skin, if there were any. She had not a single bit of fat on her body, and I couldn't help but feel a pang of guilt. She was going through something so difficult and there was nothing I could do about it. I guess that's why therapists do their job, because it makes them feel like they're doing something. Like they aren't as powerless as I feel right now.

But will my therapist be able to help me? The girl next to me is pretty, and probably talented. I'm neither of those characteristics, I'm nothing. Instead of blonde hair I have a disgusting brown, and instead of skinny arms I have plump, fat ones. I have freckles covering my face and ugly grey eyes. I'm lucky I can actually get a guy like Sam, that's the only thing I have going for me, I guess. 

"Amanda?" A smooth voice questions. I turn to look at him, and feel the blood rush up to my cheeks immediately. It was Ben, the one I had met at the coffee shop the other day. He wore a nicely fitting suit, and his hair was slicked sideways ever so slightly. Attractive.

"Um- yeah that me" I mumble, standing up and dusting my jeans.

He doesn't recognise me though, instead he smiles me and waves me in the direction we're heading. I follow behind him as we slowly descend into a hallway and then into a small looking room. There are two chairs facing each other and a lamp in the corner. The lighting is dim, but not too dark. Just right. They must adjust the temperature and lighting so that we feel comfortable I think pushing a strand of hair away from my face and moving from foot to foot nervously.

"You can take a seat." He laughs, "What ever makes you feel comfortable."

But I didn't feel comfortable, I felt extremely awkward. I sat down into the large, extremely comfy chair. Great, another thing to help us relax. He sits down in front of me, facing me directly. He folds his hands in his lap and crosses his legs. He wasn't the boy I remember from the coffee shop. He was different, somehow. When I had met him he wore casual clothes; jeans, a shirt and some converse. Now he looks like someone who just left the set of suits. His hair was more oily than usual, and he looked years older. Surely he wasn't much older than me.