UNSEEN

ONE

I've always felt red and brown is an odd colour combination. An Abhorrent one, in fact. It's like mud and blood.  Brings back bad memories. Or just brings out bad ideas. I'm incapable of knowing for sure. I shift my gaze from the brown wall and the red couch to her. But then I see her red hair against the wall and feel like throwing up again. 

One realizes how beautifully tall she is when she stretches out her legs, the left one on the right. She's waiting for my answer, patiently. That's her job, isn't it? Problem is I don't remember the question. I wasn't listening. 

"Have you been having nightmares, lately?" , she repeats herself.  I open my mouth to say yes but I feel the urgency to correct her. I always do.

"I wouldn't call them nightmares. That's not what they are. "

She leans forward, like she's interested.  " And what do you think they are?"

"Memories." I say, with stiffness in my tongue.  

She breaks into a breathtaking smile. I want to kiss her neck. I wonder if she's interested in me but I figure not. She's older, probably in her early thirties. Plus, although I'm not sure, she's straight. 

"How can they be memories if they never happened?" 

I think about what she said. I can still feel the rain on my eyelids, on my hair. The car headlight still blinds me. And I can most certainly see her smile. I see the gap between her teeth and the wetness in her eyes. The appalling sound still rings in my ear. It couldn't seem more real. But it was, without a doubt, just an apparition. I was home that night, watching the scream movies. I don't remember which part. 

"probably." I say, abruptly. I don't wish to argue. I just want her to let me go home. If she's not going to do that, she should just ask me out. It's about time. 

Three minutes left for the session to be over, she asks me "What do you not feel, Reece?" 

she always asks me this as a replacement for "what do you feel?" It's always easier to answer. I always know what I don't feel.

It's still hard in general. my throat is dry and my eyes are heavy. I hate being in therapy, despite the fact that I have the most gigantic , overwhelming crush on my Therapist. 

"I don't feel like hurting myself, or anyone else. "

her face remains neutral. "That's progress." 

I smile at her. At least I try to. I don't believe I need this therapy. Doesn't change the fact that the rest of the world wants me here. I get up and walk toward the door. She reminds me to take my meds (anti depressants ). I nod and shut the door behind me. The silver plate on it reads 'MEGAN LANCASTER'.

As I walk out into the main hall, Molly, the receptionist , waves at me, expecting me to wave back. I don't. I love the feeling of letting people down, making them hate me with all they have in them. I love it more than life. 

Once I'm out, I realize I wasn't prepared for the cold. I rub my palms against my forearms. My cellphone starts to buzz in my back pocket. I don't pick it up, for It's the only thing around that's radiating heat. Also, because I know without looking it's my mother.  She's going to tell me that she's worried about me, that she wants me back, that she doesn't want to lose me , like she lost Liv.

She acts like pain goes away. It does, but not for everyone. She doesn't understand. She never will, because she's not me. We both feel pain, but it's of two different kinds. Hers is the pain of losing her daughter. Mine, the pain of losing my sanity. Also, she has Evan in her life to help her cope. 

Evan is the man she's been fucking for the past two years. He stays with us too. I don't like calling him my stepfather. The term is too unnecessary. I have nothing against him, I don't. We just choose to keep our distances. It's better that way. No talks, no interactions, no arguments, no fights, nobody dies. except, people die. Liv died and no one seems to know how. No one seems to know why. 

I watch the cars go by. I don't understand how nobody else sees it. Maybe it's not there. Maybe I'm just imagining it. But it's so clear, I am certain the drivers in the cars that pass me by follow a pattern. 

First comes a young girl, trying to make it into the big world. She is followed by an older man, likely to be in his middle age, desperate for love. Then there's the wife that's being cheating on, and then the son, looking for a way to get away from his broken home. It's a cycle. It's not real, but I like to believe it is. Makes walking down the street much more interesting. 

I hear someone calling out to me. It's my name.  I turn around. It's Andrew, Liv's boyfriend. Liv's ex- boyfriend. Ex-Liv's boyfriend. Point being: they were still together when Liv died.

It's not a surprise, seeing him here. He's in therapy, too. In fact, he's the one that recommended Megan Lancaster to my worried mother. He's wearing his dorky glasses with a white shirt. 

Every time I see him, I feel my stomach knotting. Maybe he killed her. Maybe he knows someone who did. I see her blood on his hands, like I see on everyone else's. He's coming closer. I don't have a good feeling about this, so I run. 

I run for his life.