Again? Another bump on my face- a really fucking painful one. More scabs and cystic acne littered my forehead and chin. The mirror grabs my attention, caressing my cheeks and suddenly tears at my imperfections like brittle tissue paper.
I stare at the frantic features in front of me. Shaking, clawing... Crying. I should know by now that tearing away the support that could heal me may someday stop helping.
A small flash of light catches my eye in the mirror. In the sink, surrounded by rusty-yellow scabs and blood, was what looked like a whole fingernail. Yet, when I lifted it for further inspection, the tiny smooth object seemed much more sturdy. The nail-like structure was incredibly beautiful, and the colors reminded me of a clouded opal.
I carefully slipped it into a wooden bowl with my other oddities and returned to my singular washroom to cleanse my face.
Usually my dermatillomania episodes happen subconsciously. At least, that's what I believe. My current psychiatrist thinks it's just a coping mechanism.
He knows it's an addiction. I know it's an addiction.
I sit in the waiting room next to the sputtering fountain. I would miss the damn thing. It fueled awkward silences between the crazies in the room.
"Ms. Shesui?" a voice attracted everyone's attention. The polite woman motioned for me to follow her down the rickety hall to my psychiatrist's office.
Closing the thin door behind me, I was greeted by the familiar asshole leaning back in his creaky desk chair. He pushed his sunglasses onto his greasy forehead with his frail (yet still managing to be flabby) arms.
"Ah... Emery. It's been so long." Mr. Angus says with a fake smile, fiddling with his dark glasses. I don't bother laughing at his 'wit'- I was here two days ago.
It always astounded me that he wears his sunglasses indoors, just to dramatically remove them when a patient arrives. I'm here for advice and meds, not a Broadway performance.
"Yeah. I wanted to have you fill in the paperwork out for the rehabilitation center," I hand him the wad of confirmation papers, "but it seems your email address is invalid..." Even though we email each other appointment schedules pretty much every day.
Angus's beady blue eyes waver to different corners of the room as he clears his throat, "Uh. Look... I just can't sign those. C'mon Emery! You know you're my last patient. I can't afford to lose you."
Is this guy even certified? I cross my arms over my chest, fuming. "Excuse me? Two years ago, you wanted me to be stuck in that place, and I quote, 'Mrs. Shesui, I'm afraid to allow you to live on your own. You may find better help in the'," blahblahblah, "'Center'..."
The grimy man guiltily met my eyes, and I almost felt sympathetic. Key word: almost. I shot him my best if-you-don't-sign-my-psyco-papers-I-might-accidentally-rip-out-your-throat look and cutely smiled as he hesitantly collected the papers, hands shaking. I stood up and politely voiced, "I presume you'll have these papers done by tomorrow? Please be quick," I widen my eyes, "I don't want to, you know, start freaking out like last time. That was expensive."
I was well aware that nothing happened last time but Angus's lack of memory sometimes served to my advantage. He looked intimidated.
"Yes, ma'am," he adds, "Are you really sure about this?" Angus tried to give me a puppy dog look but he only managed to look like a constipated meatball.
I narrow my eyes, nodding. With flourish, I try to step through the door but manage to stub my toe on the raw edge of plywood, hissing. Way to make an exit, Emery.
Surprised at how much my toe is giving me trouble, I limped to the bathroom floor and plopped down. It was bleeding like the second day of a drama queen's period. Digging around in the wound with some tweezers, I try to extract the the flimsy pieces of wood and manage to remove all I could identify.
I started to get up to look for some ointment and a band-aid, when a stabbing pain shot through my toe. A slight squelching noise resonated through the small restroom. Shit. That hurts.
Crumpling onto my butt I see another sliver of something buried in the raw flap of skin. With quivering hands, I pinch it out, might I add with complete and utter agony, to find an object almost exactly the same size of the 'nail' I found this morning. The pain was almost unbearable as I staggered up, gasping. "What the fuck?
Last time I checked, hallucinations were absent in my attendance book.
I didn't know how to feel as I brewed some camomile tea. I think a nice, long shower was in order. Maybe I'll even treat myself to some pastries in the morning. Only a couple more days till rehab.
I woke up to a horrible itching sensation on my shoulders and a gentle tapping on the door which was (not so) conveniently a couple feet away from my bed. With a groan, a slipped a t-shirt over my head, not bothering to look acceptable for the nuisance at my door.
Now that I think about it, no one really visits my room. Or talks to me. As a matter of fact, the only other people I talk to are my physiatrist and workers at the cheap food place below my apartment. Too bad I don't have a peep-hole on my flimsy door. Fuck it, I
don't really have anything to lose.
I might as well go down in style. Clumsily flinging open the door, I presented myself in my full fledged, half-naked glory. Maybe if it's a kidnapper, they'll get scared and run away.
"... so we might have to use force- Oh! Shit... um, hi. Uh, are you wearing pants-" she was cut off when one of the mystery girls elbowed her partner.
"Sorry about that, she's new to the job. Ms. Clark meant to ask if you were Emery Shesui, and if you were prepared to leave today, assuming you received the email from Mr. Angus...?"
