Haunted

Haunted: Chapter One

I rubbed my head, leaning back on the tattered bedspread that had covered my bed for years. The pukey-yellow color would have been my last choice for anything, but it was the only thing left in the Bedding section at Goodwill, so that's what I got. Besides, it was better than nothing. At least I was warm.

"Nanami!" My mother called from down the hall of our small apartment. "It's time for your appointment! Hurry up!"

I sighed deeply, pushing myself off the bed. Grabbing my jean jacket -which was a couple sizes too small- from my closet, I rushed down the dimly lit hallway, my footsteps thudding on the uneven floorboards. I skidded to a halt in front of my mother, who looked at me in a dissaproved  way.

"Nanami, the appointment starts in 15 minutes! Ugh- look at you! You're all disheveled! I wish you could change out of that outfit, but you don't even have time to brush your hair!" My mother reprimanded. "You need to get out of this habit of rushing to get to things 5 minutes late. What will people think?"

She attempted to comb my unruly, raven black hair down with her fingernails, but to no avail: My hair was a mess of tangles, every day, even if I showered and brushed it straight. Swatting my mother's hands away, I fixed my hair how I liked it: Tucked behind the wire arms of my oval glasses, nice and long and loose. My mother sighed in exasperation as she shoved open the front door, which liked to stick to the frame, especially during the Fall.

I dragged my feet and lagged behind Mother as we trekked down the seemingly endless flight of stairs that creaked beneath our feet. We lived on the tenth floor of an old, rickety apartment that seemed ready to fall down at any moment. I dawdled, looking at a sign posted near old Mr. Gordon's door. Mother, who was almost a flight of stairs below me, turned around and shouted up, "Nanami, come ON! We're going to be too late if you keep this up."

I heaved a sigh and trudged down the stairs after her. It seemed like no time at all had passed when we arrived at our dented Honda, bought broken and fixed by my mother herself. Yanking open the door of the passenger seat, I climbed in and settled down with my notebook that I'd kept since the airplane accident. It helped me deal with the... aftershocks. 

A full minute later, the car rumbled to life. Mother leaned back in her seat, pulling out of the cramped street parking lot and onto the road, navigating the twists and turns of our neighborhood. I turned to a new page, staring at the pristine, crisp white page. I fiddled with my pen, not knowing what words I could put on the page. This surprised me slightly, as usually the words flowed from my head and onto the page like water from a faucet. I ended up scribbling on the whole page and slamming the notebook shut in exasperation.

A mere 10 minutes later, we arrived at the office. On the door, words were stamped in big, bold colors: DR. MARK HOEBRINER, PhD. I scowled at the words, wishing they would disappear. Wishing that the doctor himself would just dissapear.

As Mother went to sign us in at the front desk, I sank into one of the hard office chairs and surveyed the room suspiciously: I already didn't like it. The walls were painted a sickly green, which clashed horribly with the dark orange table located in the middle of the small office. There were small windows with bars like a jail, as if we were trapped in here. That alone gave me the creeps. Startlingly bright red curtains edged the windows, and hallways snaked off the waiting room. I shuddered in disgust. I didn't have much, but at least I knew that dark orange DIDN'T go with pea green.

Mother returned to the seat next to me, setting down her small black purse first and then sitting down daintily. After 5 more minutes of sulking, the receptionist called out, "Nanami Toure, the doctor wishes to see you in Room 8 now."

I slowly pushed myself up from my seat. My mother stood up behind me, placing a gentle hand on my shoulder and edging me forward towards one of the hallways. I heard my mother murmur, "Room 5, 6, 7, ah! 8. Here we go."

Snaking her arm around me she knocked on the door: Three raps, quick and sharp. A muffled, male voice from inside the door answered us: "Come in."

The office was as ugly as the waiting room. An orange and burgundy carpet bedecked the floor, edges fraying. The walls were a crisp, clean white, and dark green curtains hung limp around the  jail-cell window, which was slightly larger in this room.

Mother grabbed my wrist, tugging me towards the two smog colored chairs underneath the window, at the back of the office. A small desk sat pushed up against the back wall, compete with a container of pens and a small rack of papers, all organized and tidy.

I hated it.

The doctor, if possible, was even worse. He was practically bald, but what hair he had was slicked back. He had thick, antique looking glasses that sat on the bridge of his nose, making his cloudy, gray eyes look large and foreboding. He wore a very traditional outfit: A tucked-in dress shirt and black pants, complete with brown men's dress shoes. A pen was clipped to the pocket of his shirt in a very business like way, and there was not a speck of dust on his outfit: Very orderly and crisp. He turned towards us in his desk chair, sticking out a worn and wrinkled hand to my Mother.

"I'm Doctor Hoebriner. You are?"

"Ayame Toure. Pleased to meet you, doctor."

While my Mother's voice was business like with a warm undertone, the Doctor's held no trace of kindness or welcome. His voice was a knife, hacking away at whatever crossed its path.

He turned towards me. "Nanami Toure, correct?"

I nodded my head, showing no sign of emotion, which I considered one of my better talents. It was important to have a good poker face.

He nodded back at me, curt and proper. "Let's get right to the subject of this meeting, then. We are here to talk about Nanami's... flashbacks."