Everyone gathered around in the recovery facility with a tired look on their faces. My eyes flickered around from person to person, each with a different story, each with a different background. It fascinates me how much one can understand about someone just by the first look. One look is enough to make someone melt, one look is enough to make someone laugh, and only one look is enough to make someone vulnerable.
In fact, that very look of vulnerability once framed my face. My story is as depressing as everybody else's in this room. However, mine is pettier. I am Ishita and I am a victim of sexual assault. Being raped has played a huge role in my life. It has made me who I am today; a shell of a (Wo)man. Naturally, my fear and search for care are what forced my family to send me off to recovery.
Adjusting the straps of my backpack on my shoulder, I looked at my parents one last time. My mother who is your cliché fifty-year-old woman has a jet black mane with only a few gray strands. I wonder if she dyes her hair black over and over again to seek some sort of compliment out of my father. My father is a unique person. With a mind of his own, he has a habit of walking out on families. My mother is his third wife and let me tell you, he has walked out on us before as well.
A woman's hand rests on my arm, making me look up. To my relief, I find my mother looking at me with her concerned eyes. "Will you be okay on your own?" she asks and rubs my arm up and down. I tuck in my dark hair behind my ear and nod, "I will be alright....I guess."
My father who seems somewhat interested in the conversation moves from his position and stands beside me. "Now if there is anything you feel like sharing..-" "-There are professionals on call. Dad, I know the drill. I will be fine," I reassure them. No matter what my differences are with them, I don't need my parents wallowing forever over something that happened to me. Technically, it doesn't even involve them.
I wave them goodbye and drag my belongings behind me to the counter to get my room number. Not everyone gets their own private room. Only those struggling with an addiction or setback do, and they can choose not to. But most of them do. I did. I didn't bother reading the lady's name and set my drivers license on the table.
"Hi, I am Stacey. How may I help you?" The old woman asked me with a small smile. How can she smile in such a depressing place such as a recovery center? The world may never know.
"Uh, I am here for the lost angels camp..?" I trailed off not wanting to talk more about the dreaded therapy classes. Stacey's mouth formed an 'o' shape and she nodded.
"Hmm. So you are here for your room? I am guessing," she tilted her neck a little and laughed. I nodded with a blank look on my face. I slid my driver's license to her which she used as an ID to find all my information.
"Aha! Here is your key," she passed me a key in a keychain that said I am a survivor. She must have noticed me looking at the keychain with hate that she put her hand over mine.
"In a while, it will be true," she whispered and gave me a nod of encouragement. Will it?
YOU ARE READING
Ineffable || Louis Tomlinson a.u.
Fanfiction"so what are you in for?" ∆∆ "sexual assault, you?" ∆∆ "drug abuse" ∆∆ INEFFABLE (adj) too great to be expressed in words.
