Chemistry

  The woman's expression was neutral, not a hint of emotion peeking through. She had one leg crossed over the other, her slender figure nearly engulfed by the cushion of the chair she sat in.

The room was a dark puke green, the rest of the decor to match. She tapped her pencil on the clipboard in her lap, not so much impatiently, but it still made me nervous. I bit my lip.

She must be used to teenagers being forced into her office, only to sit silently, an unwavering glare placed firmly upon her. Her eyes hadn't strayed from my face, but they were not threatening. I felt words bubble in my throat. I couldn't speak, I felt ashamed and inadequate.

A soft smile pulled at her thin lips, the corner of her warm brown eyes crinkling. I dug my bitten nails into the thigh of my jeans. The words I had been trying so hard to keep hidden pressed down on my chest, a heavy pressure settling there.

She sat quietly, only watching me, not pushing me to speak, just waiting. I spared a quick glance at the clock mounted on the wall, and there was a quick relief at the realization I only had 10 more minutes. But it faded into a spiking panic that made it hard to breathe. She looked to the clock, as well, although her expression didn't even flicker.   

I wanted so badly to tell her everything, tell her the way it was too hard to get up sometimes, that sometimes I couldn't even force myself to smile, I was just too tired, but if I told her, it would become real, it wouldn't just be something I could tell myself was normal anymore.

By the time the appointment ended, I could taste blood, just one more wound added to the plethora already on my chapped lips. The woman stood, setting her clipboard down on the seat of her chair. There were a few scribbled notes, but I couldn't make them out as she escorted me from the room.

My mother sat, stiff as ever, a magazine open in her lap.

"Mrs. Harris," she called, drawing my mother's attention away from the magazine. My mother closed the magazine and tossed it back onto the table before standing, hiking her purse onto her shoulder.

"How'd it go?" she asked the woman, her question focused solely on the psychiatrist, not wanting to hear my mumbled answer of "Fine." The woman smiled.

"It went well, I'd like to see him back once a week until he speaks to me," she replied. My mother scoffed, her narrowed eyes coming to me.

"He didn't even speak, God," my mother sighed angrily. Oh boy, was I going to be lectured about this all the way back home. The woman frowned, glancing at me in concern at my mother's reaction.

"Isn't that your job? To get problem children to speak, tell you why they're so intent on ruining their parent's lives?" she nearly yelled. "Let's go, Ethan," my mother ordered, as she turned and practically stomped out of the building. I waved to the doctor lady, knowing I wouldn't be seeing her again, and followed after my mother, preparing myself for the lecture.

It didn't come, though. What I got instead was almost worse: silence. All the way home she said nothing, but the twitch of annoyance in her left eye was enough. It made me angry; she didn't understand, so her reaction was to be disappointed. I curled my hands into fists, digging my nails into my palms. I couldn't wait to get out of the car.

By the time we pulled into the driveway, a heavy tension had settled over the car, nearly suffocating. The moment the car jerked to a stop, I was up and out of there, slamming the door. All I wanted to do was crawl into bed and sleep. Maybe if I slept forever, I wouldn't be tired anymore... Unlikely.

~

I had woken up hours ago, but couldn't bring myself to get ready for school, much less even get up. I stared at the cracks in the wall, tracing them with my eyes. Dad had told me they were caused by an earthquake. A sturdy wall shaken so roughly it broke, not able to fix itself.