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✯ E V E L Y N ✯
"Do you know why you're here?"
The sight of a blonde woman behind her desk blurs for a second before she comes into focus. I shrug my shoulder noncommittally, dropping my gaze to my legs in skinny jeans. I pick at a loose thread on my thigh and ignore Dr. Paige's quiet sigh.
I hear the shuffling of papers and the scribble of a pen on a page; I hear my quiet intakes of breath; I hear the stupid birds outside Dr. Paige's office; I hear the clock mounted on the wall, ticking; I hear everything. My senses are sharpened, my defense is raised up, my whole body is tense and on high alert.
"Evelyn, it's been ten days and you still haven't spoken about what happened," Dr. Paige says quietly, and I glance at her to see a calm but wary expression on her face.
I hate that look. I hate it so much. I hate the way she and everybody else looks at me, like I'm some stupid, infantile dimwit that can barely refrain from splitting her skin with something sharp. I hate the way they cast me pitying looks but don't want to help me; deep down, all they want is money. Just like every other money-grabbing psychiatrist I've been to.
"Well, if you haven't fucking noticed, I don't want to be here in this place," I snap, and briefly feel guilty for speaking disrespectfully to an adult before I remember who I'm talking to. A psychiatrist. Someone who's supposed to observe my behavior, pretend to be interested in my problems, determine whether or not I need to be sent to a psych ward and report back to my parents on everything we've discussed.
Dr. Paige doesn't flinch, her brown orbs drilling into me. "I know you don't want to be here, Evelyn. I know you're going through a rough patch, but that's okay. Everyone does, and it's not such a bad idea to ask for help—"
"Help? You think I should ask for help? Four years ago, when Evian died, I asked for help, and what did I get? A daily meeting with the school guidance counselor. After-school therapy sessions. Pitying looks from everyone who knew either me or Evian. That's what I got. Not help."
My chest heaves after yelling, tears spilling over my lashes as I try to keep them at bay. Dr. Paige stares at me inquisitively for a moment before she jots something down in a black notebook. Anxiety kicks in, my heart thudding and racing, and I drag my sharp nails along my forearm to distant myself from my crazy heartbeat. Scratch, scratch, scratch.
"And, if you were to ask for help now, how would you want us to help?" she questions calmly.
The walls are caving in on me, an invisible hand grasping my neck and choking me. "I don't want help. I don't need anyone's help," I choke, burying my face in my hands as grief takes over me. My shoulders hunch with sobs, shaking uncontrollably as the image of Evian is implanted in my brain, etched in my mind.
