Burn the Pages

the resolution.

She leans across the table and nudges the tissue box a little closer to me. I can tell by the look on her face, she's wondering why I won't take them. And I wish I had a good answer. I wish the answer bouncing off the walls inside of my head was decent enough for me to explain, decent enough for me to not sound completely insane when I say it. I wish the answer I had didn't make me feel like I can't say it.

But the truth is, the only answer I have is that I'm trying to come up with a reason why I even deserve a tissue. Give me one good reason why I shouldn't sit here, tears tickling my cheeks as they roll down. It's not like I've done anything as of late to deserve a soft, papery white cloth to even dry my eyes with. I wasn't thinking like this before I came here. I wasn't thinking like this on the bus. No. On the bus, I was excited to put my hood down, shake the loose waves out of my hair and trot in here after a week.

I was excited to sink into the rundown couch cushions, curl my freshly painted toes into the plush carpet and feel safety encompass me like the chocolate brown walls closing me in. I was excited to smell that familiar scent of peppermint and tobacco, excited to get everything off my chest and listen to what Karolee had to say. I was excited to be back to the one place I feel understood.

But after listening to Karolee talk for the past ten minutes, I'm quite sure that there's anywhere I'd rather be than here. I'd rather be somewhere where I cool be of use to someone. Somewhere where I'm not a waste of space.

Why do I deserve a tissue? Why do I deserve to pat my eyes dry until I'm comfortable? Why do I deserve comfort?

What have you done this past week, Brooke?

Her question bounds off the walls of my head like a pinball inside a machine. I haven't made any progress. I haven't done anything to help myself. I've just sat around and let him do whatever he wants to me, let him continue to have his power over me. I know it. And now, sitting across from me with her ice blue eyes boring into my soul and her thick blonde curls nearly covering the left side of her face, Karolee knows it too.

Nothing.

That's my answer. I've done nothing.

"Brooke?" she calls my name and somehow her voice is like she tied an anchor to my foot, dragging me back down. Keeping me level. Keeping me sane. "We've 30 minutes left and still haven't discussed anything."

I scrape my cheeks across my shoulder to wipe my tears, then sniff. I have a question. A stupid one, but a question nonetheless. And I don't know how to ask. I don't know if I should. Because what if I don't like the answer?

"Is there anything you'd like to talk about? Anything at all? It's been a full week since our last visit. I'm sure you have things I need to know," her voice is so gentle that the mere thought of ignoring her even makes me feel guilty.

If I could just figure out how to word this question...

"Unless it was a good week," she clicks her ballpoint pen and closes her notebook. Her stockings make a weird "zzzzt" sound as she shifts, crossing one leg over the other so she can lean a little closer to me. "Was it a good week? Was Paul alright this week?"

I watch the piece of fingernail polish I chipped off my thumbnail flutter to the floor. Tickle Me Pink. That's the name of the shade. Of all the things I could be thinking about right now, the most prominent thought in my mind is that there is now a Tickle Me Pink speck in the middle of Karolee's white plush carpet.

Why can't I think of how to word this question?

"Why don't you tell me all the positive things he's done this week? Hmm? Why don't we start with that? Did he --"