Little Miss Mute (EDITING)

✿Chapter 01✿

Did you know? As a rule, 66 percent of people keep their eyes closed while kissing. The rest take pleasure in watching the emotions run the gamut on the faces of their partners

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I guess I should explain. I'm not exactly your typical seventeen-year-old girl.

Oh, I seem normal enough, I guess. I don't do drugs or drink... okay, except for that one time when I mistook whisky for tea. I don't have anything pierced, except my ears, and only once in each earlobe. I don't have any tattoos. I've never dyed my hair. Other than that, I am a normal, everyday, American teenage girl.Except, of course, for the fact that I never sleep.

Correction: I can't sleep. And no, I'm not some Twilight Cullen. If I doze off, props to Mom's Lorazepam, but nightmares? Included in the package.

Six years of counseling, and you'd think I'd be a pro at navigating nighttime chaos. Nope. Dr. Dempster's on a neurology kick, wants to MRI my brain. Cue eye roll. Psychologist catches my mood, pats my head, and hits me with the classic "Cheer up, Maya! Life's a rollercoaster, blah, blah, blah."

That idiotic, ignorant, and oh-so-incorrect speech? Every time, my face does a deflating balloon routine, frown gobbling up everything. Can't help it – I despise that speech more than anything.

Doc wraps up, and I'm already deep in a sour mood.

Day kicks off with Mom slipping mystery capsules into my breakfast – because who needs safety in their own home, right?

Due to that unexpected capsule surprise, I was knocked out, oblivious to Mom transforming my room into a laundry zone. Upon awakening, I found myself stuck with these rather unfortunate green shorts, sculpting my rear into the contours of Montana's peaks.

Mom? Entirely unconcerned about my sartorial struggles.

"Maya," she said, sorting through bills. "Feel free to wear those shorts or opt for your underwear. It's your choice."

I shot the therapist a glare, ready to unleash a scathing response. However, a piercing beep intervened, putting the impending drama on pause.

The MRI machine decided to stir up trouble.

"Good grief!" exclaimed the therapist. "What's the issue now?"

Chaos ensued as everyone swarmed the glitchy apparatus. I stayed back, unwilling to brave the horde around the problematic monstrosity.

Dr. Dempster also hesitated, hands on hips, assessing the chaos.

"It appears this will take some time, my dear," he remarked in apologetic tones. "There's no sense in lingering. It would be best for you to leave for now." Dr. Dempster looked down at me. "Do you require a refill for your medication?"

"No," I muttered.

Dr. Dempster maintained his professionalism, offering a measured smile. Over the six years I had known him, the psychologist's hair had taken on more gray, and his face more lines. Yet, his eyes remained as keen as razors.

"Very well. I'll see you next week." Dr. Dempster conveyed the sense that further discussion wasn't necessary as he crossed the room to join his colleagues.

Exhausted, I stumbled home, the clock sneering at me – ten past two. Dr. Dempster's grip had me in its clutches, causing my faithful train to vanish without me. The collateral damage? My usual bus pirouetted away, leaving me stranded for an agonizing fifteen minutes at a raucous bus stop when I should have been immersed in Mom's computer haven.