Book.

Part Two; Chapter One

“You’re adjusting well, Mo.”

The words resonated in the small square room. They thunked against the walls, bounced on the floor tiles, creating a light draft in the space between my therapist and me.

I felt heat rise to my face as I turned away shyly. “Thank you very much.” It was too much acceptance, I needed to draw back quickly. “I… I’ve still got a lot of transitioning to do, though.”

Dr. Littey shook her head soberly, the arch of her overly-pencilled eyebrows stretching for the shore of receding hairline above them. “No, really. You are coming along much more effectively than others that I’ve helped.” Bleached teeth showed themselves. A smudge of fiery lipstick clung to the underside of her front incisors.

I felt like I could cry. This was all any Edit wanted to hear from their therapist, wasn’t it? That they were excelling, becoming more prominent. Because all this was just little steps towards being noticed again. My stomach rumbled nervously. What if my author still didn’t like me, even with all the improvements? What if he/she still rejected me after all this hassle? What then? Would I be doomed to stay there forever? Would I end up like Pipheny, alone and authorless until I completely faded from memory?

My eyes lingered towards the Wall.

It was plastered floor-to-ceiling with pictures of all of the successful Edits; the ones who got their authors back. Many of them were unknown, vague characters from vague books, but a character with a book nonetheless. A select few, a number small enough to count on one hand, were famous. Astoundingly famous. So much so, that it made one think of how stupid their authors must have been to deny them entrance into the story in the first place.

Dr. Littey’s hoarse voice called me out of my blank stare at the Wall.

“I said I’m proud of you, Mo.” It was almost a reprimand, the way she had put it.

I immediately corrected myself, embarrassed that my attention--one of the biggest things we’d been trying to improve upon--had been snatched away from me for even a second. “Thank you very much, Dr. Littey. That means a lot to me.”

Dr. Littey’s botoxed lips tightened; her eyes narrowed slightly.

My mind imploded with self-loathing. She had noticed. She had noticed everything. The lack of attention, the wandering eyes... my eyes flitted downwards to my thrumming fingers.

The fidgeting. The fidgeting was back. They had diagnosed it as a nervous tremor caused by some trauma. Whatever that “trauma” might be, I had no clear idea. At that moment, all I could think about was how this would set me back weeks, months. I allowed my shoulders to slump ever so slightly. How could I have slipped so significantly in reverse in such a small amount of time? My shaky forefinger found its way to a crease just looming above my right eyebrow; another involuntary tic.

Words swan-dived out of Dr. Littey’s lipsticked mouth, so muddled and suctioned to one another that the compilation hardly sounded human to my ears, much less English. Before I could even begin to break apart individual words and interpret their meaning, I was being unceremoniously ushered out from Dr. Littey’s cozy office, and into one of the gray, sterile hallways that served as the spine of every one of the 1,400 (and counting) stories of the Drafter House.

My feet shuffled forward dejectedly, slunk into the elevator, and eventually found myself back in my room.

Appetite gone, I had zero interest in the dinner set at the table. With a lingering sigh, I collapsed onto my bed. I heard the faint splat, splat, sploosh! of a running shower. Pipheny sang delicate tunes that curved about the low ceiling, a slight echo reverberating from the hollow bathroom walls. I let my eyes close, giving in to the exhaustion that had been pressing at the back of my head ever since the sunrise.