EmPATHETICally Blind (A skinny love story)

Chapter 6: Therapy sucks.

    Emilee's POV:

I sat across from Mrs. Dayton, who's cheap lipstick was so blaringly red against her pale face, I seethed with annoyance. I was so annoyed because I could be hanging out with Matt right now, or shopping with Marcie, or skyping one of my friends.

But nope.  Instead I'm stuck here, in this freezing cold office, on a leather couch that keeps sticking to the backs of my thighs, sitting across from a woman whose emotions I can't even read. It worries me when I can't read some people's emotions, as if they don't even have any or they're blocked off. 

        "How do you feel today Emilee? Have you eaten yet?" She asks me, her tone smooth.

        "Yup." I say.

        "Did you eat the right amount?"

        "Yup."

        "You haven't answered how you feel today."

        "Fine."

I could feel a little wave of annoyance come towards me and I smirked. I've been going to her since I moved here, and I much preferred my old therapist. She was nice, kind, and just spent time talking to me like we were best friends instead of like, interrogating me. 

Why do I have a therapist, you ask? Well, same reason my family doesn't like to leave me home alone.

Like I'm gonna tell you, why. You'll find out when you find out.

        "Your mother told me you made a new friend, that's good." She said, trying a different tactic. I felt my shoulders relax a little at the mention of him. Matt was actually really fun to hang out with, we never seemed to run out of things to talk about, and he started teaching me how to read in Brail. It was weird.

        "Yeah." I say, still using my one-word answer technique. I could practically feel her impulse to roll her eyes at me. She leaned forward in her seat, looking at me in the eyes. I had to look away.

        "Emilee, one of these days you're going to say more than one word to me. I'm not trying to help you just for fun, you know. I spoke to your old therapist, she says you've really been improving." She says. I stand up, sick of feeling like I was doing something wrong. I was freezing, I felt the hairs stand up on my arms, and my thighs made a ssshhhhhtpppt sound as they unstuck from the leather. Ouch.

        "And one of these days you're going to realize you won't get straight answers just by interrogating me. I'm a person, not something to be quizzed or observed. You'd know that if you really talked to her. Good day." I say, walking out of the room. I managed one last glance as I walked out the door, and she was looking at me, surprised. That's the most I've said to her in all our sessions. Granted, we've had like, four, but still.

I sat outside in the sun, feeling it warm me up, and I texted Marcie to pick me up with Starbucks, pronto.

        As I sat on the curb in front of the building, I wondered how long it would take before my mom would stop making me take therapy sessions. Would I have to do cartwheels in front of her, tell her i'm cured? Would the angels themselves have to come down and put a glowing light on me?

I wondered what all my friends back home would think, if they found out about this, or my empathy ability. What about Matt? He'd probably freak out and never want to talk to me again. Call me disgusting.

        BEEP BEEP

I jumped as I saw my sister's bright yellow volkswagen right in front of my face. How on earth did I miss that?

        "Get in loser we're going shopping!" My sister yelled from out the window. I laughed and got up from the curb, climbing into the car and smiling as she handed me my drink. 

Thanks to the fact that we both have jobs, shopping occurs weekly.

        "One of these days I'm going to stop coming here." I say to her. She pulls her sunglasses up and looks at me, and I feel waves of sympathy mixed with sadness come towards me.

        "I can't wait." She says.