So, I'll give you an overview of the last few days. I did eventually come out of the bathroom, fact fans. After I had made it look as if I hadn't been blubbering for the past six minutes, of course. Then Emma and I (well, mostly Emma) wrestled the Christmas tree into an upright position and decorated it until it was heavy with baubles, chocolate and tinsel. After that, Mum went and ruined the atmosphere by bringing me the absolutely brilliant news that I had my first therapy appointment the following day. More proof that I was a crazy person. And I bet you can guess what I did to escape. To my horror though, when I twisted the tap on and squirted six beads of soap into my hands, I at last noticed the state of my palms. The once-soft flesh that covered them was now a red and pink mess of scabbed skin and open, bleeding sores. What the heck had made them get like that?! It's because you're such a freak that you have to wash your hands 240 times a day, one of the voices cackled, barreling through my head and alerting my heart to start beating at twice it's normal pace. Calm down, Eve. You'll be alright. Just put some cream on them. There we are. That's better now, isn't it? Good girl. Resisting the urge to feel cool water and soap suds over my hands just one last time, I rubbed some moisturizing cream into my hands and padded along the hallway to my room. After I had pulled on a Star Wars t-shirt (Dylan had succeeded in getting me obsessed with star wars a few weeks ago, and now I had a collection of various Star Wars related clothes in my possession, including two BB-8, BB-9E and porg t-shirts, all the movies and a book with cross-sections of all the ships and walkers) and jeans, I felt as if I should check the statistics for Inside My Head. I hadn't checked or written any of it in ages, and who knows? It might be trending in the Paranormal category or something! And, upon typing in my password, I discovered I was right. My voice laced with elation, I called down the spiralling staircase to Mum. When she entered my room she didn't even need an explanation for my excitement. She just hugged me from behind and enquired, "So, how many?" I gestured at the small number to the right of the screen which read 24.9K. "See for yourself." She planted a kiss on the top of my head, the kind only mothers can give. "I'm so proud of you." I nodded, acknowledging the unspoken meaning behind her words. Suddenly she took a swift glance at my clock and uttered a profanity. I rolled my eyes. "Mum! Stop contaminating my innocent mind with your language!" I exclaimed cheekily. She sighed at my insolence. "Sorry, sorry. But if we don't get a move on then we'll be late for your first therapy session. Come on, put your boots on. I'll wait for you in the car." I groaned. "Fine. But don't expect me to like it or gain anything from it. You made me do this." "Just get a move on!"
Twenty minutes later, Mum parked the car in front of a large house that overlooked a road with tarmac so archaic that it seemed to straggle across the ground as if it were dying. It wasn't this that made the area so interesting though; the house itself was the centre of my fascination. It was made almost entirely out of shimmering glass, with a sloping black roof overhead and a balcony with gleaming chrome supports positioned just above the frosted glass door. In other words, it was modern. Really modern, almost futuristic. She must be really good at her job, I thought, to have the money to purchase a house like that. A lot better than you'll ever be if you'll even manage to get a job. "Shut up," I muttered angrily, narrowing my eyes at the invisible people who seemed to be forever at my side. "I'll do just fine getting a job. I could publish Inside My Head, the way it's going." Oh, the publishers certainly wouldn't want your childish little story, my dear. You're just kidding yourself. You're just an ignorant girl getting arrogant because of the coincidental good fortune of your work. Gritting my teeth to stop myself from screaming in frustration, I marched up to the frosted glass door and knocked brusquely four times, my heavy boots crunching on the pearly white pebbles in the empty driveway. Then I got a shock, because the person that opened it was clearly not female, but in fact a tall, slim, black-haired man who looked as if he were in his mid-twenties.
For a few moments, he surveyed me with a stony coldness that felt like icicles were shooting out of his frost-blue eyes, stabbing me with his gaze. Then, recognizing me as his new mentally-unstable patient, his eyes cleared and he smiled at me warmly. "Sorry," he assured me, rubbing his eyes tiredly and running his hands through his inky-black hair. "It's been a long day. Anyway, allow me to introduce myself. I'm Leo, and you must be Eve. Such a pleasure to meet you." He stuck out his hand, and I shook it uncertainly. I never really shook hands with people;I was more of a hug-in-greeting type of person, but I figured it would be the polite thing to do. If this man really was going to try and help me, then it would be more beneficial to both of us if I didn't hate him, and vice-versa. Saying a quick goodbye to Mum, I was led into the sitting room, which was as futuristic as the exterior of the abode.
My widened eyes traveled around the room, slowly taking it in. It was quite a large room, with walls so white that they seemed to be glowing. The smooth wooden boards of the floor were covered by a feather-soft black rug and various fake potted plants were scattered about, sitting atop a circular glass table in the center of the room. What I liked most, however, were the lines of bright blue LED lights that clung to the joins between the walls and the ceiling. It somehow added a nicer atmosphere to the room and made it look slightly less intimidating. When I was seated on a chair and Leo on the sofa across from me, he opened up a file and started to read aloud. "So, let's see," he muttered to himself, "Eve, thirteen years old, five foot one, forty nine kilograms-" "How did you find out so much about me?" I blurted out, surveying him with a calculating stare. He looked up and smiled at me reassuringly. "Before I meet a patient, I am required to ask the parent to send me a file of information about the child who is about to undergo therapy. It contains their name, age, date of birth, body statistics and some medical history, just in case the patient starts needing medication so that I know who to refer them to and what type of medication they need. Does that answer your question?" I nodded and looked at the floor, unsure of what to say. Suddenly, he clapped his hands, opened a notepad and said, "Alright. Let's see what I can do to help you."
I lay on my bed as thoughts flitted around my head like deranged birds, my mind playing back on the therapy session again and again. To my surprise, Leo hadn't been what I had first thought he was-he was a lot more easy-going than I had expected. He had given me some calming techniques to prevent me from having a full-blown panic attack, and he said he would refer me to a dermatologist to get some cream for my hands. When I had mentioned the voices in my head, a worried look had flitted over his face. But just as quickly as it had happened, his expression had cleared and he gave me a bright smile, saying he'd look it up by next week. Abruptly, a voice started talking. Well, Eve, if you think he's helped you, then you might, just might get better. You might not be crazy forever, you know. With a smile on my face, I closed my eyes and quickly fell into sleep.
Author's note
Hello! Just in case some of you readers aren't Star Wars fans (unlike me), BB-8 and BB-9e are little circular robots that roll around on the ships, and porgs are cute little creatures that live on a planet called Ahch-To! Thankyou so much for reading and I'll try and update again soon!
YOU ARE READING
Eve(-1)
Jugendliteratur*COMPLETED AND EDITING* You can't often tell when you're internally breaking. Most of the time, you don't want to hear it. You say you're fine and hold your head high, trying to camouflage your pain and the approaching storm. But what do you do when...
