Demons |h.s|

|3| First Impressions

In the light of the room I could see his vibrant eyes clearer than in the fluorescent of the corner store or the light of a single flame. They were a brilliant green that would make any girl swoon. As much as I would of liked to stare at him all day my appointment started exactly 3 minutes ago and she hates it how I'm always late.

I give the receptionist, Susan, my name and why im here. The old lady smiles kindly at me to which I just stare back at blankly, not wanting to give any human reaction. I think she understands that I must not be the happiest person considering where we are right now. She tells me to take a seat next to a "Mr. Styles" whom im guessing would be Harry considering he's the only one here, while I wait for my name to be called and I politely nod my head to thank her.

When "Mr. Styles" hears his name he looks up from his lap with those bright eyes and glances in our direction. Our eyes meet and I can see a flash of recognition in them but I refuse to look away and so does he so we end up having a sort of staring contest trying to figure one another out. I can tell he's trying to figure out why im here just like I am doing to him. I walk over without a word and sit two seats down from him so im not right next to him and he won't get the idea that I want to talk or make a new friend at my therapist appointment. Not to be rude but I don't think the physiatrist is the best place to meet people.

To pass the time I looked over the many magazines that never seemed to change appointment after appointment and picked the up New York Times instead. Just as my hand touches the paper I hear a scoff from the boy next to me. I turn my head and shoot him a confused glare.

"Just wouldn't have pegged you as a world issue kind of girl" I kept looking at him as I placed the paper in my lap. "And what kind of girl would you guess me to be?" He took a moment and seemed to be thinking whether or not he was going to answer and whether or not it would be the truth.

"Well at first glance I would imagine you being privileged and self-absorbed" he paused to see whether or not I would snap at him for that but I honestly wanted to know what he thought. It had always been one of my many fatal flaws to know what others thought of me I try to pretend that I don't care but I do. "Then when I saw you this morning buying a bottle of whisky it only further influenced my idea that you came from money because I would of thought that you were locked out and had to wait for daddy to let you in or you wanted something and were just acting out. After I had left I walked down the street wondering what you were doing and those were the possibilities I came up with. That was until you asked me for a light and I almost laughed at the thought at the thought of you smoking but gave you the light anyways. When you lit up and took such a long drag I could tell that you knew what you were doing and was shocked that something so beautiful could have such a nasty habit. Then when I really looked at you for the first time that night I could see the pain in your gorgeous eyes". When he called me beautiful I didn't feel the same disgust as when other men did it, with him it seemed more like a statement than a compliment. "So now seeing you here, with that shitty phone, and willingly picking a newspaper over a tabloid I am utterly perplexed and I can honestly say I want to know more"

I wasn't offended in the slightest. It would take much more than that to get through to me and often I wouldn't let anyone get that close to me anyways. I actually liked the fact that he told me straight up, no fluff, what he thought of me and I found comfort in that he couldn't figure me out. He seemed perfectly normal unlike the others who I see come in and out of this office. I desperately wanted to ask why he was here but that was against the unspoken rule of anything related to mental stability, don't ask don't tell. Personally I think people were too afraid of what some peoples answers would be or they didn't want the question to be asked themselves.

We just look at each other for a moment while I absorb his words. I can tell he's nervous about how I could lash out at him in any moment but instead I just study him with thoughtful eyes. His sharp jaw leads down to his neck with the mussels strained permanently against the skin. There's no shame in my eyes as they look down to his tan chest where black ink peeks behind the white v neck he's wearing. I can't tell what the design is but it catches my attention as I focus on it. After a moment of me just staring at his chest I realize I haven't spoken at all since he told me what he thought of me.