cigarette butts ➸ michael clifford

06. Ruby

'What makes you feel this way? What's your home life like? Would you say you're depressed?'

Counselling was the very first task I completed in prison. I had been awkwardly shuffled in to a small boxy room, my chest instantly feeling heavy. It was just me and a nervous, mousey looking woman. Looking at her skirt and blazer, which was an eye watering curtain like floral pattern, I gathered she was either new here or lacked any physical contact.

The lady, Trisha, had gone through the effort of lugging a gigantic binder, which I had noted she sectioned off by patient and problem, to the session. It sat in her lap, as she motioned for me to sit in the most uncomfortable looking plastic chair. she smiled at me, but I couldn't even bring myself to pull any sort of positive facial expression. Trisha ignored that, continuing to beam and radiate optimism, flipping through her "Big Book of Victims."

It was all fun and games, the awkward woman asking me typical questions; my favourite colour, the music I was in to, school, until she got on with what she was paid to do - grill me. She dug into me, prying into my life, trying to get information. I suppose she was trying to 'help', but in the end it made me feel shit. Throughout the session, I had suddenly become mute, not answering anything she had to say, instead choosing to let my eyes follow patterns splayed on the wall and creating little games in my mind. Counselling is horrible. She poked. Prodded. Tore me apart.

'You're obviously not happy with yourself. Why? Would you say you're being pressured into being someone you're not? On record, it says there is evidence of self-harm, depression and prescription drugs. Are you addicted? Do you feel sometimes it'd be better if you weren't here?'

She pretty much knew me from the inside out, yet I hadn't even opened my mouth to her. My eyes felt like big bags of sand, heavy, as they refused to look up from the floor to make eye contact. She asked question after question, giving me time to answer, but time was swallowed by the deafening silence each and everytime. I couldn't stop myself from shrugging or pulling an ugly face in response to her intrusive and offending curiosities. She even made jokes about my quietness, commenting on my shyness and mentioning how "unhelpful" I was being to her silly investigation. After she felt she had enough of dissecting me, she got a young woman - a nurse - to do a routine check on my legs and arms. Was that even legal?

After counselling, I decided to skip half of creative writing to make my lungs extra crispy.

The roof, that stretched from my window to five doors down, was something I had adopted as a safe place - somewhere I could get away, be alone and be okay. The view was pretty. There were trees - a lot of them, but the gaps between them allowed you to see the highway. I loved the sound of traffic at night and that's what made this spot my favourite spot. What I didn't expect was my safe place being discovered, invaded by Shadow The fucking Hedgehog.

Sitting on the roof with that boy had to be the most awkward, yet comforting thing I had ever done. There were four windows between us, but it felt like there were none. He gave off this natural warmth in his words - a relaxing vibe - something I wasn't opposed to. He also had a downcast feel to him, something that drew me in, something that warranted my attention.

And that's exactly why I said yes to his little invitation of spending an hour long free with him.

As soon as creative writing was over, we exited the area and I could almost feel Michael bouncing next to me. He wrapped his fingers around my arm, tugging on it, pulling me down various hallways. Coming up to the only elevator, he threw a fit. It was still out of order.

"Are you really that lazy?" I snorted.

"Fuck off," he muttered. "I don't just smoke, I sleep, too."