Pitch Black

Chapter 1

I sat back in my Therapist's office, listening to the clock ticking.

I was procrastinating. We both knew it.

"Marisa, how do you expect to see again if you don't talk about it?" she asked in that calm soothing voice of hers, which honestly, makes me want to throw something at her.

"What's the point?" I demanded. I could hear the sharp edge in my voice.

My eyes were closed, really, there's no point in opening them. Everything was pitch black anyway. At least this way, I felt a little normal.

"If we don't deal with the underlying trauma, it's just going to get worse."

I felt the scowl spreading across my lips.

I took a deep breath, I knew she was right. I'm just so angry though!

I mean, it's not MY fault that I had the life I did, so why am I the one being punished?

"Fine." I muttered and leaned forward. I heard the click of her pen and I winced. I was dying to know what she wrote about me.

Probably something like

"Can't be helped."

Or

"Far too gone."

It wouldn't surprise me to be honest. It's what I believed, so why shouldn't she believe the same?

I opened my mouth and felt the threatening tears. I had worked so hard on pushing away all these horrible memories.

I had finally started being normal, and then this happened.

"When I was just a baby, my parents locked me in a dark and damp shed, for three days." I whispered as a lump began to form in my throat.

"They only came in to give me food and beat me, before walking out again."

I listened for a reaction, but there was only silence. So I continued.

"I knew they never wanted me, they made it absolutely clear from day 1. Every chance they got, they'd drop me off somewhere. Sometimes at a family member, sometimes at their friends. So they could get a break from me." I ran my hands through my hair.

"It happened until I was 6," I muttered before whispering "that was the day everything changed."

Her clock rang, letting us know that our time was up.

I gave a small smile and pushed back the overwhelming emotions.

Trying to put them back in a tightly sealed box, but the lump in my throat didn't go away, in fact. I think it got bigger if anything.

My Therapist, Ella, took my hand and led me to the waiting room, where my foster mother, Patricia, sat. Presumably crocheting or knitting, probably doing something with her hands.

She was a very creative person and made the most beautiful things.

I felt the warmth of her touch as she took my hand and gave it a gentle squeeze.

"How'd it go?" Patricia asked. I just shrugged.

"We at least started opening up today." Ella stated, a tone of accomplishment in her voice that aggravated me.

"Can we go?" I demanded, wincing at how harsh I sounded.

I just wanted to go home and cry.

I followed Patricia's lead as she guided me to her car and helped me in.

"Where are you on your scale?"

I scowled, they made this scale of my mood so they could help me and understand me better, it was an 'Ella-ology.' as I liked to call it. Things she makes us do to make life easier while going through this.

I hated them.

"A negative 25." I responded struggling to put my seat belt on by myself.

I felt Patricia take it from my hands and heard the click signaling that I was now buckled in.

"Thanks Mom." I whispered trying not to let the defeat show on my face.

'Loser.' my mind spat at me. 'you can't even buckle your own seatbelt.'

I had only been blind for a week, and to say the least, I am not handling it well, at all.

But I keep a mask on, so people can't see how vulnerable and weak I feel.

Everyone always congratulates me on how strong I am, but honestly? I think I'm the weakest person I know.

I cry over everything, and everything is a trigger for me.

All I do is burden everyone with my presence.

The car ride was silent, which I appreciated, my head was still reeling from opening up for the first time just to be stopped abruptly.

Stupid time limits.

Patricia helped to my room and I flopped down on the bed.

"Text me if you need me." she whispered, I could hear the concern in her voice and I knew what she was thinking.

She thought I was going to cut.

I nodded and heard the door shut quietly before grabbing my phone.

Voice over was turned on, so my phone read everything to me, and I mean EVERYTHING.

It's really obnoxious and annoying, but it's the only way for me to even be able to communicate with the outside world.

I felt bad for not talking to Patricia, but I just wanted to cry.

So that's what I did.

I laid in my own pitch black darkness and shut the world out.

Letting the hot tears fall out.

Because the truth is... I'm not strong, or angry, or mean.

I'm weak, and hurt, and broken.

And today....

Today I just feel... hopeless... like I have nothing left to hold on to, like the surrounding darkness is no longer just dark, but overwhelming and thick with loneliness. I dont see the light, I know that an end will come if I keep moving forward, but I just dont have the strength to keep wandering.