Freedom of Sketch

Professional Help

Dr. Fox stops at one of the many narrow doors, and unlocks it with a silver key. His office is not the sterile, alcohol-scented examination chamber I had imagined. Instead, it could pass for someone's home study, or perhaps even a living room if it included a fireplace. The age-gouged floors are the same as the ones in the hall, a polished pine studded with dark wood knots. A large glass desk protrudes from an alcove in the back corner of the room. A sleek computer and its matching printer sit in a nest of papers, folders, and sticky notes.

"Please, have a seat," says Dr. Fox, gesturing toward two plump red couches in front of the desk.

I traipse across another ornate rug and plop down on one of the sofas. I sink so deeply into the cushions, it feels like the furniture is trying to eat me. The doctor sits directly across from me, spreading various documents upon the low glass coffee table between us.

I anxiously cling to my sketchbook, holding it in front of my torso like a shield. My chains and necklaces rattle against its hard cover as I tremble with the waxing and waning of my fear. I look over Dr. Fox's shoulder and study his gleaming collection of diplomas and framed inkblots mounted upon the wall behind him.

"What's that?" asks Dr. Fox, indicating my sketchbook.

I know he's aware that it's my sketchbook, but I humor him because he's probably just trying to start a conversation. I shrug. "Just some drawings," I respond, attempting to look bored.

"I heard you were an artist," the psychiatrist says. He pulls a ballpoint pen from his lab coat pocket, holding it like a fork above his feast of my school transcripts, immunization records, and the principal's letter convicting me of being crazy.

I scoff. "Artist." After all that's happened in the past few days, it sounds like a curse word. "Yeah, right."

Dr.Fox runs a hand through his thick, straight hair. It's a shade somewhere between blond and brown. This man is so... normal. Handsome, even.

I avert my eyes again, and slide my finger up and down the rough hem on the leg of my pants. I find a loose stitch and begin picking at it.

"Shiloh, you seem anxious. This is a safe space, I promise."

Anxious. The sound of my shallow, panicked breathing echoes up into the high ceiling. I wonder how many sounds of terror are trapped up there within the confines of the steel-framed lights. "I'm not anxious," I snap. "I just want to get this over with and get the hell out of here."

The doctor crosses his legs and leans back into the couch with a sigh. "If you're not anxious," he tries, "how would you describe what you're feeling right now?"

"I feel annoyed. Pissed off."

He nods. "Do you find it difficult to control your anger?"

"I have no problem saying what's on my mind." I count the studs on one of my bracelets, a thick leather one Daniel bought me for my sixteenth birthday.

"When you're feeling angry, do you tend to lash out?"

He just won't give up, will he? "Is this about the incident with Brooke?"

"We can start there, if you'd like... why don't you tell me what happened?"

I pick at a stud that's coming loose. One of its sharp hooks jabs me in the finger. I flinch, resisting the urge to curse. I have to be on my best behavior for this shrink. "Brooke was bullying my friend, so I got kind of mad and pushed her."

Dr. Fox's eyes widen. "Was she injured at all?"

"I wish."

Dr. Fox: "Well, I'm glad no one got hurt. That could have opened you up to some criminal charges."