Lacuna

Chapter 1

         My name is November and I was born in December. Sometimes, that's all I know about myself. The darkness of my past tends to overshadow everything else, and it often makes me forget that there's anything more to me than just a name. I don't know why my parents named me after a month I wasn't even born in. I would change it if it wasn't the only part of them that I have left. And like my past, my name is also shrouded in mystery.
My parents have never really been a part of the tragedy that is my life, but they have contributed to my strife significantly. I avoid people out of mistrust and fear of being hurt, which has caused me to develop serious issues with apathy. No one has ever taught me what real love means, and I am determined to find it on my own. Just not now.

          I can just go ahead and say, I am far from a princess or lady. Some things you need to know are that I have anxiety and awful nightmares that keep me from sleep most nights. I'm afraid that if I close my eyes, ill get stuck in whatever horror awaits me there. I also have a uncontrollable and unhealthy trauma that gives me terrible anxiety attacks and severe nausea. I was in an accident when I was little, when my parents were still around. The encounter left me with about a dozen scars all over my body and crippling fear of anything large that moves too fast. Another flaw, I'm brutally honest and negative because that's what my life requires. I'm sick of therapists telling me its all going to be okay when they know and I know that that's utter bull crap. I'm broken in a way that cannot be fixed with medication.
So, why am I telling you all of this? I just don't want you to be disappointing if I do something stupid. Like.... Right now.

"You're what?!" Margaret gapes at me. I sigh. I knew this wasn't going to go well, I just didn't know it would be this bad. I expected the lecture, but this? She's upset, her brow furrowed in an all too familiar frown. 

"You need to go to college November! I have raised you to make good choices, to pick a good career!" She exclaims. I can't resist rolling my eyes. I don't say anything, just matching her glare evenly and sitting in silence. She gets up from the table, her face pale with disappointment, and leaves the room. I shake my head forlornly. She's never understood me. Margaret adopted me after my parents disappeared. Their case is still unsolved, but I accepted a long time ago that if the police couldn't find them, then they didn't want to be found. I don't know why they left me, for years I thought that it was my fault. I am not your typical foster kid though, I did what I was supposed to and this is the only real "rebellious moment" that I have ever really had. Anything I have ever wanted to do that is outside of Margaret's plans for me was seen as disrespectful. 

"I have lived a life of following other people's plans for me. I'm 18 now, and I can't do it anymore."

Dr Martin listens intently. He has been my therapist for 4 years now and has been the only one who has truly listened to me. He is in his early 70's, kind and wrinkled with a smile that never seems to meet his tired eyes, which I can understand. Call him a hypocrite or whatever you want, but I know what it's like to be so fatigued from life that you can't even feel your own smile. And that's what I like about him, he understands. He's like a Grandfather at times, others a counselor, but never ever a prying shrink.

"So, you aren't going to college, but not because you're just trying to defy your mother?" He inquires. I shake my head, but he has a point. Maybe that is a part of it. Dr. Martin sighs loudly.

"Well, there isn't anything I can fix here. It is your decision, that much is clear. I'm not sure what to tell your mother." He states slowly, treading on delicate ground. I nod. He smiles and takes off his glasses, which means I am just talking to Martin now.

"How are the nightmares?" He asks softly. I avert my gaze, fidgeting uncomfortably. Suddenly, my throat is dry.

"Worse." I am barely audible, the silence of the room a crushing weight. Images flood my mind, scenes of terror and evil that make my heart race. Last night was one of the worst. I pinch my eyes shut for a moment willing the images to go away. He takes my hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. Most people would expect a man at his age to have soft palms, but they are callused and rough, having weathered and worked hard over the years, which is one of the reasons I respect him.

"Come on young lady, show us the eyes." He instructs. I look at him. He smiles tiredly.

"Its okay not to be okay."

"The medication isn't working..." I begin, but he hushes me.

"My dear, I do not believe that it is the medication that is your problem. You need to be happy, to find happiness."

"But how?" I whisper. Its the question, the one I've been asking for years. An answer that I've been searching for for what feels like ages. Martin leans back in his seat, clasping his fingers together.

"Well, that's something you have to figure out."
Its obscure and open ended, making me want to be frustrated and demand a better answer. But I don't. Part of me understands it now. Its my time to take control.

"You still boxing?" He questions. I snort, because its a ridiculous thing to ask.

"Of course."

"Your mother wants you to find another outlet. She says that boxing isn't lady like." He tells, clearly amused. I roll my eyes.

"Margaret says a lot of things Martin. Don't tell me you agree with all of it." I remark. He chuckles.

"You're still aggressive." He announces, putting his glasses back on and flipping through his notes. Dr. Martin is back. My personal time with him is done, but I am still thinking about what he told me before.

"Is that a problem?" I ask, only half listening. It came out more irritated than I intended, seeming to only confirm what he said. He smiles at me, one of the rare ones that reflects in his eyes. Genuine.

"Only if you think so, just don't inflict it on others." He instructs, looking at me seriously from under his glasses. I smile.

"Me? Never."