Lovely Persistence

Chapter 1-

The limousine driver, George, kindly smiled at me as I jumped in the vehicle, in a rush to leave my empty house.

"Parting is such sweet sorrow, is it not, Miss Martinez?" A melancholy opening, with a hint of one of my idols, Shakespeare, a classic greeting from George.

"More like such solemn relief!" I replied, witty as always, George cocked his head, per usual, and we drove off to California, where I would start my new life in L.A.

We arrived at what I preferred to call Martinez Manor, an all around stunning piece of work I would learn to call my home.

George started, "You'll be expecting me at-"

"5:00 pm," I finished.

And with that followed the silent exchange of words, oxymoronic as it sounds, George and I know that by not speaking, we still somehow communicate what we want to say to each other.

With that George left, and I entered the passcode at the front-gate of my new home, walking past the grand masculine-metal walls, gazing upon the subtle yet complimentary garden work, thinking:
"Really had to go all out, didn't you, Martinez?"

I knew I was alone, but I could feel my conscience, smug as always, responding, "Yes, I did."

I opened the front doors and gazed upon the foyer of this manor, an open concept, with double stairways in the entry. It was, a relief-
to live in a house so different from my old one.

I found it rather difficult to fall asleep, worrying about the appointment I had, tomorrow at 5:30,
therapists, always think they know how to get to you.
I think I may have to give in to this new one though, or else they'll just keep sending me back.

*the night passes, along with my dignity*

I was the least thrilled to start this new day, although I was happy I managed to keep myself asleep till 3 p.m., the early bird may get the worm, but the late bird enjoys the thrill of suspense!

I laughed at my own dorky thought as I hopped out of my bed, into the shower, out of the shower, into a towel, and then right back on to my bed.

My original goal was to wake up, get ready, and then prepare, mentally, for therapists are always a pain.

Then again, I believe they view me as a pain too, I've
already told a handful of them where they can stick their, "friendly advice."

Nonetheless, it was 4 p.m, and Garett Watts, while I love his YouTube channel, wasn't going to go to therapy for me, so I sadly had to get out of my sloth-like pace and move at the speed of a regular human being.

I brushed my hair, and it did the rest, I am a brunette, guilty, and I do have naturally straight hair, double-guilty. So managing my hair isn't really much of a challenge, the challenge is finding something that makes my twig-like body figure look flattering.

I went with a white tight-fitted turtleneck and a black velvet skirt, with some heels, because, while they do make me walk like the most awkward Victoria's Secret Angel Wannabe, I feel as though being a 5'2 16 year old, it would be offensive if I didn't wear heels, or something to make me taller, then again, that's just my insecurities speaking.

I left the house with a black embroidered clutch purse, carrying my wallet, phone, and McDonalds gift card, (don't ask.) And once again entered George's limo, him in the drivers seat, patiently waiting as always. Speaking truthfully, I'm glad George is the only thing that stayed with me from my past, he's probably the only thing I could handle.

And like that, we were on our way to the appointment, in other words, two hours of torture and comedy, as I like to call it:
The sedulously sinister blend. (Therapy)

"I hope you're not scheming another way to make a genuine person cry, Miss Martinez." George proclaimed, but I knew what he really meant was, "This is not a game, don't treat it like one."

I answered, "For starters, usually we both end up crying, not just the therapist, and I'm not making her cry, my opinions, on the other hand, speak for themsel-"

"That's the problem!" George interrupted.

I sat in my seat, silent, George and I have a way with each other, we don't really talk unless necessary, but when he pushes a conversation, much like he did before the appointment, he's being serious, and, sarcastic as I am, I respect George and hold his worries to an utmost extent. So while hard, I tried to assure him.

"I promise to respect them at first, but if they try to pull a trick on me, then my respect jumps out the window!" I pleaded.

And while it didn't sound like a plead, George knew it was, its hard for me to be vulnerable, so don't ask me why they thought therapy would help.

"Sometimes, I just, can't grasp what they were thinking when they thought therapy, of all things, should be considered mandatory.." George began.

Another heavy topic, yet I tried to concede, "The jurors?" I asked.

"And the judge, and all those stuck-up lawyers!"
George answered.

He had yelled his last sentence, and looked at me apologetically, and closed the little window that connected me, in the limousine, to him, in the drivers seat. I knew it wasn't anything personal, he just needed to blow off steam in his own way, isolation, I, on the other hand, knew that too much isolation was unhealthy. Even though I, hypocritically bought a big house to live in myself in a secluded neighborhood, we all have our weak days...or, um, weak purchases.

The isolation was no good for me though, I found myself in the last place I'd ever wanna be, stuck in my mind with my thoughts. I caught myself reminiscing back to the days in court.

The reason I'm going to therapy is because, after the death of my entire family, my inheritance of a couple million dollars, and my choice to move to a new state and live alone, the judge and jury seemed determined that I at least attend therapy sessions every two-weeks. Until my therapist writes me off as, "stable," oh how I hate that word. Momentarily, I felt vulnerable, in the perfect stance for a therapy session. And I meant what I said to George, I was going to take this seriously.