“So, Cas, will today be any different, or will you sit there, staring down at the empty vase on the table like always?”
Harsh words from someone who my parents are paying to make me feel better about myself. I look up from the vase to his face, not meeting his eyes. The stubble coating the lower half of it is scruffier than normal, only to be emphasized by a scowl. He never so much as frowns for too long when I am looking at him. I guess I’m not the only one with issues in my life.
“I’ll talk. So ask away. Work your magic on my messed up mind, make me all better doc,” I say, leaning forward so my elbows press against the tops of my knees.
“Your sarcasm always brightens my day, thank you,” he slouches back into his chair, letting out an exasperated sigh. He reaches for his temples as he shuts his eyes, not wanting to look at me I guess.
“Aw, did someone wake up on the wrong side of the bed this morning?” I say condescendingly. Suddenly his eyes pop open, and he sits bolt upright, “Yes, in fact I have. And I have had a long day of people complaining about small problems with their lives. My neighbor said this, my friend did that. Don't get me wrong, I love my job. But sometimes people overreact over the smallest things and it irritates me.”
His words seem... wrong. Not just because it is his job to listen to these people, no matter the problem, and help them. But also because those small things may mean the world to these people.
“I’m sorry to inconvenience you with my unimportant problems,” I say, my gaze returning to the decorated vase. I trace the multi colored lines interconnecting and separating from each other while I wait for a response. The silence soon overwhelms me as we sit, neither one of us willing to break it.
“Thats the thing, Cassie. You don't open up at all. Not even about the homework you had last night. It’s not good to bottle things up. One day it will explode, or the weight will crush you, and you might not survive it,” my eyes meet his for the first time since I arrived. Those words resonate through my head, ‘you might not survive it’. I didn't think there was any way to survive this, only to continue, counting down each day, hour, minute until this hell is over. Probably permanently fucked up, but still going. I never planned on surviving anything. My eyes turn to the floor, not wanting him to see my thoughts.
“Since you wont talk to me, I want you to try a journal. Hide it so no one will find it. But I want you to write. Anything. Just write. Maybe you will discover something about yourself you never knew before. If you are ever comfortable, share it with someone close to you. Someone who won’t judge you. Someone who will read and understand.”
“Fine. But what if I have nothing to say?”
“I believe there is always something running through our minds, no matter how insane or strange. Write whatever comes into your head when you grab the pen.”
The door behind me creaks, making me jump nearly out of my seat. My mom pokes her head through the cracked door, “Ready sweety?”
“Yeah, um, sure,” I pick up my bag and walk over to her. Just when I think I am in the clear about the journal thing, he does it. He says the words I was hoping to avoid, “Mrs. Weathers, I recommended that Cassie should try keeping a journal. Would you pick one up on the way home? The sooner she starts the better,” I stare at him, shock and hatred, mostly hatred, plastered on my face, directed at him. I know he sees because he smirks as my mom nods and walks out the door.
“So, why exactly do I need to buy you a journal?” my mom questions, starting the car. The engine of our brand new prius quietly purrs to life. How we can afford all these new things baffles me.
“I’m supposed to write.”
“Thank you for that detailed description, you are a great help,” she backs out of the parking space, speeding off towards our house.
“What is with everyone’s attitude today?”
“You set such a great example,” she turns up the radio, drowning out any further conversation. Everyone is extra pissy today.
