Watch Me Burn

Chapter 1: Basket Case

I stared straight ahead at my hands, which were still gripped tightly on the steering wheel even though I had been parked for the last five minutes. I looked at the tattoos peeking out from under my long sleeves, the colors and shapes that were inching closer and closer to my fingers each year. I had promised my mom I would never have finger tattoos, but I had also promised her that I would never have any to begin with, so it was only a matter of time before I reneged on that as well.

I felt tears pricking at my eyes and looked up, blinking rapidly. My eyeliner looked far too good to ruin it by crying before I even got to the therapist's office. I didn't intend to cry at all, to tell the truth. Hence the copious amount of eyeliner. If I was worried about looking like a discount version of Alice Cooper, I wouldn't let myself cry in front of Suzy, or Becky, or Karen, or whatever well-meaning mature white lady in a cardigan was waiting for me. When I made the therapy appointment, I had made a point not to remember the name. I was going to go to one session, get my entire story off my chest in forty-five minutes or less, and thank the legal gods for HIPAA. No need to get attached.

I pulled my denim jacket closed and buttoned it up, shoving my hands deep into my pockets and beginning my trek toward the brick building that looked more like a penitentiary than a place of emotional and mental healing. I trotted up the steps and went inside quickly, afraid that I would back out at the last second if I didn't get upstairs as soon as possible. I pushed the button for the elevator and looked around at the corkboard beside it. There were a few fliers for mental health services, located on the fourth floor of the building that I was currently sweating in. The elevator arrived, and I was thankful that I could at least ride up to my torture session in peace. My finger hovered over the button for floor four-

"Hold it, please!"

-and promptly went to floor five as I held my hand out to catch the elevator door. A balding man in a sweater vest and too much cologne squeezed in with me, carrying a box that contained several files and a potted plant.

"What floor?" I asked, having already pressed five. No way was I going to let him know where I was actually going. As far as this man was concerned, I was going to the financial aid office. I was poor, not crazy.

"Five, please!"

Shit. Why didn't I take the stairs? It was too late to back out now. I stood back and let the doors slide shut. With a whirr and disconcerting clank, the metal box was pulled upward. I looked around for an inspection card and was completely unsurprised to see that there wasn't one.

On the bright side, I thought, I won't have to go to this appointment if I die.

Unfortunately, we arrived at the fifth floor alive. My dweebish friend smiled at me and bid me to walk through first. I did, immediately ducking into the ladies' room. I checked to see that there was no one in the stalls, then waited for a few seconds before emerging. I found the stairwell and doubled back down to the fourth floor. All that work to avoid being judged by some rando wearing half a bottle of Curve for Men. Maybe I really had lost it.

I stepped into the office waiting room, peering over the desk at the sweet-looking girl in front of the computer. She acknowledged me with a gaze that somehow managed to be sympathetic and condescending at the same time.

"Uh, hi." I said, edging closer to the counter. "I've got an appointment at 11:30." Made it with ten minutes to spare, even with my morbid pondering and CPA dodging.

"Which counselor did you have an appointment with?" she asked, clattering away at her keyboard.

"I don't remember," I mumbled. "My name's Ozzi Esteves."