The Fallen Angel

Chapter 13: Therapy

Chapter 13: Therapy

After getting over my incentive period of shock which included me calling Angelo crazy—for the umpteenth time—prior to him recommending me to see a magician, I actually went and saw one.

Well, at least my version of it.

"Okay, Ms. Crew. What can I help you with today?" The therapist said as she fixed her glasses which had slid down the bridge of her nose.

She was a slim built lady with an air which spoke towards how much she didn't take bullshit from anyone. I was a bit intimidated by that image of her, but the fact that she looked no more than five years older than me was oddly reassuring.

"You see, doc. My mental functioning isn't impaired. I can remember long lists of things, what I ate last week, how many times I've taken a shower today—" She started writing down the things I was saying on her notepad and I froze at her serious nature. I folded my hands in my lap coyly. "Anyway, that's not what I'm trying to say. What I'm trying to say is I'm not crazy."

She nodded understandingly and I let out a sigh of relief.

At least she didn't think I was—

"That's how these things always start out, Ms. Crew." The blonde haired woman notified me.

"However, it's not a problem to identify that you have a problem." She said softly and I froze.

"I don't have a problem."

"Oh, really?" She mused. "Then why are you here?"

I surveyed her monotonous office with a grim expression. That question really got me there. It really had me thinking—overthinking. And for me that was never a good thing.

"I met this guy—"

"Drug addict? First or second time offender? Or perhaps, is he already married?"

My eyes widened at how swiftly the words left her.

It was like this was second hand nature for her to try and break down my potential issue.

"No, no, no. You don't understand."

Her brows raised. "Oh," I nodded in relief that she had finally got where I was coming from but then she guessed, "So he's gay."

"Is this the kind of messed up stuff people come to see a therapist for?"

She leant back against her chair, still observing me keenly.

"You're deflecting." She hypothesized.

"I'm not," I scoffed. "I'm just genuinely curious."

The woman turned her name plaque towards me with a sharp look. It had Doctor Samuels written in bold letters.

"What else did you think it was then? Do you think people come here to hear about the latest fashion trends or who is dating who? They come here because they're broken human beings that need repair."

"If that's the case, why don't they just see a damn priest?"

"I don't think that word and priest should fall in the same sentence," she criticized. "However, people don't believe in God as much as they used to back in the day. They believe in what they can see—who they can speak directly to."

I frowned at the truth to her words.

"You seem perturbed by the thought," she caught on quickly. "If you have this much faith and interest why didn't you go seek a church instead of coming here?"