Dedicated to @rebelist_ for making the amazing book 'The Girl With The Blue Hair'.
Chapter 1: The Therapist Knows Best
My head was throbbing. That was the second most impactful thought running through my mind, the first being if I had made sure to record the season finale of Pretty Little Liars before I left my messy apartment. The flights of stairs that led up to Abbie's session room was not making the migraine any better and neither was the terrible screeching coming from Abbie's room.
Abbie likes to call it singing, but everyone on that floor had begun to call it 'The Dying cat' after she tried to sing 'I'm Sexy And I Know It'.
"Nora?" Someone whispered from behind me, making me retract my hand from the doorknob that led to the session room. I snap my head painfully behind me. Vanessa, the little red head whose session room was across from Abbie's, was staring at me with wide eyes and her hair was piled on the top of her head in a messy bun.
"Yeah Vanessa?" I ask, reluctantly looking behind me.
Abbie's screeching could still be heard and it sounded like she was trying to sing Miley Cyrus's song Wrecking Ball. A shiver runs up my spin.
"Your still going to Abbie's sessions? Why?"
"Well I'm forced to by law. Signed a contract," Each word is breathy from running the flights of stairs.
Vanessa gives me a half smile, but not just any smile. One of her pity smiles, which I can't bare to look at. I tried smiling back and threw Abbie's door open, thrusting myself inside. Abbie was swaying all over the room, a hair brush in her hands and her speakers were blaring Wrecking Ball.
Good god I think she has finally gone insane.
Reaching out, I turn off the stereo and cross my hands across my chest, staring straight at a singing Abbie. She stops singing and slowly lowers her hair brush down. She narrows her eyes at me. It's been like this for a while now, I'd come to a new session and find her singing along to tacky pop song, and then she would make me sit down, starting the session with a glare.
She didn't have to tell me, I was already moving towards the worn out couch, ready to get this session over with. Then I could head back to my cramped apartment and watch Pretty Little Liars while I snack on junk food.
But Abbie seemed to have other plans.
"Your parents called," she says.
"Good for them." My fingers hold onto my jacket tightly.
My foster parents were somewhat nice. They had fed me, put a roof over my head, and treated me well, but something was missing. They weren't my blood parents.
"They requested you to have longer sessions. Something about a call and you sounding depressed," Abbie says, curious.
"Longer sessions? How long?" I ignore her curious stare and bunch up my jacket even more.
"Three hours.... Give or take a few more."
Ridiculous, I wanted scream, but my throat was dry and my heart was beating surprisingly fast. Three hours in this depressing room, pity stares, and a therapist who annoys the crap out of me. I was going to die in this room.
"But," Abbie begins." We could try a new tactic. Just like you said yesterday, repeating your name over and over again doesn't benefit either of us."
