Me & Her

Me

Diving into a book has become my new sanctuary since waking up.

I don't remember ever reading that much as a child – not that my memory is the most reliable thing – but now it's my only refuge. My sole escape.

The whole afternoon wastes away on the sofa, guided by words of murder and deduction. Mum brings me hot coco, drinking her own beside me in a blanket.

The sun sinks lower, casting an opal haze onto the pages of my murder mystery.

By the time I look up from my second book, the sunset has already passed.

Sometimes being lonely is good, but with a book, you're never alone. I realise I mustn't have read often as my eyes roam slowly over the pages, struggling with many of the metaphors.

It's the numbers that come easily, the scientific concepts.

Smiling, I snuggle deeper into the cream cushions. I've never felt more at home than I do now.

Behind the couch, a door creaks, altering me to the ghost hovering by the hinges.

I can see his reflection in the TV screen, all pale features except for his green cat's eyes. Dr. Light.

Remaining silent, I return to my book, but I find I can't quite concentrate on the same sentence without sweating. The air clips, telling me he's entered. Still, I don't look up.

Instead I sense the moment when he sits down beside me, palms clasped together as if in prayer.

We're silent for a long time.

"What are you reading?" he asks cautiously. I don't look up.

"A book".

"Right". His feet shuffle across the carpet, his posture stiff. It's not my place to say anything, he's the expert. He should know what to do, what clever words to weave so I'll re-enter that endless cycle of believing in him before he lets me down.

"I'm sorry. The last thing I wanted was to hurt you". My body sinks a little, loosening. But I've been fooled before, by better actors than him. So why can't I bring myself to be angry, to shout back? Maybe it's the guilt. I can see it, swimming all over his face, infecting the way he moves. Inside the confines of the living room, he is too jagged, to unfinished. His guilt paints him in sepia, like the bookcases along the walls.

"It was a mistake. I'm new to this. I don't know what I'm doing" he says, holding his head in his hands. I sigh.

"As your patient, that's good to know". He releases what can only be described as a pitiful chuckle. I've never heard him laugh before. It's a sound I realise I want to hear more often.

Looking at him now, he appears almost younger than me. I know he's in his early twenties – an adult – but next to me he looks like a lost little boy. Not exactly reassuring.

"How are you feeling?" he says.

"Great. Couldn't be greater," I lie.

"How are you really feeling?"

"Pretty bad". I haven't realised it till now, but I'm smiling. Light is smiling too. It's a small smile, but at least it's something other than the stoic face I've grown used to.

"Look," he says seriously. "I am here for you. Whether you want me to be or not, I am here". The warm tingling in my stomach fades, baiting me to turn my back on him. But I don't.

"This is a job to you," I whisper. "For me, it's my life".

"That's why I'm finding it hard to say the right thing, do the right thing. Because it is your life and I don't want to spend mine ruining it," he replies.

I lean back, closing the book.

Around us, the cloying air solidifies, slowing his words to give them meaning.

"I just don't want to feel under pressure having to act a certain way or do session upon session pretending to be something I'm not," I say honestly. It's the first sentence out of my mouth where I haven't had to pretend.

It doesn't make sense that I'm saying it to Light and not to my Mother.

"You don't have to. I don't believe in those sessions or the therapy. I believe in you". He has no idea how long I've waited for someone to tell me that. I might have started to believe in myself again, but each second living in this painful world where I don't know who I should be has left me hollow. Maybe his words can fill that space.

He picks up my discarded book, turning it over.

"Is it a good book?" he smiles.

When I nod, he returns it to me, then stands up. He's never looked so young. In my head, a silent voice tells me I should make him tea. I'm not entirely sure why, but I want to. No, it's more than that. I need to.

"Would you like some tea or coffee?" I offer. He shakes his head, that stoic expression resuming along with it. He really doesn't smile often. Perhaps I should have taken a picture.

"It's alright, I'll make it myself".

It seems to take an eternity for him to walk away.