serendipity [h.s.]

one

Song of the Chapter: Come Together by The Beatles

"So, can you tell me how you have been feeling lately?" Her rectangular glasses and crimson lips mock me. Her lips are overly glossed and the shine blinds me. Her brown eyes watch me as if to say, What a mess you are. I know I am.

"The same way I always feel," I answer her and she writes down my response on some wide ruled paper attached to her tan clipboard. I sit across from her in a room that is much too bright. The white plush couch I'm on makes me nervous because I feel that if I stand there will be a stain in my absence. Cream walls surround me and the windows are spotless. The table that separates us is oak and it must have been sprayed with countless bottles of Pledge to get that shiny.

She stares at me for a little while longer as I shift on the cushions. I know she's just wasting time. She doesn't want to talk to me as much as I don't want to talk to her. Maybe more. If it were up to me I'd be in my room right now, reading a book I'd probably read time and time again. My parents had other ideas, obviously. She clicks her pen then looks back at me. I mentally roll my eyes already knowing what she's going to ask next.

"And what feeling is that?" Her high pitched voice drips in fake curiosity. I learned how to detect that long ago. I stop drumming my fingers on my knees and I roll my eyes, not just mentally this time.

"Is something wrong, Josephine?"

I groan before answering her. "Yes! Yes, something is wrong!"

I clench my fists in my lap and I look at my shoes, the black fabric rubs together as I hear her scribbling away on that damned paper. I try to block out her and the small buzzing I hear from the lap beside my head. I imagine that I'm in my room, lyrics flying through my head.

"He got feet down below his knee
Hold you in his armchair you can feel his disease
Come together right now over me"

"And what's the problem?"

"You know damn well what the problem is," I mutter under my breath, but I know she hears me because the writing starts again.

"Would you care to explain it to me again?"

I take a deep breath and decide to play along with her little game. She just asks me a bunch of pointless questions to waste the hour and a half we spend together. My parents pay her far too much to partake in "small talk" with me. They shouldn't be paying her at all.

"The fact that I have to come here is maddening. The fact that you ask me the same questions over and over is infuriating and my coming here is senseless. This is not helping me, and frankly I don't even need help. My parents don't understand that."

She hums as she nods at her clipboard.

"You don't need help?"

"No," I answer flatly. I look at the clock. 2:57 p.m. Only three more minutes then I can leave. Thank the Lord.

"But what about your panic attacks?" She questions and she catches me off guard. She hasn't mentioned those in my last couple visits. I was beginning to think she had totally forgotten. I snap my head to her and I narrow my eyes.

"I haven't had one of those in months. I'm fine."

She nods and writes down more nonsense. She looks at the watch on her wrist.

"Well, you have one more minute. Is there anything you'd like to say before you leave?"

I sit up straighter and I watch her mocha eyes judge me through her glasses that I'm ninety-seven percent sure aren't even prescription. I grab my bag from the foot of the couch and throw it over my shoulder and I grip the strap, my fist touching the belt loop of my jeans. I stand and she tilts her head to the side.