(Formerly known as "When Our Paths Crossed")
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A tale of two lost souls brought together by pain, grief and trauma.
Atlas tries to find a place in a world he's worked so hard to escape. Elijah struggles to balance the life he's building and the...
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I SIT WITH June in the therapist's office, my foot tapping anxiously against the floor, arms crossed. Blissfully ignorant, Sam sleeps in the stroller next to her. It must be so nice to be a baby... June shoots me a warning look, and I roll my eyes, but my foot stops bouncing.
June insisted on joining me as if I can't handle a simple trip. Okay, she's right, I can't. But still. I'm nineteen years old. I can make my own choices.
"Yeah, and those choices landed you in the hospital," the rational voice inside my head points out. "And you have been skipping sessions."
"But it was worth it," the temptation hums.
I swallow and pick at my nails, eyes darting to the clock every couple of seconds. We've been waiting for about ten minutes, and I'm starting to feel anxious, almost ready to scale the walls. Even though I feel like running, I can't. These weekly sessions had been yet another of the hundred terms I have to follow to avoid being sent back to the hospital.
"You have to deal with this trauma," June argued, "Dr. Gibbert helped me, and she knows all about what we went through. You have to go in there and talk about your own experiences. She won't judge."
Because being judged is what I'm worried about... I'd only just woken up, was miserable and at the height of withdrawals, so, to get her to shut up, I agreed. I signed up for it but didn't bother to go. Why would I? I'm trying to ignore the pain, not face it. That's kind of the whole point about denial and suppression. But, Dr. Gibbert, that traitor, contacted June, and my sister flipped. So, she now acts as a chaperone... Or a prison guard. However, you want to look at it.
"Stop picking at your fingers," June hisses, smacking my hand away from my mouth.
With a harumph, I shove my hands in the pocket of my hoodie and slouch down in my seat. I don't know when June changed. We used to have each other's backs, and even though she disapproved of my choice of "extracurricular activities," she never forced me to do anything. She was never this controlling. But now? I can't even take a shower without her hovering at the door.
The door to the office swings open, followed by the hushed conversation between a therapist and her client. Dr. Gibbert raises her eyebrows at me with surprised acknowledgement but pulls her attention back to her current client as she prattles about having to go pick up her kids from their after-school clubs. It's all so normal, no lingering traces of their session. It makes me wonder exactly what this stay-at-home mom has to talk about.
After the woman leaves, Dr. Gibbert finally turns to me with that searching pout I think all therapists have. At least, the ones I've been to. I fidget and, in my hoodie pocket, I start picking at my nails again.
"Hello, Atlas," she says in her smooth, monotone voice. Always professional, never emotional. I swear she's a robot.
June stands and, after a moment, I follow. Slower though, and I shrug my hello.
