Ignite

Chapter 8

"How has your week been, Claudia?"

It is the dreaded 4pm on Tuesday and, as always, I'm sitting in a squeaky leather chair in Muhammad Amari's Clinical Psychology Unit. Muhammad's office is on the 10th level of a marble-floored skyscraper in the middle of Sydney's CBD and his desk sits against floor to ceiling windows.

While we talk, I can see the weather outside, and right now, an afternoon storm is rolling in above the harbour. The clouds are threatening, the colour of gunmetal, and I watch them greedily.

Ever since the fire, I've loved storms. I've loved the rain and the thunder and the puddles. I've loved the dampness it leaves behind.

"It's been fine," I say.

Muhammad shifts so that his head looms larger than the clouds, and it brings my attention inside once more.

"Could you tell me about it?" he asks.

"What do you want to know?"

"Whatever you think I should know."

This is why I hate therapists.

I don't enjoy having to direct the conversation, having to watch and wonder while Muhammad jots down all his theories and hypotheses for why I'd chosen that certain topic, that way of phrasing a sentence, that description for my emotions.

"I had another nightmare."

I don't want to tell him anything, but nightmares are a familiar topic, one I know how he'll react to.

"What was it about this time?" Muhammad asks, the clicking of his keyboard starting up.

"When I first smelt the smoke."

"How did it make you feel?"

"Shit. It was a nightmare."

Muhammad smiles. It's one of those classic therapist smiles: compassionate, but empty, providing solace while remaining distant at the same time.

"Were you able to wake up yourself?"

"No, Jake woke me."

Muhammad nods and writes something else down.

"How are things with your brother?"

The moment he asks that, I regret mentioning Jake at all, because Muhammad has an uncanny ability to tell when I'm lying.

"Good."

My eyes drift to the clouds again and he watches me, judging my mood before speaking.

"You started school this week?"

"Yeah, it's not as terrible as I'd expected."

"Are you worried that being at separate schools will affect your relationship with Jake?"

I want to punch Muhammad then — of all the topics he could've zeroed in on today.

"Of course not," I snap, the annoyance leaking clear from my voice before I can tame it. "We're closer than ever."

My sarcasm earns a scoff from Muhammad and he closes his laptop, leans forward and stares at me.

I try to ignore him, but I'm far too familiar with this kind of interrogation technique, and I know he won't let me be until I acknowledge my stupid outburst.

So, I let my eyes trail back to his face, banishing Jake from my thoughts and keeping my expression as bland as possible.

Muhammad has friendly eyes, I tell myself — dark, with crow's feet and smile lines. I can't help but wonder where those came from, because he doesn't smile around me. Not genuinely, at least.

I like his hair too. It's a nice colour, almost black, but not quite. He always wears it pulled back into a tight man bun, though. I wonder if that hurts —

"Claudia, you sounded angry then. Would you like to tell me why?"

Muhammad's voice cuts across my mental commentary and I feel a tiny thrill of exhilaration when I notice that his expression has sharpened. It isn't often that I outlast the famous Muhammad Amari in a contest of wills.

"I'm not angry," I say, buoyed by my victory.

He eyes me and then leans back, opening his laptop and typing something new.

"Okay. If you're not willing to share today, how about we move onto the business side of things?"

I nod, equally relieved and annoyed that we've reached this part of the session already.

"Have you had contact with anyone from Bellbird apart from Jake this week?"

"No, I haven't."

"Have you received any unusual correspondence or threats?"

"No."

"Has anyone been acting strangely or paid unwarranted attention to you or Jake?"

"No."

"Have you—"

"No."

Muhammad looks up, an eyebrow raised.

"We've done this a hundred times," I say. "I already know what you're going to ask. I would've told you at the start if anything had happened."

Muhammad is quiet, and I can tell he's stuck between scolding me for not respecting the government's system and admitting that I have a point and these questions are unnecessary.

"If you say so," he says eventually. "I need to hear your answers though, that's compulsory."

I roll my eyes. "Fine."

"Where were you born?"

"Bellbird Creek, Victoria."

"When did you move to Sydney?"

"In December, after the Dark Monday bushfires destroyed my house and killed my mum."

"Who do you live with?"

"My Aunt Sylvia and Uncle Peter. They took in Jake and I."

"And what's your name?"

I look Muhammad right in the eyes, and I can tell he's assessing me for the slightest indication of a lie.

"My name is Claudia Cairns."

Muhammad stares at me, examining, and then he nods.

"Good. You can go now. I'll see you next week." 

...

What do you all think of Muhammad? Do you think Claude should be taking her therapy more seriously? 

Don't forget to vote or comment if you enjoyed the chapter :)

- Skylar xx