every Rose has it's thorn

c h a p t e r - 1 - Therapy (all time low)

        "Rose? I asked you a question, Rose. Did you hear me, Rose?" I hear the blonde repetitevely ask, causing me to roll my eyes at how many times she was able to squeeze my name into a sentence.

         "Yes, I heard you," I tell her, unwilling to answer the question she had recited just moments before. You see, she had asked me about my fears, which is a much too personal question to answer  for my liking. Although I've been told that the blonde before me is to be trusted, I'm still uneasy about revealing too much about myself to anyone, let alone the practically complete stranger before me.

        "We aren't getting anywhere, Rose. Now tell me, what is it you are so afraid of? What are you hiding from, Rose?" the blonde questions, her voice laced with that condescending tone women typically use towards babies. How does she expect me to answer such mature questions when she talks as if I'm a two year old? According to her tone of voice, I shouldn't even be able to go to the bathroom by myself without the help of a diaper, so I'm not really in the mood to describe my personal life to her at the moment.

        "I am afraid of the fact that my mom sent me here. I'm afraid of the concept that complete strangers expect me to spill all my deepest thoughts and secrets to them," I retort sassily, knowing that my answer is not what Quinn had hoped I would say. Quinn, the blonde currently giving me a death stare for my stubborn refusals to speak, is the therapist that my mom had decided I needed to talk to. Despite my constant pleas against my mother's decision, once my mom got the idea in her head that I was "depressed," she decided that somehow, it would help me to talk to a complete stranger that  calls herself a "therapist." Note the sarcasm.

        "Rose, can't you see how much you're hurting those around you? Haven't you seen the way your mother looks at you? I can see in her eyes how much she wants to help you, yet knows she can't. You're hurting her, Rose. She wants to help you, but you won't let her. Why, Rose? Why is that? Why can't anybody ever know what is going on inside of your head?" Quinn quizzes me, her blue eyes boring into my brown ones. I look away from her stare as if I suddenly became passionately interested in the collection of pencils on her desk. You see, Quinn has this rather odd habit of intensely staring down her victims (oops.. I meant to say patients), and her awkward need for constant eye contact is rather uncomfortable. Therefore, I'd rather speak to the pencils on her desk rather than feeling as if her pupils are going to open up and swallow me like a black hole at any given second. As I try to dodge her hawk-like eyes, I realize I actually have to answer her question and try to think of a suitable response.

        I sigh, knowing that Quinn will not be satisfied with my answer. "Nothing is going on inside of my head, Quinn. Just regular teenage thoughts. You know, the usual. May I please go home now? I have homework." Quinn vigorously shakes her head, her platinum strands whipping her cheeks as she shakes her head back and forth.

        "No, you may not. This session does not end for another hour, Rose," Quinn reprimands, causing me to audibly groan at the thought of sitting in this uncomfortable chair for another 60 minutes. "How about we start at the beginning, Rose? Let's pretend I've never met you before, okay?"

        "Sure, why not," I flatly answer, bored of Quinn's useless antics to get me to speak. When will the poor girl finally comprehend the fact that she will never understand me- that I will never randomly combust and decide to spill my story to her?

        "Okay, great! I'll just scurry on out into the hallway and walk back in here so we can greet each other again. Remember... from now on, you have no idea who I am, okay?" Quinn reminds me before flashing a small smile my way, probably due to my cooperation to her utterly stupid plan. She rushes into the hallway, her rather hideous knitted scarf trailing behind her on the floor. No wonder the floors in her office are so clean! Maybe I should start knitting myself some scarves- it would save me the hassle of vacuuming if it's able to pick up all the dust bunnies.

        A few moments later, after I was able to successfully count the number of tiles on the ceiling (74, to be exact) while waiting for the blonde to re-enter, Quinn finally bounced back into the room, obviously excited that she thought she was "getting somewhere" with me.

        "Hi, you must be Rosalind! I'm Quinn," the blonde greeted, extending her hand for a handshake. I reluctantly grasped her palm, deciding to allow Quinn to enjoy a moment or two of me cooperating.

        "Hey," I simply answered, limply shaking Quinn's hand just as I did during our actual first meeting. She frowned at my fishlike hand, though I ignored her attempt at puppy dog eyes and semi-rudely removed my fingers from her clammy grasp before she decided to lecture me on the proper handshake.

        "Do you go by Rosalind, or do you prefer another name?" Quinn asked, not-so-slyly hinting for me to correct her and tell her I go by "Rose" as I did during our first meeting.

        "Whatever works for you is fine by me," I tell her with a smile, knowing she'll be annoyed at me for not correcting her when we both know I hate being called Rosalind. Only my grandmother calls me Rosalind, and even then the name makes me cringe. It isn't because I don't like the name, because I do, it's just that I always feel like I'm in trouble when I'm called Rosalind instead of Rose.

        "Alright, Rosalind," Quinn begins with a mischievous look. Huh, I guess she's playing along with my little game of how-to-annoy-the-therapist. "How old are you?"

        "I'm seventeen. How old are you?" I retort, causing Quinn to shoot me a glare. I know that she hates to talk about her age, and I'm hoping that Quinn will become so annoyed by my antics that she'll let me go home early and never want to speak to me again. Unfortunately, Quinn takes the higher road and answers my question with a smile on her lips.

        "I'm thirty seven. What grade are you in, Rosalind?" Quinn questions, purposefully putting emphasis on the use of my full name. I smile artificially at the blonde, repeating obscene phrases in my head as I continue to answer her interrogations.

        "I'm a junior in high school," I tell Quinn, even though I know she is already knowledged about my age and grade. Nevertheless, I'd rather reveal simple information about myself rather than informing her about my fears like she had asked earlier.

        "And how do you like high school? Are you happy there?" Quinn asks, most likely hoping I'll suddenly open up to her willingly. Not today, Quinn.

        "It's alright," I shrug, knowing I'm getting nowhere with her and that she will soon snap at my "invalid" answers.      

        "Cut the crap, Rose. We're getting nowhere and you know it. You're wasting my time and yours, Rose. If you aren't willing to say anything useful, just go home, okay? You win," Quinn angrily snaps, her new attitude a total opposite from her usual "everything is fine and dandy" demeanor. Although I feel bad for being the cause of her mood change, I pat myself on the back for getting myself out of the therapy session- I knew she wouldn't be able to take my annoyingness much longer.

        "There wasn't anything to win, Quinn. I'll see you next week," I tell her, yanking my jeans higher up on my hips sassily before standing up and making my way out of her office. Though once I step foot into the hallway, I realize I have a rather major predicament. Not only do I not have a car since I only have a permit, but I currently do not have a phone either, because thanks to my protests against doing the dishes, my mother decided it would be best to take away my beloved cellular device for a whole week. And boy do I regret not doing those damn dishes.

        After a few minutes of debating what my plan of action should be, I sigh obnoxiously before beginning my walk of shame back into Quinn's office. Though as I pry open her surprisingly heavy door, I am greeted by a rather unexpected sight, and guilt immediately fills my body.      

**Hey whoever you are! Thanks for reading my story :) oh and just to let you know, all the chapter titles are all songs- not all of them are my favorite songs and not all of the lyrics/song title will relate to the chapter, but one or the other will! and please feel free to comment- I'd love to be able to make my story as well-written as possible and if you commented your favorite music that would be pretty awesome too because I love music and if you love music that's just pretty cool :) ...... okie well that's all I can think of saying for now soooo thanks for readin'!!