The Story Of Goodbye

"Now tell me, Cynthia. How do these voices in your head make you feel?" Dr. Waters, my new psychiatrist who insists that I call her Amy, asked me as if I were a six year old with imaginary friends.
"Dr. Waters, I told you. The voices aren't in my head, they are all around me- like you or my dad or my annoying physics teacher. They are voices of real people that we just can't see, and that you can't hear. My mother can-could- hear them before she... you know. That is how I know it's not in my head. It's real." I said as nicely as I could possibly manage- which wasn't very nice at all, but I had to try. Dad would kill me if he had yet another shrink tell him that I was "mentally unstable", "beyond reason", or, my favorite, "best off in the care of an asylum."
"Honey, I told you, call me Amy. I don't want you to feel awkward about talking to an adult about your... problems. Think of me as one of your friends. Now, Cynthia, about your voices-" Dr. Waters said, so sweetly it made me sick, before I cut her off.
"No offense, Amy, but 1. I don't have any friends and 2. If I did, I wouldn't pick you to be one of them."
I got out of the "comfy chair", walked over to the coat rack standing by the door, and grabbed my white leather jacket. I slipped it on and flipped my long, straight, sun-bleached blonde hair over my shoulder and looked back at Dr. Waters. She tried so hard to look sympathetic and upset, but she just tried too hard. She looked like a seven year old who didn't get what they wanted. It was pathetic.

This story was written three years ago, and is undergoing editing, and is a little rough.