Seeing Red

I don’t know why they gave me the pen. They didn’t ask me to write anything. Well, they didn’t exactly give it to me, I pulled it off the desk, but still. Why would they sit it there where I could reach it? I just sat there, absentmindedly clicking it so that it makes that tic-tic-tic sound that drives adults crazy. I drive a lot of adults crazy. Tic-tic-tic. The clicking sound that is the reason I am here. I just couldn’t stop clicking. Tic-tic-tic. I found it strangely therapeutic - more therapeutic than therapy. Tic-tic-tic. The pen was taken away from me, it’s ticking fading into ominous silence.

“Do you know why you are here, Miss. Clementine Emmanuel-Forsolaz?” asked Dr. Marsheen, the person I had come to see.

“I’m here because I have major depressive disorder, attention deficit hyperactive disorder, anxiety, anorexia although I force myself to eat, psychotic symptoms, anger issues, suicidal thoughts and actions, self-harming tendencies, and psychopath something or other. Oh, and paranoia.” I rattled, ticking off the list as I went.

“But why are you here?” asked Marsheen again. I was pretty sure she was Asian. She sounded Asian. I ignored her.

“You therapists all think you’re so original, that no one could be as good as you because you are doing things in a way that is new and different. But with everyone, they ask me the same questions. ‘Standard procedure,’ they say, but it’s BS. They never do anything different.”

“How many other therapists have you been to?” These therapists. Not only do they ask the same questions, all they do is ask questions. Jesus. When does it end?

“11, including you.”

“Well, let’s get to the real stuff, shall we?”

“Go ahead.” I sassed.

“How old were you when this started?”

“It’s always been there,” I said. In truth, I gave a different time to every one of my therapists. Maybe it had always been here. I wasn’t keeping track. Or maybe it was post-traumatic stress, like they said.

“Hmm. Did anything happen to you?”

“Other than my parent’s death? No.”

“Do you know what happened to them?”

“No.”

“Why do you think that is?”

“My brain can’t handle it.”

“That’s a brave accusation.” It was the first thing she said that didn’t end in a question since our session began.

“Just spitting back what everyone else says,” I explained.

“Ah. And why do you think they all say the same thing?”

“This is something I’ve noticed a lot, not just with therapists. You have to go through it to understand it. Horrible, but true.”

“So you think no one understands you?”

“Some do, a little bit.”

“A little bit?”

“Well, you know, a whole bunch of my friends are depressed,” I answered uneasily. Time to change my strategy.

“Do they cut like you do?”

“No.” Umm… yes.

“Is this boring you?” Marsheen asked.

“Yes.” Duh.

“What would you like to do?” My hands twitched. I hoped she didn’t see.

“I want to shove your perfectly manicured hands down your throat until they come out your ass,” I burst. I didn’t mean to say that. I didn’t mean to say that… but it was true. Dr. Marsheen’s eyes widened.

“I think… that concludes our session today. May I meet with your aunt?” No, I thought, but it didn’t matter. I was sent out and my aunt came in. Of course Marsheen ended the session. Adults always do, when faced with something they can’t understand. Tomorrow I went back to school. I was almost looking forward to it, I hadn’t seen my friends in so long. Bored, I leaned over to the door to try and overhear. They had white noise machines to cover the sound, but if anyone tried, they could hear clearly.

“Your child has some issues… Keep bringing her here… She seems to have some Psychopathic tendencies…” Psychopathic tendencies. That was what it was. “She is mentally unstable and may need to go to a behavioral school, if you consent…” If you consent. No. Aunt Tracy couldn’t do this to me. Take me from all my friends and put me in a boarding school? Like that would help? I ran to the bathroom and let out a sob. Nothing had been right since Mom and Dad died. Nothing. The red lines across my arms were proof of that. I took out my shard of mirror that I had kept from the accident. I had lied to the doctor. I remembered the accident just fine. I wish I didn’t. They were in a car crash. This mirror was from their car. From the rear view mirror. And I had been using it to cut now for the past week, carrying it around with me like a good luck charm. I used it to cut now, and I cut deeper than I meant to and started to bleed. Oh sure, the last time they had caught me cutting, they searched everywhere, but the piece was so small that they didn’t notice I had hidden it in my mouth. Deep, dark, red lines. Deep, dark, red lines. The drops of red swirled in the toilet water. It looked like I was on my period. My salty tears fell on the wound and made it sting. It was only one cut this time. Only… ha. I was crying silently. Someone came in and didn’t hear me… or care. Mom, Dad, where are you? I thought. I miss you.

(Note: I started and finished this story a while ago, but it needs to be almost completely rewritten...)