Silhouettes

"You know why you're here, don't you?"

I meet her gaze through cautious eyes. "Don’t you?"

I could see the surprise on her face as I finally open my mouth and speak to her, but she tries to hide her shock and nods, holding up a thick envelope from her desk. She leans back in her chair and wheels it forward, closer to the couch I'm sitting on, rigid and nervous. "I do. But I’m not sure you understand the purpose of these visits.”

I fidget uncomfortably and look around the office, suddenly very interested in the ceiling tiles. Biting my lip, I shift under her gaze, my eyes wandering from my chipping nail polish to the clock hanging on the wall. Only a minute has passed since the last time I checked the time, and each second seems to last an agonizing hour.

I didn’t mean to speak, but her ridiculous questions grade on my nerves sometimes. She’s always asking how I am and what happened, and all other questions that can be answered by simply looking into my file. I suppose deep down, I want to talk to her because she seems to be the one person who hasn’t taken a biased opinion on me based on the past. She genuinely or technically has to, get to know me for me and on her own, without taking the word of others first. It’s refreshing to know that there is someone in this town that doesn’t know the entire story behind me demise and who wants to know it in its entirety, if only to help make me better and more stable. I need help, that I am willing to fess up to, but like they say, you can’t help the unwilling.

"So, what have you been up to for these last two days?" She asks, steadying her pen. “We didn’t speak at our appointment on Friday about school - today was your first day back to your high school in a year, correct?” I nod my head ever so slightly. “How was that?”

Picking at my nails, I shrug and wait for her to try again. "Anything good happen? Anything bad?"

“What do you think?” I mumble, wrapping my arms around my frame, trying to keep myself from destroying my nails any farther.

“I don’t,” she shrugs. “I don’t know anything you about, Gracie.”

“So, those files in your hands are just full of blank sheets of paper?” I ask.

She glances down at them for a moment, before looking back up at me with a smile, nodding her head. She scribbles something down on her notepad and then clasps her hands together.

“Why do you think you’re here?”

“Parental mandating.”

She shakes her head. “You’re 18, Gracie. They can no longer force you to do anything.”

“You obviously don’t know my parents.”

She shrugs, “I don’t really.”

I don’t respond and instead cross my legs, playing with the ends of my hair absentmindedly. I could feel Dr. Sullivan’s gaze flickering between me, the watch on her wrist, and the clipboard in her lap. The room was silent, other than the sound of the slowly ticking clock on the wall and the Beethoven that played just barely audible at every session. I’d almost come to love the music because it was the only thing separating me and the silence. It made me feel safe in a way, as ridiculous as that sounds. At first, it didn’t make any sense to me as to why Dr. Sullivan felt it necessary to play but soon enough, I began to realize that I was a Beethoven song. Many of his pieces, or at least the ones Dr. Sullivan played, started off slow before building into this huge crescendo of violins, harps, and more, before once again settling down into a calm symphony. My life was just the same; a roller coaster of sorts.

I start counting things around the room, a technique I was taught when I was younger to calm my nerves. First, all the pictures of unfamiliar faces situated in various parts of the room; 23. Then I count the amount of manila folders on doc’s desk; 14. There are 16 pens, pencils, and highlighters all together in a cup on Dr. Sullivan’s desk. There are 5 questionable stains on the carpet and 2 small, peculiar holes in the ceiling. 15 books, 2 dictionaries, 4 cabinets, 6 cobwebs, 1 dead fly. 17 minutes remain of my appointment.

I sigh and kick my shoes off, spinning around and placing my feet on the couch, wrapping my arms around my knees and turning to stare out the window. I stared at the dark pavement of the road and at the clean cut grass in front of every house and building. Outside, things were so brilliantly colored and organized just perfect, as if the scene had been painted by a talented artist. I sigh and leaned my forehead against the glass. It was cool against my clammy flesh and I closed my eyes at the nice sensation. Life was moving forward, without him and without me, and no one was looking back. I was trapped inside my own home, my own mind; my own memories.

“I’m Gracie!” I grinned and stuck out my hand like I’d seen my parents do so many times before.

“Ew, you’re a girl!” He shouted at me, standing up from where he had been seated in the sandbox.

I frowned at him, tucking my hands into the small pockets of my pink overalls. “No, I’m not,” I grumbled, glaring at him through my blonde bangs, put off by the small boys large attitude.

“Yes, you are. You’re wearing pink and you have pigtails,” he said, pulling on one my blonde curls. I yelped as he tugged on my hair, and then slapped his hand away from my hair, my face contorting into anger as he laughed at my noise of protest.

“Just because I’m wearing pink and have pigtails in doesn’t mean I’m a girl, you big stupid head!” I shouted.

“Yes it does!”

“No it doesn’t!”

“Yes it does!”

“No!”

“Yes!”

“No!”

“Yes!” He screamed as loud as he could, pushing me back as I began to protest. I tumbled backwards, falling down onto the ground, my legs hanging over the edge of the sandbox rim as the rest of my body landed on the soft surrounding grass.

I tried hard to stay strong and not cry, but at five years old, even the smallest tumble seemed liked the biggest disaster. My eyes pooled with tears and began to pour down my face, as miserable cries escaped through my mouth, sniffles and coughs following.

“Don’t cry!” He said, looking around, panic evident on his small face. “Please stop, I’m sorry. You’re right; you’re not a girl. Y-you’re um, scary, like, like t-the Hulk! Do you know who the Hulk is?”

I sniffled, my tears slowly dissipating as he talked to me. I wiped my nose with the back of my hand and sat up, kneeling in the grass. I nodded my head, looking up at him as the smallest of cries left my mouth.

He smiled at me, kneeling down in front of me, “I’m sorry for making you cry.”

“It’s okay,” I smiled.

“You can hit me back, if you want, if that’ll make you happy again.”

He pulled the sleeve of his red and yellow stripped t-shirt up, turning his arm to face me. I balled my tiny fist up and stared at him, his face turning away and scrunching up, anticipating the pain. I shook my head and instead grabbed his hand and unballed his fist, his sleeve falling back down. He flinched as I touched him before realizing that I meant no harm.

“Truce?” I asked, holding my hand out in front of him, palm up.

He smiled and grabbed her hand, shaking it before jumping up and into the sandbox. He picked up his red shovel and offered it to me, his arm stretching to reach me. “I’m Adam.”

I opened my eyes as the memory faded away, watching as a few birds nested in the bush just under the large window.

“Do you think you need to be here?” Dr. Sullivan broke the silence.

I didn’t respond once again, going back to my silent self. I’d already said too much. It didn’t matter though; the clock was reading 2:25 and with five minutes to spare, I decided that this was over. I slid my feet back into my shoes and grabbed my bag from the floor, heading towards the door, pausing only when Dr. Sullivan called my name. I looked over my shoulder, just barely making eye contact with her.

“I want to help you, and I think you want me to help you too. But I can’t do this on my own. Recovery isn’t a one man deal; it takes multiple participants.”

I turned back to the door and pulled it open and with one foot out the threshold, I paused again. “I just want my life back.”

It was a short walk back to my house from my therapists, and knowing that my father wouldn’t be home for another three or so hours, I decided to take the longer route. It was such a beautiful day and despite my mood, I couldn’t help but take everything about it in with a smile. I walked slow and careful, enjoying the sunshine bathing my warm skin in a wash of color. After walking aimlessly around for nearly an hour, I decided to head back home, just in case my dad arrived early – though the odds of him arriving early were as probable as was snow in the summer.

As I made my way down the sidewalk, my bag brushing my hip with every step, I could see that the day was slowly coming to an end. The sun had yet to sink below the horizon, but the signs of a sunset were beginning to bloom behind a few treetops. Cars whizzed past me down the road, one after the other, the signs of rush hour apparent with every blare of a horn. I take my time, keeping a steady pace as I walk.

When I finally turned into my neighborhood, I checked my phone for the time –the black numbers reading just past 4. I stopped at my mailbox and grabbed the mail, nothing but bills and lame magazines filling the small box. Unlocking my front door and stepping inside, nothing but silence filled my empty home. I held back a sigh as I closed and locked the front door behind me, pausing just at the staircase landing. When I finally found the energy to move up the stairs, I headed straight for my bedroom, just wanting to melt away from the world. Today had done nothing other than fill me with stress and washed up memories. Too many stares, too many whispers, too many familiar faces - it was all too much. I was ready to just go to sleep and pretend that today never even happened.

With plans to sleep the rest of the day away, I changed out of my jeans and into a pair of gray sweatpants and threw on a t-shirt, climbing into my bed, the sheets drowning me in their comfortable embrace. Lying there, I stared up at the ceiling, expecting my mind to race with thoughts, but my mind was empty. Barely a single though passed through, the exhaustion of the day having worn me out. Try as I may, I couldn’t find the solace of sleep that I so desperately desired. After an hour passed, and my eyes had yet to close, pulling my mind into a dream, I knew lying in bed was no longer an option and was simply wasting my time – not that I had an agenda anyway. Reluctantly, I climbed out of bed and wandered downstairs, taking a seat at the kitchen island, the still soundless house drowning me in its wrath.

Looking down at my wrist, the heart scar mocked me, the ragged lines flexing as the muscles in my wrist moved with my fingers. Slowly, I moved my right hand, subconsciously tracing the strange shape along my bone lightly, the tips of my finger just barely grazing over my skin.. It was stupid of me to let him to it to me – to allow him to practically cut me – and yet, I couldn’t find an ounce of regret towards it. I thought it was beautiful, even with all the imperfection it showed and now represented. There was so many things wrong with it, right down to the way each side of the heart barely reached on another, awkwardly crossing at the bottom. The ugliness of it stood for something now though – that with all the beauty it possess, there’s still always room to see the wrongness in its entirety.

I sighed, tucking a strand of hair behind of my ear, looking around the large kitchen, unsure of what to do next. I had no homework since today was just the first day, minus the copious amount of papers my parents had to fill out. There was nothing for me to do; nothing that screamed for my attention. Knowing that my presence wasn’t required anywhere, I headed outside and to my mom’s garden, carefully stepping into the gated off area with my bare feet, watching every step I took, caution creeping up my spine like a lost breeze.