Collide

It was a warm, spring day when I first saw her.

My distraught mother had decided to sent me to a psychiatrist six months before. I only went because it pleased her.

I’ve caused enough heartache for that woman.

I was sitting in the waiting room when she walked in. Her light blonde hair looked thin and coarse. Eyeing her up and down, there was no mistaking why she was here.

Many young girls think eating disorders are glamorous, and I never paid attention to how serious they were. But, looking at Blondie, it became obvious.

There was nothing glamorous about that.

Her skinny jeans hung loosely on her bony legs and her baggy sweater only emphasized her skeletal frame. Her cheekbones stuck out of her face and her collarbone was sharp.

Blondie sat in front of me and fiddle around with her iPhone. I could see the knuckles on her fingers protrude and her fingernails were bitten down with chipped blue nailpolish.

Even across from her, I could tell her eyes were a lovely shade of blue, although a bit dull and with purple bags hanging under them. She was very pretty, but frighteningly small.

The longer I stared at her the more obvious it became: she was well on her way to dying.

She put her phone down and watched me. I leaned forward and placed my elbows on my knees.

“I’m Elias.”

She bit her chapped lip and turned her head. I caught a glimpse of her small nosering and the industrial bar through the top of her ear.

“Bristol,” she answered with a scratchy voice before clearing her throat. “who are you here to see?” she asked slightly stronger.

“Doctor Crawford. You?”

“Kendrick.”

I was about to respond, but a nurse interrupted. “Bristol Cameron.”

Bristol stood up and tugged on her thick sleeves.

“See you around, Elias.”

∆∆∆∆

I walked into Doctor Crawford’s room and sat on the couch. She was a middle aged woman with short grey hair and light blue eyes. At first I didn’t care for her, but the more I came to talk to her the more I found her comforting.

She reminded me of my mother before my dad died.

“I see your knuckles are bruised.”

“I went boxing yesterday. It helped a little. I’m still crazy pissed though.”

Crawford crossed her legs. “I’m glad you took my suggestion. Have you been doing the other exercises when you get angry?”

“No. Isn’t boxing enough?” I responded.

“Sometimes, Elias, you can’t solve problems by swinging at a person or a punching bag. You have to calm down before you do something you regret.”

I snorted, “sounds like bullshit.”

“Elias,”Crawford stated, “what would you do if your mother made you upset? Would you hit her? Or a wall? What about your sister?”

I frowned. “No.”

“You need to learn to stop and count down from ten or say the ‘abc’s.”

I nodded. “Alright. I’ll try.”

“That’s all I’m asking,” she told me with a smile.

∆∆∆∆

A week after meeting Bristol, I sat back in the waiting room for another visit with Crawford. My leg bounced up and down as I waited for my name to be called. I was tired, hungry, and my hands ached from the ferocity of my punches while boxing.

The door opened and I glanced up to see Bristol making her way in. Her hair was tucked into a beanie with a few light blonde wisps falling out and her thick sweater had a cat’s face on it. She took a seat in front of me and dropped her bag on the floor.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” I greeted before nodding at her shirt, “cat person?”

“Yeah. I would have…” she started before pausing, “I mean, I’m going to be a crazy cat lady. Y’know. Forever alone with sixteen cats.”

I laughed. “My mom has this cat and he’s the ugliest damn thing you’ll ever see. The tip of his ear was bitten off, his right eye is missing, and his tail was cut in half, but she adores him. He was a stray kitten my father gave her two weeks before he died.”

Bristol smiled and it damn near took my breath away. She was still shockingly thin and had that purple bags under eyes, but she was beautiful. I could see a small chip in her tooth and her eyes crinkled with delight.

“What’s his name?”

“Mr. Whiskers.”

Bristol began to laugh. It was a loud, slightly obnoxious laugh that seemed to go against her personality. Her chest heaved as her head tilted back. She looked almost happy and I began to laugh too.

“What is so funny?” I asked once she calmed down.

“You seem like some big, tough, bad boy and the last thing I expected to hear was Mr. Whiskers.”

“My baby sister named him. It just fits. He’s Whiskers.”

“Elias Vincent,” the nurse called.

I stood up and winked at Bristol.

“See you around, Bristol.”