Status: my camp nano submission - already completed.
Fireworks
Three
Dear you,
You wouldn’t even recognise me.
I am not sure if that is a good thing or not anymore.
Love, me
Every Thursday at 2.45 I meet with Bettie, my counsellor. I sit in the waiting room trying to control the bouncing of my legs in a familiar rhythm as I wait for Bettie. My mother sits next to me smelling of cigarettes and just a little too much perfume, she is reading some gossip magazine dated two months ago and on the cover is my father.
My father was known for his heavy guitar playing and haunting voice. At 23 he shot to fame with his first single autopilot, from there him and his band rode a steady path to fame and fortune, along the way meeting my mother and having me.
My dad was at heart a rock star and then a father and husband which is why my parents never officially married, and why I went months between seeing him. It was only when he got sick and realised that music could not hold his hand and help him through chemo did he truly see the value in family.
The article my mother is scouring is discussing his greatest hits compilation being developed, something my mother – heir to his estate until my eighteenth birthday – already knows everything about. She was the one who decided it would be ‘nice’ to commemorate his contributions to rock.
I glance from the magazine and my mother to the clock; I could be in algebra with enough equations to make me feel sleepy. Ever since my father’s funeral I have not been able to sleep. For a while I chalked it up to the drugs I was taking in handfuls but now that I am clean I don’t know what to blame it on.
I am exhausted by life, every silent exchange me and my mother share and every second I spend alone with my thought makes me more and more exhausted by life. In my exhaustion I begin to wonder, was it really an accident? What happened all those months ago that alerted my mother to my problem?
That’s the problem with not being able to sleep, your mind wanders and mine goes to the dark places in my mind I am not ready to face. They bring forward voices and faces that make my hollow heart ache more than I can possibly bear.
The receptionist has these acrylic nails that clack with every key she presses on the keyboard, it reminds me of the nails on the women my mother hated because my dad didn’t. I feel my heart hurt with every clack reminding me of every reason my father broke not only my mother but me when he died.
I am so caught up in my thoughts that I don’t even hear the receptionist leave her desk and say my name. My mother nudges me and places the magazine on her lap, my father’s face is the staring at me as reality slowly seeps back into me.
“Bentley-Grace Summers,” I follow the receptionist, she is shorter than me even in her three inch heels and high hair, I stand only 5 foot 7. The small receptionist leads me to a familiar room opening the door to an office; the office like the floor it’s located in is immaculately furnished.
A plush couch lines one wall above it a small clock fitting the motif of less is more, a coffee table with tissues sits in between the couch and the pleather chair with the high back. Bettie stands from her desk in the corner next to her bookshelf of psychobabble textbooks.
Like always Bettie reaches for my hand and gives it a firm pump. I bite the inside of my cheek and try to ignore the churning in my stomach; I really need a fucking cigarette. Bettie sits in her seat crossing her legs at the ankle and motioning to the couch for me.
Bettie is a very average woman, a few years older than my mother; she dresses in mostly pantsuits with minimal make-up and pulled back hair. She is the total opposite of my mother, the former playboy model who is known for her large – completely unnatural – breasts and arse.
I think that might be why I respect her enough not to lie. Despite my inability to outwardly lie to Bettie it does not mean I am the perfect patient. I allow her silences intended to make me talk stretch on until she is fidgeting and all her training is screaming at her to remain quiet. I also have a tendency to refuse to answer a lot of her questions; this annoys her to no end.
“How are you Bentley?”
“Good,” This is how all our sessions’ start, with pleasantries it is only when she starts asking the questions I refuse to answer do things get tense. I have do not understand how Bettie still believes that today will be the day I spill everything to her and my behaviour finally makes sense.
I can tell she still has this hope by her smile; it is large and crinkles her eyes the slightest, at the end of our sessions her eyes don’t crinkle. Despite her hopefulness I am not about to tell her everything, I am not ready to tell myself everything let alone some woman who is being paid to care.
“How have things been this week?”
“Good,”
“That’s good,” She pauses, I can just hear her waiting for me to fill in the silence. What Bettie doesn’t understand is that I am more than content in silence. When I was seven and my cat died my mum took me to her shrink, a small man with a big stomach and coffee stained teeth.
He had tried to get me to talk but instead had instilled the notion that psychologists do not care for anything other than their money in me. With his loud voice and aggressive nature it has been enough to fuel a lifelong distrust in anyone paid to care for you.
Maybe that is why I am with Wesley, he has no reason to love me, there is no gain in him pretending to love me. As sick as it sounds I am in love with the idea of someone loving me, and maybe just maybe Wesley and his cotton candy lips are enough for me. I might not love him but really, what is love?
My dad cheated on my mother every chance he got yet she still loved him. This way I am simply eliminating the pain of getting hurt. Bettie clears her throat and breaks away my thoughts, “How was session this week?”
“We got a new counsellor,”
“What is he like?”
I want to tell her fireworks but I know she will not understand, I am not sure I understand. “Different to Maggie,”
“How so,” Bettie lives for specifics, I suppose being vague is annoying to someone who is paid to get to know you.
“Maggie is so… formal and he… he’s like me,”
“Is that good or bad?”
I want to lie to Bettie and tell her I don’t care but I can’t. I can’t because a part of me is so fucking glad Jax is like me, maybe he will get it and me and maybe just maybe everything will be fine. I pull my knees to my chest and squash the stupid thoughts like a bug. The itch is back and I refuse to speak for the rest of the session.
You wouldn’t even recognise me.
I am not sure if that is a good thing or not anymore.
Love, me
Every Thursday at 2.45 I meet with Bettie, my counsellor. I sit in the waiting room trying to control the bouncing of my legs in a familiar rhythm as I wait for Bettie. My mother sits next to me smelling of cigarettes and just a little too much perfume, she is reading some gossip magazine dated two months ago and on the cover is my father.
My father was known for his heavy guitar playing and haunting voice. At 23 he shot to fame with his first single autopilot, from there him and his band rode a steady path to fame and fortune, along the way meeting my mother and having me.
My dad was at heart a rock star and then a father and husband which is why my parents never officially married, and why I went months between seeing him. It was only when he got sick and realised that music could not hold his hand and help him through chemo did he truly see the value in family.
The article my mother is scouring is discussing his greatest hits compilation being developed, something my mother – heir to his estate until my eighteenth birthday – already knows everything about. She was the one who decided it would be ‘nice’ to commemorate his contributions to rock.
I glance from the magazine and my mother to the clock; I could be in algebra with enough equations to make me feel sleepy. Ever since my father’s funeral I have not been able to sleep. For a while I chalked it up to the drugs I was taking in handfuls but now that I am clean I don’t know what to blame it on.
I am exhausted by life, every silent exchange me and my mother share and every second I spend alone with my thought makes me more and more exhausted by life. In my exhaustion I begin to wonder, was it really an accident? What happened all those months ago that alerted my mother to my problem?
That’s the problem with not being able to sleep, your mind wanders and mine goes to the dark places in my mind I am not ready to face. They bring forward voices and faces that make my hollow heart ache more than I can possibly bear.
The receptionist has these acrylic nails that clack with every key she presses on the keyboard, it reminds me of the nails on the women my mother hated because my dad didn’t. I feel my heart hurt with every clack reminding me of every reason my father broke not only my mother but me when he died.
I am so caught up in my thoughts that I don’t even hear the receptionist leave her desk and say my name. My mother nudges me and places the magazine on her lap, my father’s face is the staring at me as reality slowly seeps back into me.
“Bentley-Grace Summers,” I follow the receptionist, she is shorter than me even in her three inch heels and high hair, I stand only 5 foot 7. The small receptionist leads me to a familiar room opening the door to an office; the office like the floor it’s located in is immaculately furnished.
A plush couch lines one wall above it a small clock fitting the motif of less is more, a coffee table with tissues sits in between the couch and the pleather chair with the high back. Bettie stands from her desk in the corner next to her bookshelf of psychobabble textbooks.
Like always Bettie reaches for my hand and gives it a firm pump. I bite the inside of my cheek and try to ignore the churning in my stomach; I really need a fucking cigarette. Bettie sits in her seat crossing her legs at the ankle and motioning to the couch for me.
Bettie is a very average woman, a few years older than my mother; she dresses in mostly pantsuits with minimal make-up and pulled back hair. She is the total opposite of my mother, the former playboy model who is known for her large – completely unnatural – breasts and arse.
I think that might be why I respect her enough not to lie. Despite my inability to outwardly lie to Bettie it does not mean I am the perfect patient. I allow her silences intended to make me talk stretch on until she is fidgeting and all her training is screaming at her to remain quiet. I also have a tendency to refuse to answer a lot of her questions; this annoys her to no end.
“How are you Bentley?”
“Good,” This is how all our sessions’ start, with pleasantries it is only when she starts asking the questions I refuse to answer do things get tense. I have do not understand how Bettie still believes that today will be the day I spill everything to her and my behaviour finally makes sense.
I can tell she still has this hope by her smile; it is large and crinkles her eyes the slightest, at the end of our sessions her eyes don’t crinkle. Despite her hopefulness I am not about to tell her everything, I am not ready to tell myself everything let alone some woman who is being paid to care.
“How have things been this week?”
“Good,”
“That’s good,” She pauses, I can just hear her waiting for me to fill in the silence. What Bettie doesn’t understand is that I am more than content in silence. When I was seven and my cat died my mum took me to her shrink, a small man with a big stomach and coffee stained teeth.
He had tried to get me to talk but instead had instilled the notion that psychologists do not care for anything other than their money in me. With his loud voice and aggressive nature it has been enough to fuel a lifelong distrust in anyone paid to care for you.
Maybe that is why I am with Wesley, he has no reason to love me, there is no gain in him pretending to love me. As sick as it sounds I am in love with the idea of someone loving me, and maybe just maybe Wesley and his cotton candy lips are enough for me. I might not love him but really, what is love?
My dad cheated on my mother every chance he got yet she still loved him. This way I am simply eliminating the pain of getting hurt. Bettie clears her throat and breaks away my thoughts, “How was session this week?”
“We got a new counsellor,”
“What is he like?”
I want to tell her fireworks but I know she will not understand, I am not sure I understand. “Different to Maggie,”
“How so,” Bettie lives for specifics, I suppose being vague is annoying to someone who is paid to get to know you.
“Maggie is so… formal and he… he’s like me,”
“Is that good or bad?”
I want to lie to Bettie and tell her I don’t care but I can’t. I can’t because a part of me is so fucking glad Jax is like me, maybe he will get it and me and maybe just maybe everything will be fine. I pull my knees to my chest and squash the stupid thoughts like a bug. The itch is back and I refuse to speak for the rest of the session.