Time is running out.

“I’m not crazy,” I say; my arms crossed over, feet flat on the ground.

“I never said you were,” she replies, her grey hair slicked back, her shiny glasses reflecting her eyes like two giant moons. She always has to be right, always has to be that voice of reason, which always makes sense. I hate it.

“Yeah, but you make me feel like I am. Look at you, you’re sitting there with your notebook on your lap, and I bet that everything I’m telling you is going through some kinda process in your head, and all those terms you learn in your weird psychiatrist dictionaries are speeding through your brain and you’re just looking for the one that matches me the best.”

My eyes tear up and my leg hairs stand on their ends, I’m suddenly cold and afraid. I clutch the thick black fleece of my hoodie.

“You always wear that jacket to our meetings.”

I bite my lip, should I even bring it up? Oh, what the hell.

“It was my boyfriends,”

Her eyes shine a little, and her ears perk up, like a vicious dog who has heard the distant cry of a cat.

“Was?” she asks, always listening so intently.

 “Yeah, we’re not...” I fight the lump in my throat, forcing myself to believe that it’s not so bad, “We’re not.”

“I see,” she inhales, readjusting her robotic posture, “so then why do you still have that jacket?”

I think of a smart comeback but my mind is blank, it’s a question I’ve been asking myself for the past four months.

“I- I don’t know.”

“You clutched at it, just now, when you were defending yourself. Do you feel safe in that jacket?” She asks. I remain silent.

“It’s very basic human nature to hold onto something that makes us feel safe, just as infants do with their mothers, as you do with that jacket. I have a question, who left who?”

“He left me.” Three syllables tap against my teeth, I’ve grown so used to saying it to myself through the days but every time I do, the pain is re-awakened.

“Ah, I’m sorry. So he left you, he broke your heart. You still hold onto that jacket, wear it every meeting, and hold onto it when you’re scared.”

I bite my lip and look at my lap; the tears are surging up to the rim of my eyes. Please. Don’t. Fall. Please, don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry.

“Do you still feel a sense of longing, or need for him?”

I nod. My parents are burning holes into their pocket for this lady to “fix” me. I may as well cooperate.

The clock behind her reads 3 minutes to two, our session is coming to a close.

“I’d like you to think about it. Write all your thoughts down into a notebook and bring it next session, we’ll discuss it then.

“You have to allow yourself to let go. You may experience symptoms of withdrawal, but that is entirely normal. Here, take this to the pharmacy, they’re sleeping and eating aids. I noticed you looked a little thin.” She hands me a yellow piece of paper with the names of different medicines. I hold it loosely between two fingers.

“Why are you so cold?” I ask, bluntly.

She doesn’t flinch; she’s probably used to it.

“I am a psychiatrist, not a shrink. If you have a problem with that, maybe you would like to discuss it with your parents. We’ve reached the end of our session; I’ll be looking forward to seeing you.”

“Like you even care,” I snap, my temper rising. I can feel one of my infamous tantrums coming on.

She gets up from her leather armchair and walks me to the door, a hand on my shoulder. That’s the most affection I’ve ever received in the past 8 sessions I’ve had with her.

“I do care. You are a very interesting girl. And believe it or not, you’re making a lot of progress. Goodbye.”

She closes the door as soon as I step out into the hallway. I give a polite smile to the boy in the waiting room; kids like us are always nice to each other because we know we’re just the same. I think about her words, ‘very interesting girl’ and ‘progress’. She always finds a way to leave me hanging at the end of every meeting. I guess that’s how she always has me coming back.

Photo source:http://www.flickr.com/photos/gravitysavedme/4739443935/

Who has been living here?

Source

I awake to a misty grey morning, tangled in bedsheets. My eyes slightly bruised as I slowly open them to greet the unfamiliar household. A tattered leather couch in the corner, a stack of magazines that have obviously been thumbed through several times, and a few pairs of dirty socks lying on the floor. Definitely not my house. But if not mine, then who's? I shut my eyes to recall last night's events. Clips of introductions, of one glass too many brimming with alcohol, of ice sloshing like little boats in an ocean storm, all definitions of last night, flashing like neon warnings in the back of my mind. Ah, yes. One of those nights. I'd better execute my traditional morning-after escape route.

I collect my clothes off the floor as I tiptoe to the bathroom, I push the door open silently and slip in. It's small, but thankfully, it's clean. The familiar ache along the back of my head is last nights remains catching up with me. I lean over the sink and examine my face. I look like shit. My eyebags practically reach my chin, and there's still makeup on my skin. I rinse my face quietly and feel around for some kind of cleanser, there's a pink bottle of women's facial wash on the shelf, and I raise my eyebrow at the thought of a man using this.

Wait a second.

A pink bottle of women's facial wash in my hand. A lilac bathrobe hanging on the back of the door. Two toothbrushes in the mug. Oh my god. I shoot through all the products on the shelves: perfume, hairspray, moisturizer, among the hair wax and aftershave. There's a green leather pouch, and I grab it and rip it open in the length of a breath. It contains everything I wish it did not, lipsticks, mascara, eyeshadow, every single item of make-up. I sit on the toilet feeling sick, wanting to throw up. How could I have done this?

I realize that I should get out as fast as possible. I pick my dress off the pile on the floor, yank it on, and creep out the room barefoot. I didn't even get to wash my face. I pick my shoes up off the floor and  throw a horrible glare at the man passed out in his bed, I don't even want to see what he looks like. I rush out his room, turn the locks on the front door, and escape into the refuge of the hallway. The down-arrow by the elevator lights up as it reaches the floor, and a woman with luggage is revealed as the metal doors slide open. She's about to smile but she looks as if she's been caught halfway; like a movie on pause. She eyes me from head to toe, taking in my messy hair, my crumpled dress and my bare feet. I raise my eyebrows,
"Oh, I'm so sorry I'm staring. It's just, I have a dress just like that," she laughs, "Anyway, have a good morning!"
She steps out of the elevator as I step into it, and she disappears behind the corner of the hallway.

I look down at my dress. I've never seen it before in my life.

I need you so much closer.

 

We blankly stare at each other from different sides of the glass, this is how every meeting starts. I take a step closer, and so does he. The sadness in the pools of his eyes is an old friend, but one whose company I have never enjoyed.

I'm right up against the transparent wall, hands pressed against it, the tip of my nose brushing the cold surface. He raises his hands to meet mine, he holds them flat against his side of the glass. It's painful to realise that this is the closest we'll ever get: our palms spread open on opposite sides of an invisible boundary. It hurts to  know that our fingers will never interlace, our hands will never hold.

I see him mouth out a few words, the same ones I am always deaf to. I assume he's telling me that he loves me, it's the best thing I can come up with; an imaginary confirmation that he feels the same as I do, although I will never be able to tell him. I nod as if I understand him, and a smile breaks open on his face; luminous.

We stand still until days stretch into weeks and years; hands pressed against the glass, sharing sweet nothing's that cannot even be heard.

Slowly, my hands peel of the glass. The palms, gradually followed by each finger. I take a step backwards and say goodbye with a wave. The sadness in his eyes rises to the surface once again.

This is heartbreak on repeat, this is how every meeting ends. 

Our love; eternally barricaded by an infinite glass wall.

I'm a creep and you're so special.

Her dressing table is an orderly army of beauty cosmetics I've never seen before. I used to think that there was just lipstick and blush. Who knew there was a way to paint almost every feature of your face? What even made her think that she needed any of that stuff anyway? Her hairbrush lies neatly beside her perfumes, a few strands of copper hair stuck between the bristles. I wrap my hands around the brass drawer-handles and slowly pull the drawers open, revealing the small stack of notebooks and jewelry that is always in the same place each night.

I pick up the red Moleskine and open at a random page. It's her diary,

"I hate this. This long, grey drizzle of blunt rain, clouding my mind of any feeling whatsoever. I wish it would end. I wish it would go away and never come back, leaving only streaks of sunshine to light up my mind."

I put the notebook back, feeling slightly like an intruder in her mind as I always do when I read a new entry. I have been taking away with me pieces of her that aren't rightfully mine, but at the same time, I'm glad that I have discovered more of her. The pretty ones are always the most misunderstood. It's ironic; the most perfect girl in the world is actually a mess on the inside. I feel somewhat sorry for her, but also a sense of responsibility. I'm the only one who knows her secrets, and therefore, she needs me.

I move over to the side of her bed, a tall but narrow structure of black iron and fluffy, cloud-like pillows.

Her eyeballs move around beneath their lids, she must be dreaming. Her hands are half open and facing the ceiling, like she has fallen off a building but has never hit the ground. Her stillness amazes me, how can one be so statuesque even while asleep? She's a beauty. Her brown hair twists into messy tangles under her. Tied into buns each night to gain those perfect curls she carries so well every day. I should know.

She inhales a little deeper than before, I stiffen, worried that she might wake to find me standing over her, watching her angelic beauty while she is lost in slumber. That wouldn't be good. That would cause trouble. I wouldn't be allowed to visit her anymore if that happened. She mutters a few words, but I don't understand them. That annoys me, that does. When I lose the chance to grasp onto any single thread of her dreams. If only I knew what she said. Then I'd somehow taste a sliver of her dream, too, and we'd be closer together.

I decide to play my favourite game: I reach out towards her and flatly hover my hands over her body and see how close I can get to her skin without actually touching her. I lay my hands over her kneecaps, a few centimeters distance. I drag them up her thighs, and lower them slightly as I reach her hips. I want to hold her waist, but I cannot risk waking her up. I lower them even more so as my fingers reach her face, I have to control my urge to trace the bridge of her nose, the outline of her lips, stroke the lashes that line her eyes. I like this game. It helps me practice self-control.

She turns her head over to the other side, still asleep, but obviously more awake than she was since I first creeped into the room. She could be waking. I check the time; 2:37am. I'd better get out of here.

Tonight's visit was a little shorter than most nights, but I don't mind as long as I get to come back tomorrow night, and the night after. She sees me in school but she doesn't say hi, she doesn't even know my name. 
She doesn't know how close we really are, but that's okay.
Because I do.

Saving these last words for one last miracle

She could pull a hundred expressions in a single minute’s worth of talking, her many faces were interesting to watch, almost always the best part of the conversation. It was strange though; no matter how expressive her face was, her eyes were always nonchalant. It was like her eyebrows and cheeks and lips were extravagant clothing on a bleak girl: dressing her up, but not changing anything beneath the surface.

It was a while before he realised that she wasn’t talking any longer, and her eyebrow was arched over her tree-bark eyes which were so beautifully lined with lashes that fell like leaves in an autumn wind. Oh, he was staring again.

“You weren’t listening to me.” Disappointment laced her sighs.

“I was!” he protested, but her pursed lips and raised eyebrow only meant one thing: she wasn’t convinced.

“You never listen to me,” it was her same complaint all over again, and it rolled off her tongue with the roll of her eyes. He put his hand onto her shoulder, attempting to relax her before she got even more irritated. She always wanted everyone’s full attention when she spoke to them; she always wanted to be heard. She constantly built up her frustrations, and one little thing could set her off for hours. It was best to pick her back up before she fell deeper.

She shrugged his arm off her shoulder and turned around with a flip of her hair, head held high, and started walking away with direction in her march. She always liked feeling as if she was more in control than he was, but he was more familiar to this situation than anyone, and he knew how to handle it.

“You never consider what I’m saying; you just instantly jump to what you have to say,”

He felt his nerves twitch in irritation; couldn’t she see how much effort he put into every little thing he did? The words were already climbing up his throat and out of his mouth,

“Don’t be difficult,” it slipped out before he could stop himself. Her eyes widened in disbelief and annoyance, warning him that he shouldn’t have said that.

"Fuck off," she hissed. The words escaping like December sleet; cold and sharp. He kept on walking after her and occasionally reached out to hold her, he knew that giving up would only infuriate her further. She was never afraid to say mean things or throw harsh comments; she wanted to see how long he’d hold onto her joyride, how much of his ego he’d give up to win her over. And the funny part was, no matter what nasty things she’d throw at him, he’d always be the one at fault. In her mind, the things she’d say would be justified by her anger, and once she calmed down, he wouldn’t hold anything against her, because all that mattered to him was that smile on her face.

When it comes to girls like her, things are complex. You can never seem to stay mad, or give up, or worst of all: forget.