Before We Lit It Up

8| Before

The silence is suffocating, as usual. The car, especially the passenger seat, but I'm not sitting there, still smells of her. It's hammering in the fact that the silence is all we know now. And that despite everything he used to do – and still does – he couldn't save her.

The car slows down, the engine a low rumble as he stops the car in front of a coffee brown building. It resembles an office building with its darkly tinted glasses that make it impossible to see through unless you get really close. There are shrubs around the building, their few leaves neatly trimmed. A few stray red and orange leaves flutter across the sidewalk and entrance, but it's probably cleaned regularly.

With a sigh, I open the door and step out. Like I always do every time, I turn around and say, "See you, papa." Like everything is normal and he'll say something back.

Of course he doesn't, and I slam the door like I always do.

The air is brisk and cold as I walk to the building, pulling back the dark glass door when I reach.

From four to five, every weekday without fail, it's therapy. Which he only drops me at because he needs me out of the house at that time.

Didn't take two and two to piece it together.

Probably has to do with his sketchy "business." At least, that's better than the alternative. The thought has me simmering in rage and I regard the lady behind the front desk a little too roughly. She doesn't seem fazed by the slightest, and it's probably because she's had temperamental teenagers take their frustration out on her all the time.

The thought makes me bite my tongue in shame and try to smile at her in apology, but I'm sure it comes off as a grimace and that my eyes are still too fierce. A door opens and a familiar face greets me.

She has a motherly aura but also a professional ensemble. Neat button down vest and plaid skirt. Her lips – painted a faint rouge – are stretched out into a smile that I know looks hopeful. Like today, I'll be all sugar and spice and everything nice and tell her everything about me.

I scoff.

Like how my mother and brothers are dead because of me.

Like how I'm a walking freak because I should've died, but survived by a stroke of luck.

Like how I'm psychologically and physiologically dependent to a substance so I can sleep. One of the most normal processes has become a challenge in its own.

When the hell did my life turn into a sob story?

Trying not to shake, I sit down on one of the plush seats, my back sinking into the soft cushion. She sits in the rolling chair across from me, crossing one leg over the other in her typical pose.

"So, how are you feeling Layla?"

"Stellar, thank you."

It's the same answer I give her every time she asks, and I like to think that it's true. Sure, my life could be better, but it could be so much worse. So much worse. I could be in a horrible foster system where a pervert adopts me. I shudder at the thought.

My life could be worse. So I try to come off as a one hundred percent stable person to the psychologist.

With deflecting of course. "And how are you?"

I always wonder who's there for her when she needs someone to talk to. Or talk to without being judged.

She raises a brow slightly like she knows what I'm doing, but she has an hour to try her techniques on me.