A Dance in the Dark (Book 1)

Chapter 4

Present 

"How has your week been since our last meeting?" Asked the middle-aged man, peering over his round glasses.

She observed him for a moment before answering. Her gaze drifting to the scar that marred his wrinkled face. From the corner of his eye, down to his jaw. Rosélina always wanted to ask about it, but never found the courage to do it.

"It's been the same old routine." She answered, playing with the laces of her hoodie and she glanced out the window. "Home, university, work, home." It was a beautiful day outside, even though it was cold. The sun was shining in the sky and the wind cutting mercilessly. "I don't know why you're still asking."

"I'm your therapist," he reminded her. "Still having the same dream?"

"It visited me last night."

"Want to talk about it?" he offered.

"No."

"The reason you're here is so we can talk."

"We've talked about it countless times and it keeps coming back almost every night." Rosé snorted this time, feeling the annoyance hitting her hard. I don't want to be here. Not today. "And well, I'm still alive."

"That's good to know."

So much had changed since Rosélina left Brazil. Despite practising English with her father, it was not enough to get along at first. Stewpid thick accents and weirdly spelt words.

There were days when she felt like someone was squeezing her heart. Like the air in her lungs had been stolen. Others felt like a heavy weight was placed inside her chest, a reminder of the pain she carried with her.

The nights she would spend awake. The endless crying and the desire to end it all. To break everything around her. Rosélina remembered the sheets of paper ripped apart by the pen when words were no longer enough to express her feelings.

The blurry reflection in the mirror of a girl she no longer recognized. The feeling of no identity. The voices in her head reminding her of the insufficiency.

The pain never left her. It chased her no matter where she went.

Rosélina just learned to deal with them.

A full-minded girl on the inside and an empty one on the outside.

Mr Watson's office was smallish but cosy. The smell of old books mingled with hints of lavender and men's cologne. Two sofas facing each other. A desk full of papers in the corner and portrayals of his family besides framed psychology certificates. Some plants and an enormous bookshelf full of books occupied an entire wall.

Despite her curiosity, she never asked why he had so many books. How could anyone read so many? She was a reader herself, but in her lifetime, saying she read four hundred books was still a lot and she was certain that bookshelf held twice or more that amount.

Reading was a way, she believed, of running away from reality. An escapism. She loved the feeling of being home that no other place could offer. The genuine smiles and feelings that the real world could never make her experience. The family she would find, the dragons she would fight and the lovers she would madly fall in love with.

"Do you want to borrow any?" Mr Watson asked, a smile tugging at his lips. "I have something in nearly every genre."

The words came before she could think about it. "I don't waste my time reading books anymore," she was not lying. University occupied most of her time. Coursework and exams were enough to make her set different priorities, and hobbies became a 'waste of time.'