As I Am

Chapter Fifteen

A/N: I'd like to dedicate this chapter and Bam's story to XxBrieLikesCookiesXx. She shared something with me that was so sad and she is so strong to have gone through what she did and is still going through. It is also her birthday, so HAPPY BIRTHDAY BRIE! Wish her a happy birthday on her profile, guys!

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          Fifteen

          With my new white dress smoothed over, I head towards the room I was called into. No parents hover in the foyer of the office because I asked them to pick me up after, so I breathe a sigh of relief. As I walk through an unfamiliar door I pick a red strand off from my side. It’s from the old quilt I had at the end of my bed last night, the one I pulled out all of the strands in the wee hours until it was merely threads.

            “Welcome, Alabama,” a man with thin, shiny glasses says. He holds the door open with his hand extending from his crisp, white dress shirt. When he turns around he’s all smiles, but I can’t stop staring at his receding blond hair.

            “Bam,” I correct.

            “Sorry,” he says, gesturing for me to sit down on an over-stuffed couch. “Welcome, Bam.”

            I sit down on the blue fabric and bounce a little. I run my fingers over both sides of me until Dr. Kenneth Walter sits on a comfy looking Lazy Boy directly across from me. He has a clipboard in his lap and a pen in his hand, but he doesn’t write anything down as he looks over some scattered writing on the page I can barely see.

             “Now, how are you doing, Bam?”

            “Fine.” My voice is monotone.

            “That’s good to hear.” He doesn’t sound like he believes me and when he looks up, his eyes look anything but trusting. “Your parents have expressed some concerns about you and how you’re dealing with things. Would you like to talk about what’s happened in the last few months?”

            “No.” I turn towards the window and stare out at the sky. It’s blue and bright, but towards my side – the right, a storm is blowing in. I felt the light wind as I got out of my mother’s car only a short time ago.

            “The last few days then?” Dr. Walter asks.

            I shake my head.

            The man doesn’t sound discouraged, just disappointed. He writes some things down while I look out the window. For a while his pen scrawls, no words leaving his lips. At first this is peaceful, kind of relaxing rather than talking about my life. But as several minutes go by and the ticking of a clock on the wall with no numbers starts to make up the only sound, I grow restless. I want to know what he’s writing on his clipboard. More importantly, I want him to stop writing about me altogether.

            “I don’t want to be here,” I announce.