Everybody's a Little Messed Up

"Jamie, why don't you tell me about yourself?" Dr. Johnson asked. I was sitting on the brown couch across from her, studying the room. It was filled with neutral colors, house plants, and knick-knacks. It revealed nothing about the doc, as a good therapist office should. I tried to focus as I spoke.

"My name is Jay, not Jamie. I'm 16 years old, a junior at Casternly High School. My mom forced me to come here after my incident." I put air quotes around incident because rape, kidnapping, and attempted murder really aren't an 'incident'. It had happened only two weeks ago. My physical wounds were starting to heal, but the doctors had recommended a therapist. No shit, Sherlock.

"Okay then, Jay. Why don't you tell me about school?" the doc asked, taking notes. I really was trying to focus, but I couldn't. My chopped, brown hair was falling in my face, and I remembered how it used to be, long, shiny beautiful brown. He liked my hair. A lot. But, the doc was still staring.

"I haven't been back yet." I said, staring now at the grandfather clock in the corner. I hugged my knees to my chest. When I moved the cuts on my stomach hurt, but only for a second. I was on all types of medicine to fight infections from the knife He used, and to help the pain.

"Well, your mother and your doctor say you can go back this Monday, if you feel up to it. Do you feel ready to go back?" the doc asked, sounding interested. I think it was supposed to be concern in her voice, but it sounded interested.

"Sure." I said. NO WAY IN HELL, I thought. I could barely stand to be in a room with two people, but at school? Everyone knew. It would be poor Jamie, the lost little girl, so fragile. I didn't want to be near anyone. I was a virus that would infect pain into anyone who came to close. I had refused to see anyone, but family in the hospital and had dogged my friends calls. I know they were worried, but it's for the best. My old life seemed so. . . normal. I didn't belong in it anymore. I felt old and tired. The only reason I kept going was my brother. He was 22 and over in Iraq. He had a wife with a one year old son. She was family and they lived down the street. I loved my nephew, Evan, and I would babysit when Marilyn, his mom, went out. I loved my brother, Daniel, and his family. I was a part of their family. Danny didn't know what had happened to me and I didn't want him to. Marilyn had respected my wishes, even though she thought it was a bad idea. I realized the doc had asked me another question, but I had been oblivious.

"What?" I asked, trying to live in reality.

"I said, what do you think about going back?" the doc repeated.

"It'll be fine." I said, trying my best to focus. If I didn't convince my mother I was better. I'd never be out of therapy.

"How are your scars?" she asked. I was a little thrown, weren't we talking about school? Whatever.

"Fine. They don't hurt." I said, squeezing my knees closer to my chest.

"Jay?" the doc said seriously.

"Yessssss?" I said, not liking what I knew was coming.

"Are you ready to talk about what happened?" she asked, holding my eyes.

"No, I don't want to talk. I want to move on." I said, glaring at nothing. Why did I agree to do this? Oh yeah, so my mother would stop breathing down my neck. I don't blame her for making me walk home. It was me who tried to take a short cut and ended up really late for dinner.

"If you ignore the pain-" she started.

"It'll come back and bite me in the ass. I've seen therapy shows I know how it works." I finished. " Can I leave now?" I asked, done with this crap.

"Your hour is almost up, so I guess it's alright." she said, with a frown. "Let me walk you to your car." I agreed, even though she would have come anyways. We came out to my Civic 2007 and my mother was in the driver's seat. I climbed in the front, waved to the doc, and my mother drove off.

"How did it go, Jamie-bear?" she asked. My mother was now always careful around me. We only talked about the safe topics. She was too fragile to talk about my attack.

"Fine, mom." I said. "Always fine." I whispered, looking out the window at the sinking sun.

"Hey, Jamie. It's Carol. I was just wondering if you're okay, so call me back." The answering machine beeped and I deleted the message. Yes, I knew they were worried, but they were in the Before. As they say I'm living in the After. Can I just say that After really sucks? Big time. It was Sunday night and I was lying in bed trying to fall asleep. My room used to be me. Purple walls, green bed-set, and every other color mixed in. Now, it seems foreign. Every detail reminds me of what happened. If someone touches me, I feel terror. In crowds, I feel exposed. Nights are the worst. I can't control my dreams. I've heard of people who can change their dreams. It's called lucid dreaming, but, sadly, I can't do it. My eyelids close against my will and I'm asleep in seconds.

Blurry images flash before my eyes. The woods, my own blood smeared over my stomach, His face. The images keep flashing and my panic is rising. My escape out the window and the confusion. Finally, I jumped up in my bed. I looked at my cloak, 4am. Well, 15 minutes better than last night.