Un-Scene

Chapter One

"Josh likes when I wear the red wig when we have sex because he says it reminds him of his dead ex-wife before the baby. I'm pretty sure he killed her and that's why he likes to choke me sometimes."

Doc takes off his glasses and I smooth out my skirt as he stops the recorder and we both try to piece together where it all went wrong.

"Did you get a new haircut?"

"No."

I purse my lips and nod slow. "It looks great on you."

"Miss Defuoir—"

"Oh come on, Doc? An audio journal? No one wants to hear what I have to say. You heard the tape, I'm clearly a hot mess."

"The journal isn't for anyone else, Ms. Defuoir. It's for you." He props his left ankle up onto his right knee and reclines in his chair, "It will help you monitor your progress."

I'm up from my chair and my skirt rides a little higher on my hips as I lean over his desk. "Maybe I don't want to make progress."

"Then why are you here?"

"Because," I sink back into my seat and clutch my face in my hands to try and stop the world from spinning, "Because I just want someone to tell me I'm not crazy." I pull my hands and clasp them under my chin as we lock eyes.

"I don't think you're crazy."

Doc cleans his glasses and slides them back on. A beefy finger pushes the recorder back towards me, gliding across a spread of papers that I can only assume are my files. "I don't believe that you're crazy, Ms. Defuoir, but I do think that your mind is working diligently to repress something."

"Newsflash Doc, my life wasn't exactly written by the folks over at Disney. How am I supposed to know what that something is?"

"That is something you and you alone will have to discover. For now, though," he rises to his feet and picks up the recorder to give me, "Give the journal another go. You may find it helpful as you get to the root of what is troubling you. I will see you in two weeks and if you still have not found it useful, we will try something else, hmm?"

I accept the recorder as it falls into my hand and back out the door with a dismissive wave, "Thanks, Doc."

Anton is waiting for me parked just out front with shaded eyes and a sentinel posture. He gets the door for me and I'm grateful for the heat that warms my thighs. The driver's door opens and shuts just as quickly and then we're off. Traffic on Pennsylvania Avenue is light, but Anton always takes his time after he picks me up from therapy.

I don't have to ask him for the usual because he knows me a better than I know myself. He hates when I smoke but will indulge me under the strict rule that I only have one and only under his supervision. It was a simple enough rule with a simple reward.

He's got the lighter ready as I snag one from the box under the seat. I lean in until the seat belt cuts into my neck, reigniting the pain from when Josh got carried away last night. My fingers creep up to my neck as I allow Anton to light me with the cigarette firm between my lips. He knows about the bruises, but he knows better than to ask questions.

I reign in the smoke until the window is down, my head lolling back as I shut my eyes, waiting.

And then, I hear it.

A melody begins to play, and my chest gets tight, but I know it's not the smoke. There are no words, not at first, but the somber piano that drifts in and swells with a pitch has me breathily asking, "Turn it up, please."

The volume rises again until a voice pools over the instrumentals. Chills claw at my spine until I arch from my seat and inhale deep. I feel it all from the leather that refuses to disconnect from my thighs to dull throbbing around my neck and everything in between.

My pain feels real. I feel real.

And for once, I don't feel crazy.

The moment subsides as the cigarette falls from my fingertips onto the city streets. I pop a mint and give a spritz to cover the smell and suddenly we're outside the lab. Anton's got an umbrella in one hand with my arm in the other. Our footsteps sound the same until one stride misses a beat and my heels scrape the sidewalk.

"Have a good day, Miss Cole."

I try to muster a smile as best as I can because Anton is the kind of guy you always want to smile at, but I can't force it today. He understands and accepts that my lopsided lip work is the best I can do. Standing at the doors, I watch him go and I realize that I'm alone again.

My steps feel loud as I head towards the elevator. It's far too much noise for one person.

When I step off, the scent of a freshly brewed Kona blend and watered-down bleach from last night's cleaning crew welcomes me. A left turn takes me past several glass offices until I see one with "Dr. Leigh Vaughn" frosted under the word "Director" on an inward opening door.

Her desk is white and pristine, and the papers are all aligned at a ninety-degree angle two and half inches down from the top edge. Her chair is dead center and all the books on the floating shelf are organized by size and color because alphabetically is "overrated." There is another glass door to the right and that's where my office is. It's smaller than Dr. Vaughn's not that I mind considering I don't spend a great deal of time there anyway.

I shrug off my outside coat and replace it with the white one with my name in black stitching. There's a million and one emails waiting for me – 'urgent', 'time sensitive', and 'don't delete' are some of my personal favorites. Swiftly, I archive them with a single click signifying my one-woman attack on corporate America.

The numbers on my monitor change to ten and, as if on cue, a familiar strut echoes the hall. Shuffling feet and rustling papers are the very banners that announce the director's arrival. In turn, she greets the masses with her silence and a look that can kill. As always, I'm the only one who doesn't jump through hoops to greet her which has earned me quite a few dark stares.

"Defuoir," she greets without looking at me, hanging her things and collapsing into her chair.

"Ma'am."

"The session?"

"Unproductive." I say, picking my teeth with my tongue.

"Pity."

"Mm."

Her steps muffle then grow bold as she steps from the rug into the doorway between us and then they go silent again. Prolonged silence is the norm between us but the weight of question begging to be asked makes me shift in my seat, my back now rigid. When I look at her, I notice the small box in her hand that's wrapped neatly.

Her eyes command me to come closer. "Hand," she says.

With my palm up, she places it in the center and folds her hands neatly. "What's this?"

"A gift."

"For botching therapy?"

A single hair doesn't fall out of place as her head falls slightly to the left. There's a squint to her eyes that suggest she's either beginning to doubt my intelligence or my sense of humor, neither of which surprises me. With a sigh, she gathers herself again. "A simple congratulatory gift."

"I haven't accomplished anything—"

"You will. Until then, keep it somewhere safe."

I place the box down on the desk and turn to face her. In a spur of the moment decision, I widen my arms and balance on my toes to encircle her. "What are you doing?" She says, her lipstick staining the shoulder of my white coat.

"H-hugging? I think..."

"I like you, Defuoir but please don't do that again."
I detach myself immediately, smooth out my clothes and we both try to pretend that that didn't just happen.  "So, big reveal today," I say, desperate to change the subject to literally anything else.

"Yes, and you'll be accompanying me," she says with a pivot. "Gather your things."

It's not in my nature to rush, ever. However, it was far more of a rare occurrence for me to be included in on her meetings. I snatch up my clipboard and scurry behind her long-legged strides as we head for the elevator. She scans her badge as we step inside and, hugging my clipboard to my chest, ask, "With all due respect ma'am, are you sure about this?"

And with a confidence that only she can muster, she says, "Absolutely not," as the doors close in front of us.