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Jane Morello was a statuesque Italian woman whom had a tick for organization. It was clear in the way everything was meticulously placed. The way she straightened little knick knacks that happened to be turned a few degrees off. The way she wiped and re-wiped down the table before setting down my glass of water.
She was a sight for sore eyes. Sun kissed skin. Bright blonde hair. Stunning grey eyes. Overly white teeth. A smile that could make a cold blooded killer rethink their life choices. She was the living embodiment of sweetness. Her voice was like honey dripping from a spoon. She smelled like cucumber melon and she had this stare that made you feel relaxed. Like, nothing you say could disturb her and quite frankly you wouldn't want to tell her anything horrible in fear that you'd taint her aura.
"I want to start with the basics," she told me as I sat across from her, "Your name, age, where you're from, you're home life, parents. You know, all the 'getting to know me' inquiries," she gives me a warm look.
"Isn't that in your file?" I gesture with my hand to a folder she had in her lap.
"It is. But it usually helps people to say it themselves. Like opening up in a way. Nothing too serious. Yet."
I take a swig of the water she had given me when I first arrived, "Um, My name is Aaron. I'm sixteen, I'm from wherever the government and my case worker puts me and right now I'm staying with Mr. Phoenix. And, um, I don't have parents."
She nods as she writes something down on a notepad, "You say you don't have parents?"
"Nope."
"Well, its my understanding that everyone has parents, Aaron. How else would you be here?"
I wanted to roll my eyes at that. Instead I cast my eyes to the floor, "They're dead."
I only look up for a brief second but I catch her eyes flash with sympathy before they go neutral, "My condolences," I shrug, "Would you like to talk about them?"
"There's not much to say."
"How did they pass?"
"My father was in a car accident. Died on impact. My mother had gone into depression afterwards. She committed suicide a few months later."
"How old were you?"
"Six. Maybe going on seven. I don't remember really."
"That must have been hard on you."
"It would have been hard on anyone."
"Yes, but you were so young. You lost both parents in the same year."
"Like you said, I was young. I hardly remember. I just know the facts."
"What dont you remember?"
The silent air of nonchalance leaves me. Suddenly I felt small. Like a child. I bite at my finger nails they were nothing but nubs. Hardly anything to bite. My leg starts to bounce on it's own, "I dont remember them much," I murmur keeping my eyes trained on the glass. Drops of water slip down from the condensation and I have the urge to wipe it away.
