cigarettes ☹ alex turner

IX

"Not in regards to your mental health you aren't," he says, and puts out the cigarette, seeing that his practical joke had lost its essence.

I furrow my eyebrows. Why was I called in just in regards about my mental health? I had a therapist, Beverly, who was using all her energy to help me as much as she could. I could handle the panic attacks, I mean.... No, I couldn't. Despite the fact that I had experienced panic attacks quite a few times, that didn't mean I got used to it.

It definitely didn't mean that.

"Am I only called in because of my-my anxie-anxiety?" I sighed, annoyed at the fact I was stuttering again.

"Not only that," he shakes his head, "your anxiety isn't a cup of tea, I'm fully aware of that, but, your other mental health problems aren't that great either. You're anorexic, am I right?"

I nod. Although you won't notice probably because I'm too fat to be even considered anorexic. But I'll get there, I'll get there soon.

He rubs his lips together in thought. "Right," he takes another breath, "that is also killing you. I can tell. You haven't eaten in days, have you?"

"I was forced to eat yesterday," I mumble.

He smiles, maybe smugly? "That's great. Who by?"

Not Alex, obviously. I rub my neck before answering him.  "My parents," I lie.

He raises his eyebrows before smirking and taking another drag of his cigarette. Here we go. "Really? I was just informed by your parents that they had to go away in emergency because of the fact that your grandmother is quite ill."

I shake my head with a sigh. Chewing my lip, I try to think of why he was asking all these questions he probably knew the answer too.

"Why am I called here, sir?" I ask, which was the question I needed answered ages ago. I didn't acknowledge what he said, I didn't want to think about that right now. The open wound of last night was still there.

"Mental illnesses can kill people, Kimberly. More than you think," he started, completely ignoring my question as a whole which resulted in me to hide a building irritation within me.

"You are intelligent, Miss Browne. I know this for a fact," he declares confidently, as I shake my head in disbelief.

I wasn't intelligent or dumb; I was neither. I was in between the two.

"And in order for this intelligence and wide aspirations of yours to go to good use, we need to improve every part of you there is. Including your critical medical condition," he informs.

My parents turned to Sir Bloomsbury because they were that worried. Fantastic. That's exactly what I needed.

"What are your intentions, Sir Bloomsbury?" I said and tried not to cringe at how formally I had been speaking with him. I still had to though, it was a necessity ordered by none other than Sir himself.

"You shall see. As for now, please allow me to continue with my explanation. I'm sure there are still remaining questions in your head that are most probably eating you alive."

Yes, there are questions in my head. One of them includes what your intentions are, you ass.

"I'm sure you have figured out by now that your parents have contacted me for support on this matter despite the fact you have a therapist. Her name is Beverly Rose, I believe."

I nod. He better not say anything bad concerning  her though. My health did not depend on my therapist, the same as a doctor. She helped as much as she could but what I did was another separate issue of its own.