Luke's POV
I step into an all too familiar atmosphere at ten in the morning, half asleep. A few other people are waiting in chairs, not making a sound. A lady at the front desk types quickly, which is the only sound in the quiet room. I roll my eyes and walk up to the front desk.
I've only been in Maine for four days, and I'm already at the therapist.
“Hi, how can I help you?” the lady says cheerily.
My dad answers all the questions while I lean against the counter. I yawn slowly, having only woken up a few minutes ago.
The lady, her name is June, hands me a clipboard with some papers attached. The usual questions that I'm sick of answering.
Do you feel as if you are different from other individuals?
Are you constantly tired?
Have you lost interest in every day activities?
I scribble down my answers just in time when I hear my name called.
“Luke Hemmings?” a woman with curly red hair asks, smiling widely.
I stand up and cringe, I already hate her.
“Good luck, bud. Come get me if you need anything,” my dad tells me.
Bud? What am I, five years old?
My dad's been trying. Maybe a little too much. The past four days I've been ignoring him most of the time. I don't really want to be around him. I think he realizes that, but he still tries.
I look at him as if he's crazy, which he is. He smiles meekly, his eyebrows arched upwards. I turn away and follow the doctor.
“Hello, Luke. Nice to meet you. I'm Candace, I'll be your therapist, okay?” She reaches out her hand for me to shake, but instead of shaking it, I put the clipboard in her hand. I don't want to carry it anyways.
She nods her head as if saying yes and closes her lips into a straight line. She brings me into a room, which is like every other therapy room. There's some games in the corner, a notepad on the table, a couch against one wall. A picture that looks like it was done by a seven year old is on one of the plain tan walls. Maybe it's a panda. Or possibly a whale? Maybe it's half and half. Would that be a whanda or a pandle?
“Hello? Luke?” Candace says, looking at me.
I must have zoned out while looking at the painting, that happens a lot. I think so much that I forget about my surroundings. I look over at Candace to see her smiling widely again. Her teeth are way too white. I bet she's bleached them more than the directions recommend.
“There you are. I thought I lostcha for a second,” Candace says. She says “lost you” with a weird accent, making it sound like one word. “So, I'm going to start off by asking you a few questions, okay?”
Okay okay okay. Stop saying okay, okay?
“Here's a white board. You can write down all of your answers and thoughts on the board. Are you ready?”
I shrug and prop my feet up on the small table. Candace looks down at my feet and tries not to look disgusted, but I see right through her. The corner of her mouth twitches as she picks up her notepad.
“Alright, question one. When did you stop talking?”
I don't answer. I stare at the milky whiteness of the board. There's some black smudges on it from previous markers.
This question is the first thing every therapist asks me. Clearly I stopped talking six months ago, it's written in my information. So why does she have to ask?
“Okay, next question then,” she says, “Why did you stop talking?”
And there it is. The follow up question. The question that everyone wants to know the answer to. Only I know the real answer to why I stopped. I don't intend on sharing it.
I've been through 11 therapists in six months. None of them could figure me out. Because I never answered their stupid questions.
They say I'm a "lost cause." I've heard the therapists and doctors talk to my mom. I hear what they say about me. All I need is to change my outlook on life and get some medical help. I can be fixed. There will be a miracle. Don't give up.
My life isn't a hallmark card or a quilted pillow. Stop telling me useless quotes you learned when you got your degree.
Candace asks much more questions, none of which I answer. I just stare blankly at the board, never moving. I feel as if I might fall asleep. Sleeping would be nice. I wouldn't have to deal with Candace's fake perkiness.
Suddenly, a girl walks into the doorway carrying a box of manila folders. She knocks lightly before walking in.
She smiles at me, and I turn my gaze away from her. I look up at the first thing I see, which is the whanda painting. I wonder who painted it. I wonder what it's really supposed to be. I fill my mind up with questions to avoid the thoughts creeping into my head. I keep my eyes on the whanda to avoid this girl.
“Sorry to bother you but Mary wants all of your records for patients. She says we're missing some from the past month,” the girl says, balancing the box on her knee.
“Oh, yes, of course. They are all in the top right drawer of my desk.”
I look from the whanda to the girl then back again. I bite my fingernails and bounce my leg without even realizing it.
“Found 'em,” the girl says, putting them in her box. “Thank you.”
“Would you mind shutting the door on your way out, Delilah?” Candace says.
I flinch at her name. I freeze in my spot. I need an excuse to leave. I can't stay here any longer.
I uncap the marker and quickly write something down. Candace waits anxiously, a smile growing on her face. I lift up the board to show her what I've written.
I need to take a piss.
Her smile falters once she reads what I've written. She excuses me, and I quickly get up from the couch. In my frenzy to leave, I crash into the girl, who I now know as Delilah. Her box of folders falls out of her hands and crashes to the floor. I glance quickly from her to the mess of folders on the floor before quickly running out.
My breathing quickens and the hallways seems to be too small. I need space. I need air. I need to get out of here. I can't take this.
I run down the halls in search for the bathroom before I finally find it. I step inside one of the stalls and lean against the metal door.
I wait for my pulse to slow, and my breathing to go back to normal. In through your nose, out through your mouth. Breathe, Luke. Relax.
I shut my eyes and try to calm down. All I can picture is that girl. The way she smiled, how one dimple showed up on her left cheek. The way her brown hair just passed her shoulders. How her cheeks reddened when the box fell. Damn it.
I pound my fists into the stall, causing it to rattle.
I thought it was her.
I thought she was back.
I thought I could have her again.
But it's not Delia. She'll never be back. I'll never see her again.
The sudden rush of anxiety that I felt leaves after a few minutes. I head back to Candace to see her waiting for me with the same smile.
Here we go again.
My whole life is surrounded by plastered smiles and forced sympathy.
I try to focus on Candace, but I can't.
All I can think about is that girl, and how much I hate her.
sorry this is really short and it took so long to update. this is kinda just a filler so candace and delilah could be introduced. so yeah. i hope you like it. let me know why you think luke got so nervous.
ik luke seems cocky but you'll see why. and you're probably confused but don't you worry, you'll get your answers soon.
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