A warmth glazed over her leg; the piece of sunlight that broke through the curtain, illuminating the small specks of dusts dancing in the air. As she gazed at it, tracing it down to her thigh, she noticed that she was trembling and mentally forced herself to stop. She was used to this now. Besides, she couldn't let herself get to the low place she'd been in earlier in the year. Just thinking about how dark that time period was made it even harder to sit still on that bed that smelled like a mix of his cologne and her perfume with small traces of alcohol. No, she needed to get it together. Silence her thoughts, like she'd practiced. It was called mindful thinking, just another word for meditation, but it helped in times like these where everything seemed to trigger some bad experience. Like the shower going on in the back, so casually as if nothing was wrong while she sat on the edge of the bed trying to pretend like the knot in her throat didn't exist. It brought her back to his place, where she needed to stop going because one day he'd end up killing her. But for now, all he left her with was marks, and he'd go one like nothing had happened. If he did address hitting his girlfriend, it wouldn't be in a self-accountable kind of way. He'd just hand Chanel the responsibility and go on normally, like maybe taking a shower the way the man she'd slept with last night was doing right now. Chanel desperately wanted someone to knock on the door. She desperately wanted to hear the words 'Room service,' so that she could answer it and slip away. But even then, she couldn't. He hadn't paid her yet. When he finally came out, his eyes undressed her and she pretended not to notice. "You look nice," he said.
"I'm sorry?" Chanel turned her head back to the woman in front of her, not realizing she'd, again, fallen into a daze. She needed to stop. She was going to end up looking crazy, and during a therapy session? Not good. Not, not good. "I said you look nice today," the said, smiling kindly. "And then I asked where you'd like to start. Is something on your mind?" Chanel shook her head coolly, rubbing her thumb along the smoothness of her freshly manicured nail. Her Plan B fund had racked up so she splurged on a more expensive set at the salon. What she called her Plan B fund, though, wasn't in actuality just that. It was the extra money she put aside from the men she slept with when she told them they needed to pay for the Plan B lest they wanted to pay more in child support for the next eighteen years. They were men, and it was about women's reproductive health, and what more they were rich and old and came up in a time where abstinence and promise rings were as common as chocolate milk. So naturally, they were idiots and didn't notice when she gave them a price that was more than what Plan B actually costed. She had, though, visited the women's clinic quite frequently, only because she was covered under her parents' plan. "No." She smiled sweetly, but her voice was tired. "Nothing. I'm great. I got my nails done yesterday and it's really pretty today, and I have a date next week. So life's great. Couldn't ask for more really. Well," she said after a moment, her tone becoming more ominous. "Besides not having to waste an hour a week doing this against my will, but other than that...Yup."
"Do you know why you're here, Chanel?" the woman, Lindy, asked. Her voice was reasonable and not at all accusatory like Chanel's was. She'd never once gotten an attitude with Chanel like Chanel had a tendency to do, and while this didn't surprise Chanel, it did bother her. She felt powerless in this place. She felt like something was wrong with her here. Here she had to try three times as her than she did outside to look normal because this woman was a professional. And each week Chanel would have to work even harder than the last because she knew Lindy saw through her, but if there was anything about these people, it was that they were patient. "I am here," Chanel began, enunciating each word as she shuffled her hand through her hair. "Because my parents made me come here." Lindy blinked slowly, casting her eyes down as she thought. Chanel watched, trying to analyze her and figure out what she was about. "Why did they make you come here?" she said. "Because," Chanel began before hesitating and realizing she didn't have an answer, or at least an answer she was comfortable with saying that wouldn't lead to her crying. She looked at Lindy with a soft glare, and Lindy looked at her coolly. "Probably has something to do with my brother. They made me do this shit right after he tried killing himself and now they're making me do this again because they're worried for whatever fucking reason."
"I hear some anger in your voice as you speak about your family," Lindy said as if she understood. Chanel swallowed back the emotion that had slipped through and tried to recompose herself. She wanted to jump across the room though; she took personal offense to Lindy's--albeit accurate--observation. What Chanel interpreted was that if she was angry at her family, then she was being ungrateful, and that was something she was trying to work on. Hearing Lindy's comments just actualized the fact that after, what, three years in this city nothing has changed. "I'm not angry at anyone." Lindy nodded again, but this letting out an understanding, "Hmm," before continuing. "I was just wondering so that I could better assist you. If I know what you believe you are here, I can either confirm or deny that, and then we can go from there. But first, you'll have to talk to me. About whatever. In the, I think it's been three weeks that you've been here? Maybe four? You sit quietly or talking about your nails or dates or the like. I guess I'm wondering what else?"
"There's nothing else," Chanel said shaking her head. "I like getting my nails and hair done, and I like boys. I'm very superficial, nothing wrong with that," she said. "I have a very hard time believing that, Chanel." Lindy smiled. "Look, I just don't want to do all this Freudian shit, okay? God." She placed her face in her palms for a second and leaned back into the couch, exhaling slowly. "I'm trying so hard to be okay for everyone else and they just keep trying to find ways for me to not be okay. Like I know it's not all nail polish and boys, but it's a lot easier for me and everyone else if I just think that way."
"And why is that?" Lindy said. Chanel looked outside the window, her face in a frown before she realized it and softened her face at the gentle reminder that she didn't want to get wrinkles prematurely. She cleared her throat and ran her tongue across her cheeks as she practice her mindful thinking. She spoke quiet affirmations in her mind and pretended that she was breathing out any and all bad energy. It helped, but only a little bit. She was still drowning in the tension from the room. In this room her body felt this instinct to just double over and cry, but she reminded herself that that was what her bedroom was for. At night with a bottle of wine and a blunt and donuts. She was done crying; she'd done enough of that this year. "Because it makes it so that I don't have to think about the real shit, and maybe if I don't have to think about it for long enough, then it'll eventually go away, and I'll be okay."
"Why aren't you okay?"
"I'm sorry?" Chanel turned her head back to the woman in front of her, not realizing she'd, again, fallen into a daze. She needed to stop. She was going to end up looking crazy, and during a therapy session? Not good. Not, not good. "I said you look nice today," the said, smiling kindly. "And then I asked where you'd like to start. Is something on your mind?" Chanel shook her head coolly, rubbing her thumb along the smoothness of her freshly manicured nail. Her Plan B fund had racked up so she splurged on a more expensive set at the salon. What she called her Plan B fund, though, wasn't in actuality just that. It was the extra money she put aside from the men she slept with when she told them they needed to pay for the Plan B lest they wanted to pay more in child support for the next eighteen years. They were men, and it was about women's reproductive health, and what more they were rich and old and came up in a time where abstinence and promise rings were as common as chocolate milk. So naturally, they were idiots and didn't notice when she gave them a price that was more than what Plan B actually costed. She had, though, visited the women's clinic quite frequently, only because she was covered under her parents' plan. "No." She smiled sweetly, but her voice was tired. "Nothing. I'm great. I got my nails done yesterday and it's really pretty today, and I have a date next week. So life's great. Couldn't ask for more really. Well," she said after a moment, her tone becoming more ominous. "Besides not having to waste an hour a week doing this against my will, but other than that...Yup."
"Do you know why you're here, Chanel?" the woman, Lindy, asked. Her voice was reasonable and not at all accusatory like Chanel's was. She'd never once gotten an attitude with Chanel like Chanel had a tendency to do, and while this didn't surprise Chanel, it did bother her. She felt powerless in this place. She felt like something was wrong with her here. Here she had to try three times as her than she did outside to look normal because this woman was a professional. And each week Chanel would have to work even harder than the last because she knew Lindy saw through her, but if there was anything about these people, it was that they were patient. "I am here," Chanel began, enunciating each word as she shuffled her hand through her hair. "Because my parents made me come here." Lindy blinked slowly, casting her eyes down as she thought. Chanel watched, trying to analyze her and figure out what she was about. "Why did they make you come here?" she said. "Because," Chanel began before hesitating and realizing she didn't have an answer, or at least an answer she was comfortable with saying that wouldn't lead to her crying. She looked at Lindy with a soft glare, and Lindy looked at her coolly. "Probably has something to do with my brother. They made me do this shit right after he tried killing himself and now they're making me do this again because they're worried for whatever fucking reason."
"I hear some anger in your voice as you speak about your family," Lindy said as if she understood. Chanel swallowed back the emotion that had slipped through and tried to recompose herself. She wanted to jump across the room though; she took personal offense to Lindy's--albeit accurate--observation. What Chanel interpreted was that if she was angry at her family, then she was being ungrateful, and that was something she was trying to work on. Hearing Lindy's comments just actualized the fact that after, what, three years in this city nothing has changed. "I'm not angry at anyone." Lindy nodded again, but this letting out an understanding, "Hmm," before continuing. "I was just wondering so that I could better assist you. If I know what you believe you are here, I can either confirm or deny that, and then we can go from there. But first, you'll have to talk to me. About whatever. In the, I think it's been three weeks that you've been here? Maybe four? You sit quietly or talking about your nails or dates or the like. I guess I'm wondering what else?"
"There's nothing else," Chanel said shaking her head. "I like getting my nails and hair done, and I like boys. I'm very superficial, nothing wrong with that," she said. "I have a very hard time believing that, Chanel." Lindy smiled. "Look, I just don't want to do all this Freudian shit, okay? God." She placed her face in her palms for a second and leaned back into the couch, exhaling slowly. "I'm trying so hard to be okay for everyone else and they just keep trying to find ways for me to not be okay. Like I know it's not all nail polish and boys, but it's a lot easier for me and everyone else if I just think that way."
"And why is that?" Lindy said. Chanel looked outside the window, her face in a frown before she realized it and softened her face at the gentle reminder that she didn't want to get wrinkles prematurely. She cleared her throat and ran her tongue across her cheeks as she practice her mindful thinking. She spoke quiet affirmations in her mind and pretended that she was breathing out any and all bad energy. It helped, but only a little bit. She was still drowning in the tension from the room. In this room her body felt this instinct to just double over and cry, but she reminded herself that that was what her bedroom was for. At night with a bottle of wine and a blunt and donuts. She was done crying; she'd done enough of that this year. "Because it makes it so that I don't have to think about the real shit, and maybe if I don't have to think about it for long enough, then it'll eventually go away, and I'll be okay."
"Why aren't you okay?"