The Transference

C32

C32

In a matter of minutes my life went from good to bad to worse. And I'm still in the middle of processing everything but my punishment began the moment I stepped out of the headmaster's office.

Students couldn't go along with the training because of what happened, which gave the therapist the time to shower, eat and prepare for our session.

I waited in front of her office for her to come. It was the place I could come that no one was. Crossing the mental health check up off list means I go to the Experiencé du hors corp and return earlier to begin the dish duty at the cafeteria.

I have enough time in the Experiencé du hors corp to think about what happened and how to go further from here.

Miss Mulligan takes her time before letting me into her office. It looks different, she redecorated the place, adding some more furnitures: two Accent chairs, artworks on each side of the walls that enclosed the room, a sofa with blanket folded neatly on it, and potted houseplants. She don't seat behind her desk today, instead she makes me sit on the newly added Accent chairs that's placed directly opposite her.

She swaps her tracksuits for a black and white pantsuits. Her blonde hair is falling down her shoulder. She crosses her leg over the other, showing me the notepad and pen she's holding.

Oh, great. I didn't think it was a therapy session until I saw those.

I relax on the chair, making myself at home and comfortable as I lean against it with legs spread as wild as they can go. I place my arms on the chair's arm and keep my eyes on the artwork, trying my hardest to find out what it is I'm looking at but I don't answer the question as Miss Mulligan decides to talk.

"Good afternoon, Camille," she greets me like we haven't seen each other at all today. She's keeping things formal and professional.

Nice.

"It's Cami," I correct her through grit teeth. Biting my teeth down is the only way I know to control myself before I say something to anger her and punishment increases.

She nods. "I know. How are you?"

I look away from her to the artwork again. It looks like trash glued on a painting.

"Cami, I asked you a question. How are you doing?" Her voice breaks the inner battle I'm having with myself about this artwork.

How dare she ask me that? She was on the field, she saw everything that happened and she's asking how I'm doing. This has to be some kind of a sick joke.

I promised myself I wouldn't cause any trouble. I wouldn't run my mouth to the wrong people but I can't take this. Everyone thinks I'm the bad guy and I guess I should just be the bad guy.

I do the next thing possible, I snap at her. "Make up your fucking mind, is it how I am? Or how I'm fucking doing?"

She doesn't seem surprised at my tone, infact she looks like she's been expecting it. "You're angry." She notices and I know she's about to comment on it.

"Damn fucking right I am!" I lean away from the chair to sit properly.

"No cussing."

"Or what? Lock me in the prison for forty eight hours."

She shakes her head and write somethings down. "I won't do that. I don't have the authority," she replies.

I scoff and cross my arms above my chest. "What the hell am I even doing here?"

She looks away from her notepad and asks, "What do you think you're doing here?"

I chuckle with no humor. I know the drill, she asks me questions and bait me into telling her my deepest and darkest secret but that shit won't break me. Therapy isn't my thing, yeah I know some people gain something from it but I don't. The ones my father took me when I was younger was enough to last me a lifetime. You see, no one can make me talk unless it is what I want.