Memento Mei.
Remember Me.
As I am, not as I was.
Life is challenging enough as it is.
For Skyelle life's challenges go beyond that. Life is a nuisance, a road block to the bittersweet end she desires. Cloaked in an ever present depression stemming...
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I slouch on the sofa, my body language defensive as I stare at the woman across from me. I hate this room. It's stuffy and smells like a hippie's van.
The walls are dark wood panel, the floor an ugly brown carpet. There's cheap brown shelves everywhere, a hand full of cheap brown side tables, and an ugly old desk from the seventies. All of it is full of clutter and papers. And brown.
Dr. Watts is an old bat who Marc sends me to twice a week. She's got that typical therapist way of speaking that gets under my skin and more wrinkles than a bulldog. She always wears these ugly ankle length skirts, chunky sweaters, and the same worn black flats every single day. Not to mention she smells like vinegar and her grey frazzled hair is tackily braided over her shoulder.
Dr. Watts eyes my clothing with a passive aggressive smile. It's really just a twitch of the lips, paralyzed in place. Her hazel eyes travel from my black combat boots to my black skinny jeans to my dark blue baggy sweater that hangs off my left shoulder. My fashion choices have been the topic of most arguments with Marc lately. It's probably something him and Dr. Watts can actually agree on.
I note how her expression becomes one of mild amusement, the placating kind, as she takes in my long midnight blue hair. No one believes me when I say it's natural. They think I'm just some angst ridden teen girl who's going through a rebellious phase. As Marc so often likes to remind me, my fashion choices don't exactly help matters.
I don't really care is the problem.
She tilts her head with that fake pleasant smile of hers and threads her fingers together, leaning in as if she's interested in every little word I'll give. "So explain to me your feelings again, Skyelle. Tell me about The Void."
I hate it when she does that. She says it like it's some grand intricate piece to a puzzle. Like it's some detriment answer, a pandora's key, to all my woes. I let my head loll to the side lazily, my mismatched eyes glowering at her with boredom," I told you already."
She gives me a chuckle, even wrinkles her nose at me playfully," I know silly. Just placate me. I think I'm finally on to something."
As soon as I leave this room I'm demanding Marc find me a different therapist.
Or better yet, we can drop therapy altogether. It's pointless. One can't erase something that doesn't exist to begin with. There's nothing but emptiness, boredom, and anxiety inside of me. Take that away and there'll be nothing left at all. I'll just be a zombie. It's a concept that seems to fly right over both their heads.
