Page 10 of Absolution

“Ms. Delmont,” the feminine voice says across from me. “Do you think that you could elaborate on your silence a bit more? I can’t exactly read your mind.”

Shit. I forgot she was even here.

Forcing myself out of my own head, I take notice of Dr. Matthews as she eyes me, analyzing me like a lab rat in its cage.

“Sorry, Doc. I didn’t realize that I wasn’t speaking,” I try to play it off with a chuckle and a shrug. “I’ve spent so much time on my own that I don’t notice when I get stuck in my own head.”

Dr. Matthews forces a smile before, lowering her face back down to the notebook she’s jotting her thoughts down on today’s session. She brushes away her long, black curls from her face as she continues to scribble her notes. I watch her for a few seconds, before I begin to look around at the bright white of her crisp and clean office that screams she’s a neat freak and lonely. She has book shelves filled to the brim with large scientific looking textbooks and diagrams of some sort of psychiatric mumbo jumbo bullshit. I bet if I looked more closely at her books, they’d have titles like Ten Ways to Know You’re a Psycho or Me, Myself, andMy 1,000 Different Personalities.

Don’t get me wrong, Dr. Matthews seems nice, but judging from her office and lack of any personal touches, I’m betting that she doesn’t have much in the way of the family and friends department in her life. Maybe she is hiding just like me or maybe she’s just a lonely cat lady in need of a vibrator. The possibilities for her chosen lifestyle are endless in my mind, and it’s almost a game for me to think of some new scenario, while I pretend to engage in our weekly sessions.

I never thought in a million years, that I would find myself on the leather chaise lounge of a therapist’s office, opening up about the demons hidden in my closet. Well, only the ones who could play nice any way. The other ones were locked away in their cages. Group therapy was one thing, but one on one with a certified therapist is a completely different animal. In group, I could hide away in the background and not talk, but here it’s only the two of us, and not talking isn’t acceptable for what I am paying her.

Every time one of our sessions rolls around, it takes everything that I have to walk into these doors, but according to my brother’s caseworker, I have to prove that I am a fit guardian. I just wish I had thought about that before digging my heels into the idea of trying to save him from the system. Come to find out, it isn’t as easy as walking into the Child Services Office and filling out a form to claim him as my brother and bringing him home. Apparently, there’s red tape and multiple hoops to jump through in order to even get to meet him. I don’t know why I thought it would be as easy as claiming an item from the lost and found, but that goes to show how little I know about the decent part of the world. It’s been months since I came back home, and I haven’t sniffed at the opportunity to meet him thanks to my previous court records, lack of real employment history, or a permanent residence. It’s not like I could put drug dealer and the Heaven’s Reject Club House on my application, which has only added more shit to my to-do list.

Fucking bureaucratic rules.

She continues to write as I sit there like a bump on a log waiting for her next ridiculous question. Lord, I am already using country slang. I need to get out of here, before I start chewing on wheat stalk and wearing the latest Tractor Supply store clearance rack fashions. As much as this town loves their flannel shirts, wranglers, and cowboy boots, this girl does not.

Returning my gaze back to the good doctor, I can’t help but wonder if I were to peek over her shoulder, would I find “She’s certifiable” scribbled across the pages from our session today. I continue to watch her in the awkward silence of the room, but just when I think about making a break for it while she’s distracted with her note taking, she sets her pen down and returns her attention back to me.

Damn. I wonder how much longer my session is going to be today. It can’t be more than a few minutes.

“Let’s start with something easy, Erica. How was your week?” Dr. Matthews starts.

“My week?” I snort. “Same shit, different day. I work and I try to sleep, Doc. Nothing too special about that.”

Her brow furrows at my smartass response. I know she’s trying to help, and I should be more cooperative, but I just don’t feel comfortable enough with her yet. The fear that she will have me committed is always lurking in the back of my mind, and that will do nothing for helping me with my goal of taking custody of my brother. These sessions are nothing but a check in the box to prove I am not crazy. Sure, it’s a lie, but what they don’t know won’t hurt them. My only concern is crossing the state line with my brother in tow.

“Well, I see talking about your current emotional status isn’t something you would like to do today, so let’s try something else. Could you please tell me about your childhood? Was it happy?”

I snort again, while she asks her absurd questions.

“Is something funny, Ms. Delmont?”

I shake my head, trying to curtail my laughter.

“You obviously aren’t from around here, Doc,” I tease, straightening myself up on the leather sofa across from her. “Do you want the full version or the cliff notes?”

Her eyes narrow, “What’s the difference?”

“About two days, and a bottomless bottle of whiskey.” I fire back, while she frowns at me. “Okay, judging from that look of yours. You want the short version,” I declare, before inhaling a deep breath.

“Mom was a whore. Dad ignores my existence. I grew up in a trailer park here in town, probably not a surprise there, while my momma whored herself out. From the time I was nine, I did odd jobs around the trailer park to keep food in my belly, before my momma decided my body was better served in her line of work.”

Dr. Matthews sucks in a deep breath and looks on in horror. No doubt the imagery from my personal hell is filling her mind.

“Your mother forced you into sleeping with men for money?” she questions. “How old were you?”

“Thirteen. It was either sell my body or starve to death on the streets,” I coolly reply, while forcing those memories back into the dungeon I try to lock them down in. “And before you ask, I did go to the police, but it was already too late for me.”

“Too late for what?” she questions.

“Too late to save me from what my life has become today,” I squeak out, before the timer on her phone begins to chime. “Why would they believe the daughter of the town slut when she comes to beg for help?”

Saved by the damn bell.

I dart from my chair, fling open her office door, and bolt, before she could even dismiss me. It’s not because I don’t like Dr. Matthews, but spilling my soul out to a complete stranger leaves me rattled, by the time that our sessions are over. I’ve sat in her office three times a week for the past two months, and I don’t feel anywhere close to finding absolution for my past.

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