Page 20 of Ruling Scar
Mom points to the door. “Out!”
CHAPTER 5
Lennie
THE NEW YEAR
“How were your holidays?” Janis asks.
It’s a frigid, gray January day. Janis’ office is in a repurposed warehouse. It’s tiny and cramped, yet somehow cozy with a dark green and purple color scheme.
My therapist is roughly my age, twenty-six, which should scare me. I’ve found it helpful, though. Janis isn’t pretentious or stuffy. It’s easy to talk to her.
I think deep down I always knew I needed therapy. That constantly crying when I’m alone in my room at night isn’t normal. That feeling on fire isn’t either. But I kept putting it off.
Then one day last year, as I walked into the train station, I thought I saw an old classmate from high school. I hadn’t seen them in years, but the moment I thought I recognized the brunette, I tucked myself into an alcove, my chest squeezing tight.
Would it be that bad if I came face-to-face with this person? Probably not. But I hid.
And I’m so damn tired of hiding.
Janis has helped me a lot. We started by identifying emotions. It turns out there’s a lot more to being just a gray blob of lonely.
She’s the one who keeps pushing me out into the world. Left to my own devices, I’d never leave my room, but she’s the one who challenged me to go to book club. When that failed, it was Fujimori’s.
I’m a disappointment to her now, though.
“They were nice. I got Beyonce’s new album on vinyl.”
She smiles at that. “Did you do anything for New Year’s?”
Abe threw a party at Fujimori’s. But I didn’t want to deal with the craziness so I tucked myself away with a book.
I shake my head no, my brown hair brushing my left cheek.
Janis smiles again, but it’s softer. Like she knows not to push, though, I’d say our definition of the word differs.
She tilts her head sideways, studying me. “You know, I’ve always wanted to ask you this. Does your hair not bother you?”
“Huh?”
Janis has short hair, dyed silver. It’s drastically different from my long dark locks.
She motions to her hairline. “I’ve never seen you wear your hair back. It’s always down. Doesn’t it get into your eyes?”
Probably.
“I always wear it down, so I guess I’m used to it.”
“Always?” There’s an inquisitive look on her face I’ve started to dread. “Why don’t you like wearing it up?”
I shake my head, not having an answer. My hands rub together as I sit back in the chair.
“You said your mom was big on the importance of appearances. Does your messy hair never annoy her?”
The ghost of my mother’s fingers, smoothing my hair in front of my left cheek sends a shiver across my skin.
“She just knew I always liked it down.”
