Page 19 of Thorns That Bloom
The room smells of vanilla. For some reason, it feels exactly like the scent that someone with the name of Dr. Angel Stewart would pick. The room’s inconspicuous, warm, and inviting in the most non-offensive way. As a therapist's office should be, I suppose.
The beige on the walls and green accents of the furniture and minimalist pictures of nature can’t really offend or upset anyone. Everything around me, from the tissue box on the coffee table to the dim lamp behind her desk, ensures that whoever comes here issafe.
“It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Snyder,” the woman says with a gentle smile right after shaking my hand. She steps back and into the room, gesturing toward the emerald green couch.
Dr. Stewart is a petite woman. She reminds me of an elementary teacher, only with a bit more spice to her. Dr. Stewart has short dark brown dreads, with the sides and bottom of her head shaved, and her long nails are painted matte black. Besides that, she wears a basic light gray blouse and navy dress pants.
“You can just call me Sam,” I say, still running my gaze across the room instead of meeting her eyes. This is as awkward as all the other therapy sessions I’ve had, and I dislike it no less, but she seemed the most pleasant from her pictures and the info online. She’s an omega, like me, though I can’t really smell much of anything.
“Alright, Sam. Welcome.” Beaming with positive but not overbearing energy, she sits in the armchair facing the couch while I settle down on it. “I’m Doctor Angel Stewart, and yes, that is my real name,” she says with a little chuckle. “You could say my parents had certain expectations of me. You can call me Angel or Doctor; I don’t mind either way.”
Smirking, I glance down at my stomach, which I’ve subconsciously rested my hands over. The bigger it’s gotten, the more I tend to do this without thinking.
Her introduction reminds me that I haven’t thought about names at all yet. Sometimes, it’s still hard to comprehend that a person is growing inside me, and that they’ll be out and living their own unique existence at some point.
“I guess they were onto something. With you helping people and all,” I say, nervously glancing at the painting behind her. It's some peaceful hillside scenery. Doesn’t exactly fit her somewhat alternative appearance, but I suppose skulls and black cats wouldn’t really be the best imagery for this job.
She snorts, tilting her head slightly to the side. “I’m only as much of an ‘angel’ as people perceive me. I don’t do the work for my clients. I help them save themselves, rather than just…swooping in and doing it for them.”
Ah, yes. The therapy talk is starting already.
Trying not to allow a bitter grimace on my face, I nod.When I finally force myself to look at her again, she’s obviously studying me.
“So,” she says with her fingers twined together, sitting across from me with that non-imposing posture and non-imposing expression, “before we start, I’d like to go over a couple of things. Firstly, this is a safe and confidential space. Whatever you choose to talk about with me stays between us.”
“With a few exceptions,” I mutter.
Dr. Stewart raises her meticulously groomed and perfectly symmetrical brows. “You’ve been to therapy before, I take it?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, then you know that there’s no right or wrong way to do this. You’ll also know that we will go completely at your pace. You can share as little or as much as you’d like. For starters, I’d like to ask what made you seek therapy again?”
I let out a quiet sigh while picking at the corner of my sweater’s sleeve. “People usually go to therapy because they have some serious shit to deal with.”
As soon as I say it, I realize how insufferable I sound and snicker. Facing away, I rub my hands together.
I should try not to seem like an asshole right from the beginning.
Shame and frustration bubble in my gut. I carefully look back at Angel. She sits there, still watching attentively and with no judgment or anger. “Not always. Sometimes, people just need to talk. Help with organizing their thoughts. Other times, they need to hear another perspective to help them see things differently. It is all very subjective.”
“I suppose…”
“But I suspect you knew what I specialize in when yousought me out. We managed to get you this early appointment because you sounded like you truly needed it, so…whateverserious shityou are dealing with, Sam, I’m here to help you process it, if you’ll allow me.”
I could never do this job. To have to deal with people like me and still be all understanding and professional.
Exhaling, I close my eyes for a moment before facing her again.Come on. You have to be an adult right now.
“I went to therapy for a few weeks after it happened, but then things got too stressful and I couldn’t handle it, and…then I moved, and I figured I didn’t need it anymore because I was away from everything and didn’t really get many flashbacks, but…I don’t think it’s that easy,” I say, almost all at once as it comes into my head. Shifting nervously on the couch, I feel my throat constrict.
I’m not even making sense, and I know that. But how do I begin to explain? Do I have to talk about everything all over again? All the details, reliving what happened… Having to look at her and tell her what they did to me feels—
“You don’t have to say anything you’re not ready for, Sam. We can work up to it slowly. These beginning stages can be quite overwhelming,” she says, interrupting the spiral of my thoughts and pulling my attention to her. Her voice is soft and melodic, but also strong. It really fits her name. “What if we start with how you’ve been feeling lately? The smaller picture. What’s been going on day to day that made you come here?”
Okay, this is better. I can do that. I can talk about that.
“I moved cities recently. Moved my entire life. Changed my job.” I try to erase the prickly details ofwhyall those changes happened and under what circumstances. Instead, Ipush on. “At first, the change felt great. I left a lot of the baggage behind, and I’ve been doing alright with the day-to-day stuff, acting like everything is normal. But I…I guess not everything is. Because of my pregnancy, I started experiencing some unpleasant symptoms that I wasn’t ready for. My fault, really,” I mutter with a bitter chuckle. “I should’ve read more.”
