Page 27 of Broken Omega

So, I take my time when I visit my therapist.

I saunter down the corridor slowly, being observant of anything that might be unusual.

This morning it’s deathly quiet, like a morgue, really. The hum of overhead lights that are ready to go out are the only sound that rises above my own soft footsteps on the carpet.

I get to the therapy room and pause, wondering if my father would have sent me back to therapy if I hadn’t had another blackout. I wouldn’t have had that last one if he hadn’t insisted on inviting me home for my birthday as a ruse to give me a shitty ultimatum.

It’s his fault, really. And this is his solution.

With a sigh, I step forward and knock on the door.

Three short, sharp taps in quick succession.

I cross my arms under my chest while I wait to be let in.

I heard vague sounds in the room before the door swings inward.

Doctor Prentice looks as tired as I feel.

She’s only about ten years older than I am, but she makes it look more like twenty.

Bad haircut, bad skin care routine, the wrong shade of foundation and way too much concealer, making it look like she was just out in the sun with big shades on.

“Brooke, come in.”

“Hi, Doctor Prentice,” I greet her without any warmth in my voice.

I’ve already decided she can’t help me. I’m only here on my father’s insistence.

She gives me a tight smile. “I trust you’re ready to take your father’s advice for treatments going forward?”

Great.He’s given her an earful, too. I’m off to such a great start today.

“I’m willing to consider any options you have for me,” I tell her, unwilling to commit to whatever my father’s told her without knowing what it is first.

She steps back a little more, as if she’s just noticed she was inviting me in and not really giving me enough space to step into the room. I enter the reception area, and she closes the door behind me. The desk is unmanned, which would be unusual if it wasn’t first thing in the morning on a Saturday.

“Elenor doesn’t work weekends.”

“Lucky for Elenor,” I murmur as I follow Prentice into her room.

The lamp-lit room is supposed to feel intimate and cozy. To me, it only feels like a trap.

My father orchestrated therapy sessions for me a long time ago, and he seems to expect me to get something very specific out of them. I wish I could figure out what that something was. Maybe then I could be done with this crap.

“Take a seat,” she says, her voice still pleasant, though it has a tremble to it now.

Great. She expects something.My father must have given her a specific task today.

I sit down, giving her a frozen smile. “I’m honestly not sure why my father needs me to do this.”

“He made me aware that you had another blackout,” she tells me.

“Well, yeah, but drinking’s a trigger for that and he triggered my drinking, so …” I shrug.

“What did he do to trigger your drinking?” she asks, not writing anything down.

I suppose if she did, my father might kill her.

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