THERAPY

06 | moon

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m o o n

LUNE

↣ "DOES YOUR NAME mean moon?" He tilted his head with a friendly smile.

          Mama nudged my elbow, making me flinch. I nodded at him, hoping he could tell I didn't wanna be here. "It comes from 'luna'."

          "It's a very pretty name," he complimented.

          His eyes glistened the softest shade of ocean blue as waves of turmoil crashed into my heart. They held the perfect tint I associated with my sorrow; and it all seemed familiar.

               "Mines is Atlas."

     Atlas' peppered hair was sprinkled with the shade of sea salt— his hair swept to the left. But it looked so unnatural, the way too many strands slowly sneaked to the back of his head. It was obvious he usually wore a different hairstyle. He took his hands from the pockets of his slacks, "I have to take your parents to sign something. But I'll be back, OK? And then we can talk."

     Please don't, I wanted to say. Atlas escorted Mama and Dad, abandoning me in the foyer. I stood uncomfortably in this stranger's place — with no company — and soon-to-be signed away. They were surely somewhere else, talking about me as if I couldn't speak for myself. And if it were my choice, I wouldn't have come here.

     Not that I was left any choice. I was stuck here; trapped and powerless with no solution. It could've been my age or maturity, but this was worse than Mr. Precipe and his subordinates. Or maybe this was his work too. What if he kills me? What if he's just like him? Worse, what if he's like that director?

     Melodious laughs drifted through the hallway. The feminine sound carried to my ears and I went rigid. A lower, masculine voice murmured words that sounded closer before I couldn't hear them anymore. They seemed happy 'enough' — whatever that meant here. The laughs weren't crazed or obnoxiously loud as seen on TV. But then, nothing was ever as seen on TV.

     They sounded young — young enough that I was suddenly curious. I forced myself to stay in place, fighting against my own fidgeting. My eyes wandered across the hand-drawn paintings which decorated the crème walls. One hung, a black base swirled in a white marble pattern. It was splattered with white paint across canvas. I stared.

     The piece looked sophisticated, complex in a way I wanted to understand. But I couldn't figure it out. And that frustrated me long enough that my parents strolled back into the foyer with Atlas. They all held eased smiles on their faces and I frowned. Atlas stepped toward me, "I have your parents' phone number, so you can call them while you're away."

     His statement was like rubbing salt into a wound. A feeling rose in the back of my nose and my eyebrows inclined. Mama held her arms out, smiling expectantly. I shuffled into her embrace with a reluctant smile. She patted my back, rubbing it. I clamped down on my bottom lip in a last-ditch effort not to bawl in her arms. Something about mothers always make us feel more like the babies we truly are deep down.

     Even my biological mother drew that from me. Despite everything, I still believed her presence was safe enough to show her my wounds. And maybe what resulted from that is what landed me here, struggling to reach my Dad for a hug. "You'll love it here," Mama insisted while she pet my hair.