All in my Mind

Prologue

I think I should probably preface this by saying that it ends badly. I value honesty. I don't want to set anybody up for failure. I don't even know the ending yet, but I can at least give you that simple warning. Nothing I do ends in positivity. Don't get your hopes up.

Getting your hopes up is a surefire way to get hurt anyways. Trust me.

Although technically I should clarify that from here forward, nothing I say is actually trustworthy. It's all fake. Nothing is real, at least not to anybody that matters. It's all real to me though. That's kind of how all this works. The unfortunate paradox of knowing I'm the unreliable narrator is probably just the cherry on top of the whole mess.

"What are you doing with your hands?" The man was asking me. He was a therapist, or potentially a psychiatrist. I couldnt actually remember. I knew he was a mental health professional and I knew he was assigned to me, but I hadn't bothered with the details. He probably wouldn't last long.

I looked up from my place in the leather chair. I'd been watching my hands carefully forming shapes in my lap until he noticed. The movements were coordinated and probably more careful than he could tell.

"Summoning Satan," I answered, which for the record, I know was not only a lie but also cliche and dumb as far as responses go. I can't help it. I live on impulse.

"Alexander," he chided.

I hated the sound of that name more and more every time I heard it, especially when it was spoken in a tone like that. It elicited a murmuring within the walls of my skull that I simply couldn't stand.

"Alex," I corrected him.

We made eye contact for a moment. He had brown eyes. I wanted to notice more about him, but eye contact was weird for me. I looked away back at my hands. They were still now. I couldn't remember what the gesture was for Alex. She'd given me that. How could I not remember?

"Did you hear what I was asking you before?" He prompted when he seemingly lost interest in just staring at me. "About your aspirations?"

"You were asking me what exactly?" I responded. I already knew, but I wanted him to ask again. "What was I supposed to say?"

"Why don't you try telling me what you wanted to be when you grew up?" He suggested.

I looked back up at him. That time I noted he had long brown hair that flowed out Fabio style. It was peppered with streaks of lighter grays, but he was still a conventionally attractive type with his pressed button up shirt and slacks. I decided based on the expensive looking nature of the white shirt that he was probably a psychiatrist. Those were some doctorate levels buttons.

I let my gaze slip off of him when I couldn't hold it anymore. Instead I looked past him to the windowsill where a transparent vase occupied the ledge. The roses inside it were very obviously dead. Condensation was building on the cool surface, beads of water dripping down the wall as a result. I thought I could hear them plinking down to hit the hardwood floor below. I looked down at the white carpet and realized I was imagining the sound.

Me and my overactive imagination.

"Alex?" He pressed again.

"I wanted to be a teacher," I said, remembering the question. "Then I wanted to be the president. Then I wanted to be an oncologist. I was indecisive."

I also wanted to be a librarian at one point, but that seemed unimpressive. Not worth the mention.

He nodded like I'd just provided him a little nugget of something useful. Was this guy in charge of my meds? I'd already determined he was wearing doctorate level buttons. That probably meant he had a say in the medication game.