Categories > Books > Sherlock Holmes > Get Well Soon

The Worst

by BreakSomeBones 0 reviews

But don't take this personal...

Category: Sherlock Holmes - Rating: R - Genres: Drama,Romance - Warnings: [!!!] [?] - Published: 2015-01-22 - 2911 words

I remember the exact moment of initially realizing I wasn't exactly the same as every other first-grader. In fact, I reminisce quite frequently. In itchy tights and belted shoes, I could feel my eyes scanning the room again. Faces, colors, so much obscurity in a room full of children who hadn't learned to eat with proper utensils. My fingers tensing and eyes flinching at the child who sat left of the board; a cartoon character befittingly splattered on the front of his shirt, blue Jordache jeans and his finger so far in his nose he could poke a memory. I still felt my head spinning in madness.

Why? I thought, Why did I have to be placed in the room with imbeciles who wouldn't know Purel--from spit!

Sincerely speaking, I was just as disgusted with myself for adjusting to this group of heathens. Coming to a close understanding, but never conforming. Those were the initial days of the first instincts I've ever gained as a human being; observing the public in complete discretion. I could have used my willful duties as a foreign spy but I wasn't about to waste my talents watching the affluent. I could have excelled as a paparazzo, but I hadn't been the type to bury myself in trash cans, closets or lawsuits for a shot of the wealthy. Instead, I spent days in plain sight, being a voyeur of the unknowing, a sleuth of the nodding, sighing and complacently woeful passengers of public transportation.

I spent late mornings going to class just watching them. They all seemed so comfortable, so at ease with their filthy surroundings. I looked around and all I could see was the bacteria slithering on the poles and hand rails. They were all so hopeful to get to where they were going on time that conjunctivitis wasn't standing in their way. I scoured, lightly redirecting my peripheral view and watched as another blank canvas entered the car.

Female: About five feet--six inches, of Spanish descent, chestnut hair hangs neatly at her shoulders. She takes a seat in the aisle across from me, but two rows ahead. She places her purse comfortably on her lap and taps away. No rings or tan lines present on her fingers so we both had something in common. Her latent demeanor stares out of the window of the passing train with an ambiguous smirk. She wore scrubs and nameless, black sneakers.

Mother--Along with those scrubs was a small stain of mashed sweet potatoes and carrots near the pocket of her pants that stood out in a proud orange crust.

Our lives hadn't resembled each others in the slightest bit; the objective in being invisible is to search for the invisible in plain sight. What really makes it interesting is going completely unnoticed staring down complete strangers. It was a daunting task but someone had to do it. Fanatics wouldn't be the word I would use to compare the fleeting feeling of awkwardly surveying random people. There were no words that fit best, honestly.

She grabs the handle of the empty seat getting up and goes over to the automatic sliding doors. That smirk stupidly slid across her face as the train whizzed past those standing on the platform. More blanks. She taps impatiently on the handle rails. Her foot bobs up and down on her toes as she waits for the train to come to that slow, agonizing halt. The doors open and she flies out, only to be embraced by a man, almost twice her size. An older gentleman, hair greying on the sides and nurturing hands. They walked off of the platform and to the stairs of the concourse.

I sat grimacing. This was an everyday routine now. Scout, survey, pout, repeat. The position came with a little covetous reluctance; not that I wanted to be that kid probing his nose for treasure, or the junkie sat biting his nails. I didn't want to be that 5PM crowd who lived in the suburbs and had cars but took the train for irony. I didn't want to be any of these things. I wanted to be a blank canvas one day. Someone whose emotions, thoughts and general feelings couldn't be purveyed from my exterior. The thoughts of vulnerability and apparent weakness was what took the pleasure away from it most days. For the rest of the ride, I just stared blankly out of the window for moments to pass, inventing a blank canvas for myself.

That day was going to play out differently. I wasn't going to be bullshitting in school, pretending to shame myself for not bringing a sketch pad on the train to draw people and how interesting they were. That day, I was going to be a blank canvas for someone with a degree; someone paid to tell me that I might as well get start upping my dosage of Xanax and prescriptions to keep me sane. Their children ate off plates financed by the secrets of a thirty-six year-old lawyer who is still living the consequences of her problematic youth. Imported furnishings in a Victorian that sat high on a hill; that came from telling a man that his wife was rather sick of his couch potato antics. Duvets and luxe lights filling the master suite--funded by sad sacks, jittery twenty-somethings and anxious, upper-class teenagers.

Where was I going to fit in? I was neither of those. I didn't know what was wrong with me, I just knew everything was wrong with me. No leather padded chaise lounge was ready for what I was about to bring.

My stop approached. My eyes were so dry from me forgetting to blink, they watered. I bit my lip pensively regretting even letting the issue of all issues (my mother) talking me in to seeing a shrink. It was almost hard to pass up as she was willing to pay for it. Though, it would just be used on a hopeless trip to Anguilla to try and pull together her failing marriage; she just wanted to see me be something bigger than myself. I couldn't fault her for that, but in everything I voluntarily bowed out of (See: art school, healthy relationships with people, etc.,), she never forgot to embellish any chagrin I felt. She just wanted to fix me; couldn't do it herself, seeing as she hadn't known what was initially out-of-order. She made the decision to pay someone else to find out.

"Whatever…" I sigh, I walked up the stairs to the concourse. I stood grimacing at the sunless sky. It was already so grim underground, it was sad to see that the sun wasn't up to making any appearances today. There was a cloud that hung over the city in an impenetrable autumn haze. I pulled my leather biker jacket closer to me as the wind whipped through my straight ebony hair. I walked a block further in the direction of the address I was given to the Amazing Shrink. I didn't know much about her, I knew that she was an older woman and that she talked over cosmopolitans and old fashions with my mother on numerous occasions.

I felt my phone vibrate through my bag. I pause, moving to the side of the hustle and bustle of New York City pedestrian traffic. I could tell by the length of the vibration, that it had been a text message. I rolled my eyes knowing no one I cared for, not that I particularly cared for anyone, was trying to communicate with me. I pulled my phone out, seeing that I was right.

You busy tonight?

I looked up to the sky, almost asking for a comet to come down and plummet directly into the face of my phone. I stood there, slowly breathing and half-wishing I changed my number months ago. I stood there and realized that all--or most--of my issues were people. I was two blocks from this "shrink" and I was already making inward progress. I was proud of me./ People are your problem,/ I thought. I nodded knowing that I was going to find that fix.

Nope. See you around 7.

And in that exact moment, I lost my will to finding the fix. I had my unhealthy yearning for meaningless sex that stood in my way. It was the bully that smacked my hand out of the way when I was reaching a breaking point to obtaining reasonably healthy relationships. After a couple bruised digits, I presumed they weren't meant for me. An orgasm was an orgasm and at least I was getting something out of it too.

I placed my phone back into my bag, pretending I didn't let myself down; not that it would had been the first time. Honestly, I really should have gotten used to it by now. I was a block away and I could see the tall glass building towering everything in its path. My stomach grew awkward butterflies who flew into each other blindly, knocking one another out in the process. I stood in front of the building and let it conquer me. I felt like Jack, ready to slay the ogre-like Giant. But I didn't have a sword, and I barely had a voice strong enough to scare it.

Oh well, I thought. What's the worst that could happen?

This woman knew my mother who, I'm sure, is not even from this planet. She felt entertained enough by her to go to happy hour with her on Wednesdays--I'll be a cake walk.

I walked into an open door that was held by a man with a navy shirt and dusty light-washed jeans on. He wore a baseball cap, too. It had a truck logo on it, that matched the small logo on the shirt. He must have been a mover of some sort.

"Thanks." I smiled.

"My pleasure!" He piped. I didn't hassle the receptionist, as I knew exactly where the office was. Many a day, I was summoned up here to console my grieving mother who decided on a fifth of vodka instead of the usual bacon-and-eggs for breakfast. Walking through the lobby, there were a group of men moving the a leather patted chaise in the direction of the exit. I thought nothing of it as I continued padding my Converse laden feet up the corridor.

The only thing I could think of was making sure I let this woman know that I was nothing like my mother.

I'm nothing like her, I'm nothing like her, I chanted in my head, pressing the button of an elevator.

The doors were a beautiful cherry-oak with comforting baroque designs carved into them precisely. I watched the analog dials countdown, popping my foot up and down impatiently. That was definitely another thing that I was going to pledge to work on--my intolerance of waiting. I was doing so well already, hadn't even gotten into the room yet.

The doors open to men and women dressed fully in pant suits, business suits, pencil skirts and blazers. Not taking three seconds to notice me, many of them too busy on their devices to realize that they bumped into me. I heaved a long sigh and waited for the grey and black muted sheep to clear out of the elevator and I stepped in. The doors remained wide open for thirty seconds, I look around the corner and make sure no one is coming before I let the doors shut. Relief washes over me as I was alone; I had an odd affinity for being alone in elevators. I watched analog dials count up to my floor, the 11th floor.

I grew a little more anxious as the numbers slowly turned into each other. The elevator dings as it finally reaches eleven. I hastily walk forward before the doors have a chance to open. Before I could look up, I brushed shoulders with a mess of medium length hair and a pair of hands glued to a phone. On impact, the phone flew out of his hands and into the air in slow motion. The two of us stood there and watched it gracefully dance through midair. Within seconds, it dismounted on the grey carpet. In a frenzy, I grabbed it as it was still very much intact. Without a word, I picked it up and held my mouth agape as an apology was left gurgling in my throat.

"Oh my--my God, I'm so sorry," I pleaded. The phone, thankfully, unscathed. I handed it back to the stranger as a small playful smile played across his unshaven face. His mess of untamed, medium-length, dark-auburn hair framed his small face. Dull blue eyes poked through what his hair hadn't been covering, but they weren't glancing in my direction.

"It's fine. Don't worry about it," I wanted to say sorry again, but then I realized my mouth was still open. "This thing's old anyway. Reckon I get a new one soon, yeah?" My first thought was to giggle a cute sigh but his accent caught me way off guard. His smile was a little crooked, but adorably-crooked. "See ya." He waved in my direction but not at me. Weird, I thought.

"See ya next week, James," Before turning around, I heard a deeper voice, slightly mimicking the accent the stranger formally-know-as-James spoke with. This was much richer, more fastened at the hems and you could tell it was almost trained. Getting lost in Diction 101, I remembered that I was still facing the elevator like an idiot, a petrified lamb. Heaving a deep breath, I turned and walked down the rest of the corridor. I didn't catch a glimpse of the person behind me, as he disappeared into the office he came out of. There was one more office left down from his in the narrow hall, this was my destination. The offices were placed far apart, I guess for privacy reasons. It was a good thing that stranger formally-know-as-James or the Other-British Shrink, couldn't hear my mother's drunken cackles when she visited.

What a blessing.

I arrived to the door with an ounce of confidence. I couldn't wait for her to help me get my shit together, but I wasn't really fond of the process. I hated opening up to complete strangers, especially the ones who knew of my mother. I curled my long fingers into a ball and placed three audible knocks on the door. I waited around for nothing when I did it again. Out of my peripheral, I could see Other-British Shrink stand outside of his door, casually leaning against the wall with his arms folded and his head in the direction of the elevators across from his office.

"She left last week," I turned toward the sound of the rolling bravado in his vocal chords. He sighs, walking slowly toward me. I shrivel in fear. He didn't serve as a threat but his voice was just so broad it snapped that ounce of confidence I had. I stand in the same position with my head tilted slightly, watching him walk slowly. He was dressed business casual. He had a chambray button-down with dark-washed denim and John Varvatos Hipster shoes.

He stops five feet away from me. "She was one thigh-rub away from a lawsuit, that one," I guess that was shrink humor. "I'm Ben," I could feel him slowly surveying me without having me know it. I looked up with eyes devoid of any readable emotion to his figure that stood at least a-half-a-foot over me. He had neat-short, dark brown (almost black) hair, that had hints of red in it. One side was pushed back, the other in perfect waves that crest behind his ear. His eyes were unbelievable--almond shaped with blue-green crescents filling them. They were a little too-far-apart as he had a distinctive look about him. His cheekbones sat proudly under them. They were as sharp and polished as he was. His top lip formed the perfect Cupid's bow and his bottom lip--full. In that moment, I guess we stood as blank canvasses to each other. "And you--" He holds out his large-long-fingered-hand as a welcoming gesture. I slowly raise mine to meet his. "--you must be Natasha," He gives it a firm shake, warming my nervous clammy palms.

"Yeah…" I gave him a skeptical glare, negating the trust of his British tongue. That was the only reply I could muster. Deep down, I was cursing my mother for neglecting to tell me her shrink skipped town.

I could ring her drunken gullet, I thought.

Shrink--formally-known-as-Ben kept this omniscient smirk on his long face. Kind of making all of his distinctive traits come together into something that made sense.

"You're my twelve o'clock," He turned his back to me as I was fitting to run in the other direction and skip out on this session for good. I don't even know this man. I didn't know the woman either but at least she knew what I was dealing with, I swore this shit only happened to me. I was frustrated to the point of exhaustion, I followed him into his office. It was immaculate. He shuts the door behind me. He silently motions me to sit on his lounge. Walking up to his desk, He pulls out two mugs from a cupboard. "Just in time for tea." He sighs.

This was the worst that could happen.
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