Marionette (2 page)

Jessica says a therapist can help me pull it together. The college I’m attending in the fall has a University Counseling Center. Since I don’t want my parents to know, I can’t afford a super-expensive therapist. The school’s therapist is free for the first five sessions and then fifty bucks a pop after that.

Money isn’t an issue for me. Dad puts money into my account each month. My parents’ names are on my account, so I live a cash-only existence. Another way to disappear. They can track my ATM withdrawals, but they don’t know where I spend my cash. Usually, I don’t know either. It’s so much easier to spend cash. It’s like Monopoly money. One instant, I have a wad of bills, then the next, nada. I wish I had a cool money clip. I should look into getting one. Something that makes me look tough, like a gangster. People don’t mess with gangsters.

I’m not a gangster, though. I’m a scrawny white girl. I’ve been told I’m good looking. I have long legs. People seem to like girls with long, slender legs. I don’t. When you aren’t coordinated and you have long legs, you fall down a lot. I’ve broken many bones.

It’s taken seventeen years to do all the damage, and now I hope to fix it in one. I promised Jess I’d go to therapy for at least a year. Not sure it’ll work, but I made a promise. I’m good with promises. Well, mostly. I recently broke one. To be honest, I was forced to break it. It nearly killed me—‌literally.

One year.

Jess wanted me to agree to four years—‌the entire time I’m in school! I didn’t want to set that precedent since I plan on going to grad school. I don’t want to be in therapy for the next eight to ten years. How depressing would that be? Seriously fucked-up people go to therapy for that long. I’m not fucked up. I just want to control my own fate, not be a puppet for others.

I’m not a sociopath. Wait…‌would therapy even help them? Doubt it.

Will the therapist give me one of those personality tests? You know the ones with letters that pinpoint your type. I never know how to answer those questions. Are you organized? Yes…‌except when I’m not.

Many have said I’m a “Type A personality.” Here are the characteristics:

Ambitious (check!);

Rigidly organized (semi check);

Highly status conscious (my parents force this one on me);

Sensitive (well, that seems unnecessary. Why not just call me a crybaby?);

Cares for other people (yes and no);

Truthful (flat-out no);

Impatient (YES!);

Always trying to help others (in most cases);

Takes on more than one can handle (yes, but didn’t have a choice);

Wants others to get to the point (well, duh! Who doesn’t?);

Obsessed with time management (uh, I mentioned earlier that I failed with time management).

This list doesn’t include knowing that I’m always right. It should include that. It should also include knowing that most people are fucking morons. How do they keep surviving and breeding? Also, I think everyone should get out of my way. I like to get from point A to point B fast. I hate pedestrians and drivers who lollygag. If you want to be lookyloos, by all means. Just get the fuck out of my way!

Back to this whole time-management thing. I think I should just get on with it. How long does an introduction need to be anyway? I could have simplified things for you.

I’m seventeen. A girl. I’m going to college in a few months. My whole life is in front of me.

I slit my wrist two days ago.

I’m not insane, but I act like I am.

Why?

Chapter Two

I opened the door to the stairwell. Something about the place screamed: DO NOT ENTER.

For one thing, it smelled like crap. Also, it led to the basement. I’ve never been fond of basements. The basement is where old people stash all of their junk, which they can’t throw out because they’re “attached” to it. But it’s just crap. Throw it out, fools.

My parents didn’t keep anything in their basement. It was spotless. No boxes, toys, photos, furniture, or anything. It was empty. It was like our family didn’t have a past at all. Abbie had some childhood photos in her room. I had none. As far as I know, none were taken. Weird, huh? Why would one twin have photos, but not the other? I know I popped out second, but I didn’t think second-child syndrome started instantly.

Staring at the stairs that led to the basement, I hesitated. I didn’t want to go. I know I made a promise, but shit, people break promises all the time; however, I wasn’t one of those people. I sighed and continued my trek down.

On the stairs, I bumped into a woman who looked to be in her twenties. She mumbled, “Excuse me,” and then rushed up the stairs. I think she was crying. Great. Just great. They should have a separate entrance and exit, I thought. Not the best planning to have clients see how others looked after their session.

In the hallway, I noticed a sign for the center. In gigantic block lettering it read: UNIVERSITY COUNSELING CENTER. Not only was the lettering huge, it was bright yellow. I was surprised they didn’t paint a fucking happy face on it, just to make it more obnoxious. Was yellow lettering supposed to make me feel happy? Calm? Peaceful? It made me angry.

Don’t try to influence my feelings. I hate it when people tell me what to think.

An overweight woman sat behind the front desk. She was on the phone. I’ve mentioned I hate waiting, right? I didn’t show any emotion. She smiled at me and held up a finger to let me know she would be right with me.

Annoyed by this, I did my best to look happy.
Think yellow.
I frowned. There, that’s my normal look.

Actually, I think my normal look is one of confusion. Whenever I walk into a store, an employee always immediately asks if I’m lost or if I need help. It implies that not only do I look confused, I also look like an imbecile. That makes me mad, so I sometimes overreact and tell the employee to shove it—‌at least, I do in my head. I’m not an outwardly confrontational person, but if these people could hear my internal dialogue, they would know where to go and exactly what I thought of them. Then they wouldn’t give me that silly grin that says, “Everything will be fine. Would you like a lollipop?”

No it won’t. Fuck off.

The large woman wore a floral print blouse, a bright scarf, and earrings that dangled down to her shoulders. She also wore a ridiculous amount of eye shadow and liner. Her carefree appearance and bright clothes pissed me off. Why are they forcing it down my throat here?

“Yes, can I help you?”

I wanted to tell her to shove it; instead, I replied, “Yes, ma’am. I’m here to see Liddy Elliot.”

She glanced down at the calendar to make sure I wasn’t lying. Why someone might lie about having an appointment with a shrink was beyond me, but I guess they do see a lot of crazies.

“Ah, yes, Paige. You’re marked down for two.” She tapped my name on the appointment book with her pencil.

No shit, Sherlock.

“She’s expecting you. So feel free to go into her office. Liddy will be right with you.”

I was puzzled. This was my first appointment. Didn’t the book scream: newbie! There was a maze of hallways. Was I supposed to know intuitively where I would find her office?

“Can you point me in the right direction? I’m completely turned around down here.”

“Tell you what, I’ll walk you to her office. Hers is the most difficult to find.” She raised her bulk to reveal tailored black slacks and heels. She did have style. I looked down at my jeans and long-sleeved T-shirt, feeling awkward. At least my clothes were clean, albeit slightly wrinkled. Jess bought me an iron a year ago. It’s still in the box. It makes a great doorstopper.

As we entered a long hallway, I noticed that most of the offices had the doors shut with signs on them that read: SESSION IN PROGRESS. DO NOT INTERRUPT!

What happened to the perkiness?

“You’re really lucky. Liddy is one of our best.” The fat woman sounded genuine.

The best, huh. Were they worried I would slit my wrists and spoil their carpet in the front office? That would dash their bubbly message. I smiled at the woman and then looked at the floor.

“Here we are. You can just go in, and Liddy will be right with you.”

I stood back and peeked inside the room. How had I ended up here, in some crappy room, hidden away in a basement? Turning to say thank you, I scrutinized the woman who was already scurrying back to her desk to help more crazies.

The hallway was deserted. If I made a break for it, I wouldn’t be noticed. Probably not missed either. The first session was free. Maybe I could just convince Jess I was seeing a therapist. Just act happier around her. Think yellow! How hard could that be? And I shouldn’t get caught slitting my wrists again, not that she kept any razors or other sharp objects in the apartment anymore. She even got rid of the stapler and three-whole punch. I’m not sure what she thought I planned on doing with those. Can you imagine trying to staple yourself to death? Only a lunatic would attempt that.

I squinted to see further into the room. It was the size of my bathroom. A black and white picture of a mountain being strangled by clouds hung on the wall. Ansel Adams maybe. A calendar featuring Dalmatian puppies decorated the other wall; it was two months behind. There were two chairs and an area rug. How did they find such a minuscule area rug? Maybe it was a bathmat passing as an area rug.

“It’s okay. You can go in.”

The voice scared the bejesus out of me, and I jumped.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.”

I felt ridiculous. I turned to look over my shoulder and saw a beautiful, petite woman. Long blonde hair cascaded down her back. Her soft cobalt eyes and her diminutive mouth both seemed to smile.

“Um…‌you must be Dr. Elliot.” I did my best not to sound like a ninny.

I failed. Add it to my list.

“Yes, I am. And you must be Paige.” She reached for my elbow. “Come on, we’ll do this together.” She guided me into the room and over to a chair, and then she gently shoved me down. For a little gal, she was surprisingly strong and graceful.

She must manhandle a lot of cuckoos.

Liddy walked over to her desk, set her briefcase down, and picked up a notepad and pencil. Looking back at me over her shoulder, she smiled. Her hair covered half of her face. She was doing her best to make things easy for me. It wasn’t working. I wish I appreciated the effort, but all I wanted was to bolt from the room.

I scrutinized her again. She had a perfect body. Five feet, five inches would be my guess. With her curves and her sweet scent, she didn’t resemble Sigmund Freud at all. I imagined he smelled of sweat, sex, and tobacco. Not sure why, but that’s how I imagine him. She smelled like an orange grove on a summer day.

“Do you always study everyone you meet, Paige?” Her smile indicated she was teasing me.

“Nope. Just the ones who are going to put their nose into my business.”

She nodded. “I guess we should get down to it then.” Her voice was too masculine for someone so feminine and petite.

Sitting down, she said, “As you know, I’m the psychiatrist appointed to you through the university.”

Lucky you.

She didn’t take the bait, presumably because she couldn’t read minds.

“I thought today we would just talk and get to know each other,” she said.

“Don’t you mean you want to assess the damage?” I tugged on my shirtsleeves to ensure the scars were completely covered.

“That’s not exactly what I meant, Paige. I would like to talk so we can find a way to help you.”

We? What does she mean we?

“So you want to probe my brain. See what makes me tick. You can probe all you want, but if you even try to make me run through a maze in search of cheese I’m out of here.” I tried to laugh but couldn’t force it out of my throat.

She looked like she was thinking of what to say next. “Therapy may seem like going through a maze at times, but I don’t think the prize will be a piece of cheese.”

A prize? Oh boy? This is just as exciting as eating a box of Cracker Jacks. Maybe it will be a plastic ring that pinches my finger. I really like those. Or maybe a fake tattoo; now those are cool.
I crossed my legs and arms. Trying to be sassy and in control exhausted me, even if Liddy couldn’t hear my efforts.

She tapped her pencil against her notepad, and then continued. “Maybe ‘prize’ wasn’t the right word.”

“Are you going to turn me into a freak? Have me shave my head and hand out flowers to people at the airport?” Now
that
would be a nifty reward. Personally, I’d never seen these people at the airport. I remembered seeing them in many of the movies from the eighties. I’d always wondered if they actually existed.

Liddy adjusted herself in her chair and leaned forward, not too close to push the boundary, but too close for my comfort. “No, Paige. Shaving your head would be too easy. I plan to do something much worse to you.”

I imagined beads of sweat forming on my brow.

“You might wish, at times, that I would just shave your head and give you a handful of flowers to hand out.”

This woman was playing hardball.

Liddy continued to ask me questions and I answered them to the best of my ability. Then she asked one that stood out. “When did you decide to start therapy?”

I didn’t decide. It was decided for me.
“I promised someone.” I looked over her head at the door. It was shut, but not locked. I could still make a break for it. Technically, I had seen a shrink. Promise fulfilled! But Jess still had me on the one-year technicality. Shit!

“Do you want to be here?”

I hesitated. I didn’t know the answer. “Can I get back to you on that one?” I bowed my head to avoid eye contact.

“Thank you. I appreciate the honesty. That’s a start at least.”

What a relief! And here I thought I wasn’t impressing her at all. “Are you currently in a relationship?” Her curious eyes screamed, “I want the truth.”

“Uh…‌do you mean do I have a boyfriend? Nope. No boyfriend.” I smiled inwardly at my cleverness.