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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products, bands, and/or restaurants referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

To Emma

Thank you for your
sparkle
.

And for believing in me.

I SAT IN A CHAIR THAT was four times bigger than I was. The man across from me pushed the glasses he wore back up the crooked bridge of his nose as we sat staring at each other. Mom and Dad sat in chairs right next to me, yet no one said anything. The old man, whose hair was parted over the side of his head to hide the balding, shiny flesh of his skin, never took his eyes off me as if expecting me to say something.

From the time I could remember, I was told I was different. My parents bragged about how I never cried as a baby, nor did I throw temper tantrums like a majority of children my age did. I never got angry or upset, and often wondered why people did cry or got upset.

When I was three and a half, my goldfish died. I remember the housekeeper, someone who often spent more time with me than my own mother, sat me on a chair to try to explain what had happened to Freddie. I shrugged her off and simply said “okay.” When I was four, I fell off my bike and got a nasty gash on my right knee, but not once did I shed a tear. Sure, it hurt like crazy, but the pain wasn’t unbearable.

This was the fourth time my parents had brought me to see this old man, who only seemed to ask me way too many questions, ones mainly about how I was feeling. Truth be told, I was often bored. I felt no connection to this man or any of the questions that he asked me.

“Nicola, do you ever feel sad?” The doctor asked as he scribbled something down on a piece of paper in front of him. I looked around the office noticing books that took up the entirety of one wall. A large window was adjacent to the books and on the two other remaining walls, were certificates or awards of some kind.

“Nicola? Do you understand what it means to be sad?” He asked me again when he noticed my attention had turned elsewhere. I nodded my head as I stroked the blonde yarn hair on the doll that sat in my lap.

“Have you ever been sad before? Have you ever been angry? Maybe at your mom or dad?” I looked over to my parents who were both looking at me as if they were anticipating my answer.

“No,” I replied, telling them the truth.

The old man blew out a breath and removed his glasses from his face before wiping them and putting them back on.

“Nicola, you can go over to the table in the corner of the room and play with the blocks if you wish.” I scooted off the chair and made my way over to the corner and proceeded to stack the blocks one on top of the other. I was thankful to be away from the old man’s scrutinous stare, but I could still hear the conversation he was having with my parents, like I wasn’t even in the room.

“Senator and Mrs. Forbes, obviously you know that Nicola is…
different.
That much is obvious because you chose to seek treatment for her.”

“What do you think we could do to get her to…I don’t know,” I heard my father ask.

“Experience emotions? Because that is what seems to be lacking here. I will admit to you that she is the first case I have seen of this condition.”

“What condition would that be?” Asked my mother in her sweet, poised, and well-practiced voice.

“Mrs. Forbes, we believe that Nicola has Alexithymia. It is where a person doesn’t experience emotions like you and I do. You said yourself she didn’t cry as an infant. She didn’t react to some of the questions I have asked of her. She doesn’t show any emotion. The only time I have seen her attempt to feel anything is when she is in physical contact with either one of you. Like when you hugged her before walking into my office, or when Mr. Forbes put his arm around her. It seems that she seeks physical contact in order to experience some feelings.”

“You are saying she has no emotions?” My father asked as he leaned in towards the old man.

“I’m not saying she doesn’t have
any
. I’ve watched her become a bit irritated at my questions. I’ve also seen hints of anger, but nothing that would cause a reaction out of her. She’s just…”

“Void?” My father chimed in.

“I wouldn’t say that necessarily, Senator. She just doesn’t have the ability to process them as you and I do.”

“What can we do to help her? I love my daughter, but it’s like she’s a complete stranger to me, Doctor. I want to experience all the things that a mother normally gets to with her daughter.”

I didn’t understand much of anything that my mother was feeling at that moment, but I could hear the thickness in her voice and saw the tears in her eyes as I glanced up and saw my father take hold of her hand

“I understand that, Mrs. Forbes, but someone with her condition isn’t treated easily. It could take weeks, or even years, for us to find her trigger.”

“Trigger?” My parents both asked in unison.

“We need to do something that will set off a sort of chain reaction within her. Shock her into feeling something. Dig deep within her mind to find whatever it is that is keeping her from processing her emotions.”

“What do you suggest?”

“Therapy. Hypnosis. It may take a while, but we will find your daughter hidden inside this shell of a person that you see before you. We just have to find the catalyst to bring her out.”

My mother and father shook hands with the old man whom I knew now to be a doctor. I tried to read people’s faces to better understand what they were feeling. My mother’s eyes held a sense of vacancy within them. Almost like the fight she had been putting forth all my life suddenly left her. The relationship between my parents and me was never the same after the appointment. Hearing that you are void when you are only five years old wasn’t something that someone my age really understood. I’m not sure I understood it, even as I grew up.

That visit turned into several sessions a week and another doctor later in the span of nearly twenty-four years. It was near the end of that twenty-fourth year in therapy that I found what, or should I say whom, my trigger was.