Wicked Little Thing

“Can you explain that, please? Delve deeper.” Dr. Kim taps her stylus against her tablet.

I can keep my eyes from rolling, but I can’t stop the heavy, irritated sigh. I simply can’t.

“I don’t know how to explain it.” I lean back against the armrest of her plush, oversized sofa.

“Well, you said you’ve always felt this way. Tell me more about that.” Her voice never gives anything away. She’s a goddamn professional. If I’m getting on her nerves, she never lets it slip.

“I’m just bored. Chronically bored.” I pick at a bit of lint on my sweater. “I spent a lot of time alone as a kid; you know, 90s latchkey and all that. I read a lot. It started off with kids’ books, and then I started reading some things that I probably shouldn’t have been reading. I was always drawn to the excitement and the adventure. I guess I just assumed I would have that in my life.” I shrug. “What’s it called when you’re disappointed in your life because you always thought that it would amount to something greater—something more?”

“Delusions of grandeur.” Her mouth doesn’t move, but her eyes sparkle a little bit. I think she’s making fun of me. Maybe I don’t hate her.

“I mean, when you’re a kid, things seem so possible, and then you grow up, and everything’s just so fucking mundane. It’s just work and rules all day long, every single day. It’s hopeless—like a never-ending loop that plays on repeat until we die.”

“And do you think that’s what led to the incident?” She leans in slightly.

I don’t mean to chuckle, but I do. It slips out. “The incident? Is that what we’re calling it?”

“What would you rather call it?” She’s tapping her stylus again.

“Do you have my arrest record? What did they call it?”

“Aggravated battery.” She looks up at me over the top of her glasses.

“I’ll be honest with you. I don’t really know why it happened. Linda pisses me off. Every fucking day she comes into the office and treats everyone there like we work for her. Just in case you don’t have it there in your notes, I don’t work for her. She’s not my supervisor. She isn’t even a manager or trainer. She’s been there one month longer than me!” My fists clench just thinking about her. “She acts like she’s mother-fucking Teresa just because she chose to have kids. When she came over to dump her work on my desk because her kid had a dance recital, I lost it.”

“Does this happen often?” Her eyes are trained on my face, so I keep my expression neutral.

“Yeah! She pawns her work onto other people all the fucking time! She acts like-”

“No,” she cuts me off. “Do you ‘lose it’ often?”

“Oh, um, no. I don’t. This was the first time.” I tell the lie with ease. It doesn’t even taste bitter. Once you start, it gets so easy to do. Sprinkle them in anywhere. It’s a wonderful tool to have at my disposal.

“Do you remember what was going through your head at the time?” Her voice is calm, neutral, but I can feel her watching me, waiting for a crack so that she can pounce.

“Not really. I remember the moments before, though. The lipstick on her teeth as she grinned at me, so smug, like she’d already won.” My stomach tightens, and deep in my chest, that familiar simmer starts—the slow burn of something darker. A little tickle of irritation that I press down, hard. Ignore it. Always ignore it.

“This is your first offense; you have no record of violence. Have you had violent thoughts before this incident?”

I might not have a record, but I have definitely have violence in my past. My last three boyfriends will attest to that.

“Nope.” I meet her gaze, unwavering. My hands rest casually in my lap, as if my whole life isn’t a ticking bomb waiting for the next trigger. I’m not going to give that information away for free. As far as she knows, I’m a squeaky-clean first-time offender.

“Really?” She must sense my bullshit.

Her doubt prickles at me, but I don’t flinch. “Oh, look at that—time’s up!” I jump out of my chair and rush for the door. “See you Thursday!” I’m already halfway down the hall before she can respond.

This is only my second session, and I already hate this place—the sterile walls, the quiet judgment. It’s better than jail, but also, fuck. Maybe jail would’ve been easier. Thirty days in a cell, no one poking around in my head. No one asking questions I don’t want to answer.

I rush home, eager to sit in my bed with sugary snacks and watch trash television for the rest of the day.

Dr. Kim’s office is only a few streets away from my apartment complex. I could walk the distance. But I drove. And now I get to sit in crawling downtown traffic.

My fingers tap against the steering wheel. Looking at the cars stopped between me and the stoplight, I wonder if all of these people are here specifically to irritate me.

I wonder what she would do if I was really open and honest with her.

I think she would have me committed.

If I told her the instructive, greedy, awful things that run through my mind all day.

When I get bored, the darkness starts to close in around me. A violent rage that sits in my chest where my heart should be. I want to do something, anything, to feel alive. Life doesn’t feel real. It’s just a simulation of misery and trauma. I didn’t even ask to be here, now I have to work every day to afford overpriced shit like rent and electricity? Things get dark when I’m bored.

And right now, I’m bored.

The best thing for me and society at large is to sit in my bedroom with the curtains drawn and watch the dregs of humanity backstab each other on TV for money.

As soon as I make it through the door, my heart sinks. “Why are you getting ready?”

“There is a carnival in town. Go change out of that. You’re coming with us!” Janie points toward my room, the very room I planned to hibernate in for the rest of the day.

“Oh, darn. I can’t! Liam is coming over, and we-”

“Bullshit, Sasi! He’s out of town.” She rests her hand on her hip. “Go get dressed. You can’t wear that to the carnival.”

Damn. I forgot that I told her that he was out of town this week.

“What’s wrong with this?” I look down at my business casual clothes. I was hoping to look put together enough to trick my therapist into thinking I’m not such a hot mess.

Her response isn’t verbal, just a dramatic eye roll.

“I don’t want to go to a carnival. Aren’t those for little kids?” I whine.

“No, they aren’t.” She turns on her heels and starts to look through the shelf that holds all of our shoes. I guess that’s the end of the discussion.

Pouting and dragging my feet, I stomp back to my room.

Why did I tell her that Liam and his shitty band are out of town? What is wrong with me? That was a perfect excuse to stay home.

“What does one wear to a carnival?” I call out to her.

“I’m thinking sexy-casual. I’m in desperate need of some dick.” She leans against my door frame. “Be my wingwoman tonight?”

“I’m always the wingwoman! Why can’t I be the catch tonight?” I pull out my tiny leather skirt.

“Um, hello? You have a boyfriend!”

“Oh, yeah.” Him.

“He’s so hot, Sasi.” She has to remind me of this often.

He is. He is so hot. But he’s also so, so stupid. And if that isn’t bad enough, his band is truly awful. They are going to be waiting a very long time for their big break. Every time they talk about it, I have to keep myself from either laughing or gagging. The delusion runs deep.

Instead of listing all of the reasons I hate Liam, I drag lip gloss over my lips.

“I’m so excited! A few of the girls from work went last night, and they said it was amazing!” She bounces on her toes.

“We’ll see about that.” I pull my boots on. “I can’t think of a single thing at a carnival that I would describe as amazing. Elephant shit and screaming children? Oh, goodie! Where do I sign up?”

“Oh, shut up.” She waves her hand, ignoring me. “Let’s go have dinner, then we can head over.”

“I want to be back here in my bed no later than ten!” I shout after her as she leaves. “I’m serious, Janie! Ten!”

I want to say no altogether, but I owe her. She’s been covering my share of the rent ever since I lost my job. The idea of being out on the street doesn’t exactly appeal to me, and I know she’s doing me a favor. It’s probably best not to rock the boat. If she wants me to go to a carnival, then I guess I’ll be going to a carnival.

With a sigh, I drag myself into the living room, watching her as she bounces around, pulling her jacket on like this is the best night of her life.

Sometimes, I just stare at her, trying to understand. How can anyone be that bubbly and carefree, especially someone who spends their day working in the insurance department of a bank? She screws people over for a living, denying claims and enforcing policies from her little office in that dingy strip mall. How can she still act like life’s some big, happy adventure?

The only explanation is that there is nothing bouncing around up there—her brain is asleep.

“Come on!” She squeaks.

“Yeah! Better beat the rush!” I plaster on a fake smile and follow her out the door.