Prologue (unedited)
"Thank you for taking the time to meet with me today, Harley. I know how difficult it is to seek help when you're not used to it."
Not used to it? That's an understatement.
Harley's existence till now has been one event after another. An endless chain of misfortune with a pretty cloth draped over, hiding the ugly truth underneath.
It's not that she's not used to seeking help, but rather that she's never been given the opportunity.
Since childhood, Harley has been pushed down and essentially forgotten until her presence was deemed necessary by those around her. More often than not, that necessity was driven by misplaced rage.
Was it the seven-year-old girl's fault that her sixteen-year-old brother crashed the car while he was out partying?
Of course not.
But it was her who sported bruises hidden by cardigans for the next week.
“Of course. Thank you for seeing me.” The copper-haired 20-something makes the motion of tucking hair behind her ear, totally forgetting that she'd pulled it all back into a ponytail right before entering the office.
Her hand freezes at the end of the motion, swallowing dry before taking in a subtle breath.
“So, where do we start?”
“Anywhere that feels comfortable for you. We can just get to know each other a bit, you let me know where you're at now, or we can dive right in to what brings you here. Where feels right?”
How the hell is she supposed to know?
Comfortability was never a consideration. Survival doesn't depend on that hollow pit in the bottom of your stomach being filled.
Noticing the startled and lost look in her patient’s eye, the therapist offers an empathetic smile and nods.
“Alright. How about we start simple. Can you tell me your name, age, and if you're in school?”
Harley's gaze moves to the name plaque on the woman's desk. Yvonne Greene, LMHC. According to her online search, she's got 20 years of experience as a trauma-informed counselor.
20 years is a long time, isn't it? So she must've talked to people with much worse stories than what Harley's gone through.
What if she thinks that Harley is just being overdramatic?
“My name is Harley Jenson. I'm 25, and no, I'm not in school. I… Dropped out in sophomore year of highschool, and got my GED last month.”
“Impressive! Okay, that's a great start. Thank you for sharing that with me.”
Yvonne's smile seems sincere enough, but there's a clinical air to her very being that makes it difficult for Harley to believe anything beyond face value.
She's saying what she has to, to get this fractured soul before her to open up. To expose wounds so that her trained fingers can precisely place bandaids where stitches are needed, and electrolytes when a blood transfusion should happen.
“Yeah… Of course.”
How does someone even respond to that? Just segue into the tales of horror that are striped throughout your past? Ask her about her own age and education?
She's being paid to pry, not to be a friend.
“So what's… Next?”
Yvonne taps her pen against the notebook in her lap, switching which knee is on top as she crosses her legs the opposite way.
“How about you tell me what drove you to start therapy? What happened that triggered the thought, ‘I want to get better’?”
A hard-hitting question with an answer that's nearly impossible to find.
“Well…”
The fingers of Harley's right hand start dancing along her left palm, a pattern her mind finds safe, a touch that doesn't scar.
“Um… I don't really know. It's hard to explain.”
“Then start from the beginning.”
“Which one?”
That response throws Yvonne for a loop. “Which one?” She echos, her professional demeanor slipping the slightest bit as she subtly takes in the young woman before her from head to toe.
Her clothes are picked for apparent safety; a baggy gray sweater, matching sweatpants, shapeless brown boots, and hair pulled back in as tight of a pony as she could manage. Her brown eyes are hidden behind transition lenses that hadn't yet adjusted to the darker interior lighting.
The only thing setting this woman apart from the vast majority of her patients is the shine of a necklace chain mostly hidden under the collar of her sweater. Not a choker, not a collar, not something dark and grungy, not a blank throat. A shining necklace that seems well taken care of, something that would undoubtedly draw one's eye to it, if it were worn over her clothes.
“Sorry. That was probably kinda weird. Just… I guess there's been a few beginnings in my life. I went through different phases, and it kind of feels like I've been different people.”
Yvonne's pen is finally scratching against her paper, hearing something she seems interesting or relevant enough to take note of.
That pen moving across the paper for the first time makes a dark haze appear around the edges of Harley's vision.
Her heart rate increases, and it's like she can feel fingers wrapping around her throat. Tightening incrementally with every letter written.
“What are you doing?” She chokes out, blinking rapidly as she swallows hard twice. Her tapping fingers turn to scratching, gaze zeroed in on the pen making that now too-loud sound.
Yvonne looks up to Harley, hand stilling as she takes in the sight of her patient. “I'm just taking notes, Harley. Remember? I explained over the phone that I'll need to take notes during our sessions so I can keep everything straight between appointments.”
Her voice is soft, doing her best not to give off any sort of intimidation. “Does it bother you?”
“No.”
The answer is immediate, choked out as to not inconvenience present company.
“No, it's fine. I'm just being weird, it… You can do whatever you need to do.”
Yvonne watches Harley for a moment longer before putting her pen and paper to the side. It's still within eyesight, proving that she isn't writing anymore.
“How about I record our sessions? Audio notes are just as good, if not better.” She can always transcribe them after the session.
White-hot vines wrap around Harley, her body trembling the slightest bit as she feels the slick heat enveloping her.
This woman doesn't care. She's making notes to give some hospital, to lock Harley up so she'll never see the light of day again.
It's what he always promised, and now she walked herself right into the lion’s den. It's going to happen, and there's nothing she can do about it.
It takes no time at all before there's an ocean in Harley's ears, her eyes trained on her nails that have now moved on to scratching the side of her palms.
She can see the scratches forming, bright red marks following her every move, but she doesn't care.
It's the only thing keeping her grounded in the moment, her attention away from the woman who's now kneeling before her saying… Whatever it is she's saying.
Probably something about how Harley is certifiably insane. How they'll lock her up and throw away the key. How she's more broken than anyone ever knew, and that's why they had to do what they did.
It's only appropriate that the outside match the inside, after all. No one likes false advertising.
Harley pays no mind to Yvonne's movements, barely feeling the hands on her shoulders. She doesn't hear her name being called, or the way she's being shaken.
“Fuck…” Yvonne breaths out, hands moving from Harley's shoulders to run through her own hair as she watches the pale woman slump backward in the chair, unconscious and lost to her.
