“I’m AJ. I protect M. I always have, and I always will. What’s your name?” I ask as I cast a careful look over him.
“I’m Nick, and I’m a psychologist here at the hospital.”
“Yeah. Hmmm. You’re not impressing me.” I arch a brow and cross my arms in front of my chest.
“Um.”
“Ugh,” I grunt as I roll my eyes. “I thought you’d be able to help M, instead of a damned loser. If you can’t help her, I’m sorry. We’re not talking to you.”
“We?”
“Yes, we.” M, I’m sorry but you can’t talk to this dick. He hasn’t got a clue what he’s doing.
I don’t have a clue either. Please, tell him something.
“Go.” I flick my hand at him. “Go find me someone else I can talk to. You’re useless.” I roll my eyes at him, and sit back in the chair.
“Who are you?” Nick asks without budging from his seat.
“I’m not explaining it twice. Go, and find someone who can help us. You’re useless.” He continues sitting, scribbling his stupid notes.
“Molly, you need to talk to me.”
“You’re a damn idiot. She’s not here. I am. And I’m telling you to go and get someone who can actually help.” M, I know you can hear me, but I need you to trust me, and go to sleep.
I wait for a moment, and know she’s no longer here. Satisfied, I leap up out of the chair, and walk over to this Nick guy. He’s too busy writing to notice I’ve moved. When he looks up, he startles back. “Why don’t you take a seat so we can talk, AJ, is it?”
I don’t want M living in torment any longer than she has been. I try to comply with Nick. Although I’m certain he’s not the one who can help. I pace a few times, trying to deal with my inner turmoil before I decide to sit, again. “M needs help.”
“And who’s M to you?”
I drag my hand across my forehead trying to ease the tension I feel quickly mounting. “Look, Kate, Neve, and I live inside M.”
“Different personalities.”
“We’re different people, not just different personalities.”
“Why do you live inside Molly?”
Frustrated, I let out a huge sigh. I can’t deal with this level of stupidity. “Do you have any weights anywhere?” I look around, hoping I see a set of dumbbells.
“Weights?”
“Ugh,” I grunt. “Yes, weights. Dumbbells, kettlebells, a bar, anything?”
“Why do you want weights?” He crosses his legs and sits back in his chair.
Looking at him, I squint and tilt my head. “You’re kidding right?”
“What am I kidding about?”
“Do you honestly think you get muscles like this…” I flex my arms to show off the bulging muscles from years of training. “Without doing weights? How about this?” I stand and lift my shirt, showing off my ripped stomach. “You frustrate me, and I need to work this frustration out. You’re not listening, and I’m seriously only moments away from telling you to go fuck yourself.”
“I’m trying to find out what’s happening here.”
“I’m not letting M back until you go and get someone else who can help her. You’re too busy sitting there scribbling your stupid damn notes. My job is to protect M, and I’m going to protect her even from pricks like you.” I sit back down, and cross my arms in front of my chest.
“I think it’s…”
“No.” I shake my head. “I’m done with you.”
“If I can…”
“No,” I say again, more forcefully. “I’m done with you,” I say slower, in case he didn’t get it the first time.
Nick takes several deep breaths, clicks the top of his pen, and finally stands to leave. “Alright, then.”
Good riddance. He’s as useless as tits on a damn bull. He can’t offer us anything of value. And my job, is to make sure M is always protected.
Nick leaves the room, and I stay seated, looking around. The room is large, and I suppose it’s comfortable. The walls are lined with posters for several different medications. Some have help numbers on them if you’re feeling sad and shit. It really doesn’t interest me, I just need to find some weights.
Standing, I pace back and forth. “Come on,” I say to no one.
To pass time, I read each and every poster. Twice.
And I look over to the manky bookshelf housing some old and irrelevant books. I pick one up, and flick through it, noticing the dog-eared pages. “Who does that?” I’m not a reader at all, but even I know you don’t bend the corners of pages.
I huff, and keep looking around. I suppose I can leave, I haven’t tried the door, but I need to get M proper help. She’s buried so much over her life, that I’m actually frightened for her.
Keeping an eye on the clock, my frustration is escalating into anger. I don’t want to be angry, I want this to be resolved.
Pushing two chairs together, I lay across them and wait.
And wait.
And damn well wait.
It’s been hours since Nick left. What the hell are they doing out there?
Sitting up, I tap my foot on the ground, trying to let this annoyance out. Finally, I’m pushed to my breaking point. Standing, I walk over to the door, and just as I reach for the handle, the door opens and a woman approaches me.
She’s short, and has a nearly shaved head. She’s wearing square, black glasses that sit perfectly on her slightly bent nose. She’s older, yet, quite attractive for someone her age.
“Hi,” she greets me with a genuine smile. “AJ, right?” She holds her hand out to me.
“Yeah, who are you?” I take her hand and shake. She has soft skin and warm hands.
“My name’s Amelia Morgan. I’m a psychotherapist, and I’m here to listen.”
I take a step back, assessing this old chick. Now, that’s interesting. She said she’s here to listen, not here to help. I back away from her, and head toward the opposite end of the room.
“Is it okay if I sit with you for a while?” she asks.
“You know what I thought was interesting?”
“What?”
“You said you’re here to listen. Aren’t shrinks supposed to say they’re here to help?”
She smiles, and lets out a small chuckle. “I’m not your average shrink.”
“Yeah?” I step toward her, feeling kinda okay she’s here. At least that other dick isn’t.
“Yeah,” she responds. “I spoke with Nick, and he told me how you didn’t want to talk to him.”
“I was just thinking how much of a dick he is.”
“I suppose he can be,” she replies. Yeah, I like her. “But you didn’t answer. Can I come in?”
“Yeah, you can.” She comes into the room armed only with a small silver tape-recorder. “Old school.” I pointedly look to the recorder.
“Yeah, I’m a classic sort of gal.”
“Classic as in a Corvette?”
She laughs again. “I haven’t been a Corvette for many years, let’s go with classic as in a Mustang. A Mustang not quite finished with its rebuild.”