by A.R. Rivera
53
-Angel
Off-white cushions.
No pictures.
No furniture.
Only me and four padded walls.
A soft floor and no shoes.
This room is a blank canvas. My mind needs to fill it with something, that's all. It wants to create things that aren't there to help pass the unforgiving time.
"It was all you, Angel." Avery stops pacing the room and points an accusing finger at me. "You said you loved him. Then you screwed that troll, Troy Bleecher! All the time. If I had any food in my stomach, I'd fucking puke."
That's the tender point of my raw nerves and she knows it. I fall to my knees. It's not true, I tell myself, but I am the one who created Avery. Her purpose was to take the pain for me.
She did and now she hates me for it.
"You can't ignore me forever. I won't let you."
I want to argue with her or punch her in her stupid pointy face, but that would mean acknowledging her.
Along the blank wall, I imagine Doctor Williams is sitting in her armed chair in the corner opposite Avery's. I try to hear the soothing ocean sounds that filled her office at each appointment and think of how-if she were really here-the two would stare at each other. Avery, all bird-like and wild. Doctor Williams, mature, patient, and clueless as ever.
She eases back into her seat like she used to in the early sessions and slides her glasses up the bridge of her nose. "Violence is never the answer, girls."
