“Counseling? I’m not crazy.” I interrupt without hesitation.
“Oh, no. It’s nothing like that. I didn’t mean to imply that. It’s just standard procedure for situations like this,” he adds with a look that’s simultaneously surprised and reassuring.
“I don’t want to talk to some shrink. I doubt any of you will ever understand what I went through before or what I’m going through right now, let alone help me with any of it.” I’m pissed; my blood pressure skyrockets and makes my headache. It feels like it’s about to blow. I need to vent. Punching him in the face might do the trick. I would, but I’m still an educated, reasonable human being, so I just nod without further interruptions. I don’t want him to think I might be ungrateful.
“I understand, Miss. I’m just the messenger. Let’s take a step back and go through the contents of the envelope. Inside you will find your new ID. Your name is now Sarah Fitcher, twenty-eight years of age, born and raised in Texas.” I take the ID card from the envelope. My face is printed on it; my hair is short, and I even look happy in the picture. “You will also find your new SSN card, birth certificate and everything else you had before, but updated to match your new identity. This is your ticket to your new life, Miss Fischer. Welcome.” I try to smile, but judging by his face, I’m not doing a great job. We shake hands; he has a firm grip, showing courage and valor. I just need him to show… himself out. Once he’s gone, I’m left alone. Well, ‘alone’ is a stretch— I still have a security detail 24/7.
I walk around my new home, I peep inside the kitchen and bathroom cabinets. The walk-in closet is big and reeks of mothballs; the décor in the house follows a theme based on flowers and kittens. I wonder if its sole purpose is to cheer me up. If that’s the case, then I have to talk with the person responsible ASAP.
The house gives me a weird vibe; I can’t really put my finger on it. Is it unsafe? Do I need an iron front door to feel safe now?
I open the fridge looking for something to eat. Nothing really catches my attention. I end up taking a Coke. I want to remember how it tasted. I pop the can open and take a big gulp. I spit it out in the kitchen sink immediately—
Disgusting.
How could I drink this before? I spill the rest of the content in the sink and throw the can.
I continue to explore the house, trying to find the bedroom. There are not a lot of rooms here, to begin with, and finding the right one only takes me a moment— easy peasy. The room is not as bad as I pictured it: its walls are white, and it has a window that provides a view to a very green garden. Is that my garden now? The bed is pushed against a wall and centered to accommodate two nightstands, one on each side. One would have sufficed. Who would ever want to sleep with me? Should that happen again, it will be in a long time, if ever. I sit on the mattress and jump a little to test it. It seems comfortable; the sheets are clean. This is more than I could’ve hoped for or even asked for. The house is in utter silence, making my every move super noisy— some of them even echo.
Silence is often our biggest enemy because it allows us to think and ask questions that most of the time don’t have real answers. But we come up with answers that lead us nowhere anyway. Yet we repeat this process at every chance we get. Some people say that finding something to do may reduce the chance of overthinking about a particular subject. But what can I do here? I look around and only see the bags full of clothes, so I start to fold and hang them inside the walk-in closet. I’m still pretty weak, I have some trouble with my arm muscles, so I hit the hangers against the metal rods. The clanking sound hurts my ears. Every noise I make sounds like an elephant stomping around the room. I take my shoes off to prevent my mind from collapsing and start walking towards the bathroom to do yet another underrated thing— brush my teeth.
The bathroom is pretty simple, but it has everything I need. There’s a mirror in front of me. Since I don’t want to start another staring contest with myself, I throw a towel on it to cover my reflection. It will stay that way until I’m totally ready to face myself again.
Before I go to bed, I notice something I missed in my previous observation of the room: there’s a small wooden cross over the headrest, big enough to fit in my hand. There’s Jesus, crucified as always, looking sad and in pain. That’s not something I want to see every time I lie down or wake up, so I yank the cross from the wall, I look at it and realize it has no meaning for me anymore. So I decide to throw it in the trash right now. I will take care of the nail on the wall later.
“He should’ve been there before, when you needed him the most, right?”says Life, not laughing.
Yup, He should have.
I finally tuck in and bury my hands under the pillow, just to check if the letter is still there. I hid it when I was unpacking. I don’t know why I did it, it just felt right.
Chapter Eight
He’s not a bastard.
Sarah
Knock, knock…
A noise wakes me up.What was that?
Knock, knock…
There it is again. I get out of bed, moody, like anyone would when a noise wakes them up. I’m wearing my new blue pajama set, buttoned up to the neck, granny style. Yet I feel completely comfortable in this outfit, courtesy of ‘Bruno.’
“Or the son of a bitch,”Life says sharply.
I peek through the peephole and discover a short black-haired woman on the other side, smiling…
“Who the fuck is that?”Life asks.
I have no idea.
“Good morning! I’m Dr. Gonzales. I believe you’re waiting for me,” a high-pitched and eager voice says after a second.
Oh… crap.
I completely forgot about the counselor. I open the four bolted locks, pull the door open and wave my hand at her to come in, quickly. She complies taking small steps, like a little pug.
