Words abandoned me amid my horror. A week prior, I had been scrolling social media when Nathaniel’s account was recommended on my feed. Curious, I clicked on his profile, scrolling through the many photos of award ceremonies and voluntary competitions, lingering on one photo of a pride parade in London. I must have accidentally liked the post whilst I was stalking his account. And he had knownall this time. Humiliation was too light of a word for what I experienced in that moment.
Without uttering another word, Nathaniel returned to his friends who had been waiting by a bench beneath a large oak tree, fallen leaves decorating the pale green grass. He disappeared into the endless crowd of students while I hurried to the library, itching to disappear and drown myself in a pool of my own embarrassment.
Now, more than ever, it became an absolute necessity that I outranked him in the next assignment.
***
A requirement forallstudents enrolled in the Bachelor of Psychological Studies was to undergo six sessions with one of Dawnridge’s experienced psychologists within the first academic year.
It was ridiculous, really. But I could hold off on it no longer, so I booked my first session with Dr. Valerie Rosewood. The expectation was that by undergoing a session for ourselves, wewould be able to empathise with our future patients. I personally believe it was a way to snap off all the unstable students and throw them to the wind.
I knocked on the door to Dr. Rosewood’s office and was met with a woman in her early thirties, short black hair that brushed her shoulders and piercing blue eyes that you only read about in books. She smiled in greeting and extended her hand before inviting me inside.
It was a small office, with four white walls decorated with motel art, the right one home to a window overlooking campus while the left contained two tall bookshelves.
“It’s nice to meet you, Augustus,” she said as the door fell shut behind me. “How are you finding your second semester at Dawnridge?”
She settled into a mustard-coloured armchair by the window and gestured for me to take the small, identical armchair across from her. With a notepad and pen in hand, one leg crossed over the other, she waited for my answer with an expectant smile.
“Yeah, uh, it’s been good,” I answered, shifting nervously in my seat as my gaze drifted toward the several objects on her desk, eyes gliding over the mountain of paperwork and a framed photo of three women throwing their graduation caps into the air.
“Well, thank you for coming to see me. I’m looking forward to our six sessions together,” she said, drawing my attention back to the pen she fiddled with as she watched me. “Have you ever had a session with a psychologist before?”
I had, once. A month after my mother disappeared, Uncle Brady drove me to a children’s clinic in the city while my father stayed home with Auden. I suppose it was an attempt to get me to open up about what I experienced in North Lane, or to unpack my feelings about my mother leaving, but I didn’t say a word the entire hour. Uncle Brady didn’t make me go again after that.
“No,” I lied.
Dr. Rosewood nodded. “We’re just going to have a conversation. Is that okay?”
She’s acting like you have a choice,the Devil complained.
“That’s fine,” I forced out.
“If you feel uncomfortable at any point, let me know and we can discuss something else,” she said, “but, you should know, discomfort is a sign of progress.”
I nodded without a word, my eyes drifting toward the clock hanging above the window. Barely any time had passed since I sat down.
“Why have you chosen to study psychology, Augustus?”
My palms grew slippery with sweat as I shifted in my seat, leg bouncing up and down with little control. It felt like a job interview. And I did not do well under pressure. The only reasonBrowning Bookshired me was because they hadn’t received many applicants, and my living nearby worked in my favour.
“I…uh…I…” I cleared my throat and made a second attempt. “I guess I want to understand how the mind works.”
“Ah,” Dr. Rosewood hummed, “I think a lot of us are driven to psychology due to a desire to understand what makes people think and act the way they do.”
I nodded my assent.
“And what are you hoping to do with this degree?”
“I want to be an accredited psychiatrist,” I answered, though it was a practiced response. Despite my interest in psychology, I wasn’t yet convinced that I wanted to spend nearly eight years studying to be a psychiatrist. It was a big commitment, and what if I changed my mind four years into it?
“A clear goal. That’s good.” Silence hung between us after my wordless nod. And then, “Tell me more about yourself.”
I loathed this question. On the surface, it was simple, but at its core, you were required to pick yourself apart and choose whatyou thought the other person wanted to hear. In this situation, I wasn’t quite sure what Dr. Rosewood expected, so I went with a universal sample response I had lined up. I told her I was from the small town of Rose Chapel but now lived alone with my younger brother, I worked part-time atBrowing Booksand spent my free time painting.
“Oh, what do you like to paint?” she asked, resting an elbow on her thigh as she leaned forward, seemingly interested.
I knew she was feigning curiosity, so I answered in a bored tone, “Random things.”
