“You’re such an angel,” she said, tears of relief swelling in her eyes as she held the book close to her chest, as if she wanted to bury it inside her, never to be parted again. “This book means the world to me.”
Angel, she called you. If only she knew…
I forced a polite smile and watched as she slowly exited the store. My hands trembled at my sides, and I hid them behind my back as I tried to steady the unease contaminating my veins. It seemed my body didn’t know the difference between being caged inside a circle of flames and receiving praise.
Liar. Liar. Liar.
I was no angel. My mask was just crafted so expertly that no one saw through the cracks I painted over every day.
After reciting this encounter with Dr. Rosewood, she set down her notepad and studied me with a mix of curiosity and pity. I had left out the Devil’s voice in my head, but I may as well have mentioned it, for his thoughts mirrored my own.
“During this exchange with the customer, did you have any negative thoughts abouther?” Dr. Rosewood asked.
“Negative thoughts?” I echoed, blinking. “Like what?”
“Like…‘she smells awful’, ‘her hair is a mess’, ‘her voice is too shrill,’” she provided examples.
“What?” I shook my head. “Of course not!”
“Okay,” Dr. Rosewood wrote something down quickly before looking back up at me. “Then why do you think you didn’t deserve the praise she was giving you?”
“I was just doing my job,” I answered, shifting uncomfortably beneath her gaze.
“Yes,” Dr. Rosewood nodded, “but you mentioned feeling a sense of panic. And that you felt like a liar. You were being nice to this lady, and she was being nice to you. Why did you panic?”
“Because she called me an angel,” I breathed out.
“And what’s wrong with that?”
“I’mnotan angel.”
Dr. Rosewood pressed her lips together for a long moment before speaking again. “She did not mean a literal angel. And I think you know that. Why did you panic at being called an angel as a comparison to being calledgood?”
“Because I’mnotgood.”
“Why don’t you think you’re good?”
I opened my mouth, closed it, and averted my gaze. How could I explain to her that I had the Devil inside my head, wanting to be unleashed? How could I explain that I was the reason my whole family fell apart? How could I explain all that had happened without being admitted straight into a Psych Ward?
“Augustus?” Rosewood prompted gently. “Why don’t you think you’re good?”
I swallowed thickly, hands clenching and unclenching in my lap as I scoured my brain for an answer that was honest yetsafe.
“I was…a bad kid,” I admitted reluctantly, gaze locked on a dust ball beneath Dr. Rosewood’s desk. “I didn’t do as I was told, I talked back, I had violent outbursts. At home, I was a little monster. Yet at school or at church, I was quiet, well behaved, anangel.And if anyone commented on howgoodI was, my parents would make a joke about how ‘I wasn’t like that at home’, reminding me of what wasreal.”
Dr. Rosewood nodded along as she made notes, gaze sympathetic when she lifted her eyes to meet mine. “I see. And because your parents brought up these differences in behaviour, you felt like you were somehow faking it when you were good?”
I nodded.
“Are you parents still in your life, Augustus?”
“No.”
“May I ask the circumstances?”
“My father died when I was twelve. Cancer. And my mother…left when I was nine.”
“I’m sorry for your loss, Augustus,” she said gently.
