Prologue: Uncharacteristic

A Chapter by Miranda Aguinaga

I want to switch from first and third person with this, so this is a start at third person.

The cigarette rests in her skaky, quivering hand. She pauses, reaching to bite a nail. The cigarette she so confidently holds slowly burns away.She mostly stares at it, only breathing in the fumes when something difficult in conversation comes up. "It's difficult for me talk about him," she says, trying not to reflect. Stolen days of love, pain, and tears rush through her mind. She reaches for another topic of discussion. "I don't really do this often." She says this distractedly, gesturing toward the cigarette, mumbling something about 'bad habits'. Staring into her questioner's eyes, she let's a small laugh escape her lips. "I'm just not that kind of person. That kind of girl." Suddenly, she avoids all the eyes of her audience, staring into her knees. "This just isn't me," she states, crushing her unfinished cigarette with deafening finality. "Not me."
I need something to do with my hands, she thinks. Instinctively, she reaches for another cigarette, glancing around for her lighter. She presses the stick to her lips, lights, and breathes in deeply. She starts counting the ridges in the table, waiting for another question. There are always questions. one, one - two, one - two - three, she goes over, and over again, until he clears his throat. "Where are your parents?" Good question. "Do you talk to them often?" I ignore the question, answering with one of my own. "Are you going to call them at all?" He shakes his head at me, beckoning toward my coffee. "You're very much an adult now, there's no need to involve them. It's clear that you are not ill, and I believe you are stable, but what do you think?" She reaches for her pack of cigarettes, growning inwardly when she realizes she is out. She stands up, grabs her bag, and looks at the professor seriously, for the first time in an hour. "I think I need another pack of cigarettes."
"You can't avoid this forever. You'll have to face your loss, your pain." Tears well up in the girl's eyes, and she grabs her iced something, and sips slowly. She looks at him and says, "You speak of my loss like it's something I might eventually get back, something I can recover from. Pain does not ever go away, it dulls. Loss doesn't ever get found, it is replaced. Since I cannot do either, I am not avoiding anything." Leaving nothing but a cheap tip, she searches for her car keys and walks to her car. His car, she thought, frowing slightly. She opened the door, and felt him everywhere. Newspapers were scattered all over the back seat, and carefully selected CDs were not so carefully thrown all over the passanger seat. She grabbed one of his favorites, and put on track ten. It wasn't a song she particularly loved, but appreciated so much more now. She turned on the car, and drove out of the parking lot, not keeping a destination in mind. A tear escaped her well kept attitude, and she let a sob break through her pursed lips. I'm not avoiding anything, anything at all, she thinks, tapping the wheel with a consistent beat.