Chapter Two: Not The First

Lionel, you don’t believe them, do you?

What do you mean? Believe what?

That I’m not real. You don’t... You don’t think I’m just some schizophrenia, do you?

God, no. That’s just a petty way for them to explain what they don’t understand.

You sound awfully sure of yourself. What if you are just crazy?

I doubt it, I’ve done my research, Lenore. I know what symptoms schizophrenic patients have. I’m much more clearheaded and... collected than them.

But--

The fact that you are worrying about it at all is just proof that you are in fact, genuine. Don’t fret, sister. There is not a doubt in my mind that you are as real as your DNA tests show. And there is no way that some cocky poser claiming psychological intelligence could prove otherwise.

Lionel...

Now, get some sleep, sister. Don’t let it bother you.


Today is my first day of therapy, and of course, Lenore is worried. I can tell because she’s gotten considerably quieter than usual. Flittering about in the edges of my mind, biting her figurative tongue and refraining from any comments on how I’m not standing straight enough or my hair isn’t parted right.
I have gotten myself ready as if it was a normal day; collared shirt, tie, pinstriped pants and a fresh shower. I took my first few classes of the day, Critical Thinking in a Modern World of Nonsense with stern and reasonable Dr. Daniel Blue, and Advanced Algebra, taught by the brilliant Prof. Jane Brooks. Two of my favorite classes. But now, I am afraid I have to start re-arranging my entire schedule around these accursed meetings. So Philosophy for the Skeptic had to be dropped to make enough room as to not spend any less time in my dirt-cheap job earning enough money to keep my cramped apartment and pay for these hardly appropriate “mental treatments”.
Just thank god you have a scholarship. Lenore pipes up.
There you are. You’ve been awfully quiet. I retort, not in the mood for her snarky-toned optimism.
I am walking to the psychiatry office, holding my payment and bundle of documents I brought at their request. I have heard many mixed tales of this place, some reviews read that it was a dysfunctional mix of ill-placed therapists that couldn’t get jobs anywhere else, only attempting to help the very poor and very crazy. But there are many tales of people who claim they owe their lives to the fantastically arranged “Multi-Task Therapy Office” and the “brilliant minds” that worked there.
“I guess it just works for some people, then.” I mutter under my breath, a proclivity I had developed over the years, talking aloud seems to be the only place she really can’t make me shut up. If I want to really think- I need to talk aloud, or she’ll interfere.
I approach the small building and glance in pure un-impression at how truly bland the gray stone walls are. I know that psychiatry offices aren’t exactly the most bright or beautiful places, but there is no need for them to look like a prison. I grip my clipboard which is pressed into my soft, girlish chest. I walk in to see a quiet waiting room, surprisingly full of a wide variety of people. At least they don’t look dangerous. I sighed.
The gray carpeted room with an air of oppression holds about six to ten uncomfortable looking folding chairs--although only four are occupied, scattered about. Nearest to me is a young man wearing a black long sleeved shirt and torn jeans. He sports thick, short spiky hair fluffed upwards with matching mutton chops which follows all along his curved jawline. Half of his hair is dyed some sickening bright, unnatural green. He sprawls in the metal seat with the air of an aloof teenager. Cocky and proud, though he looks to be older than me--and I’m just barely escaping the last years of teenagehood.
I bet he’s in denial--I bet he still thinks he’s a teenager. Lenore chuckles.
“I wonder if that’s a disorder...” I mutter in reply.
An empty chair away from him sit two girls, side-by-side. One has short, straight brown hair and a huge grin on her face. She is swinging her legs underneath the chair as if she’s a five year old patiently awaiting some sort of treat. Her hazel eyes glitter with youthful optimism. She looks to be around my age... I wonder if she’s in school. The girl next to her hardly mirrors the visible enthusiasm. In fact, she looks about the opposite. Long, dark flowing hair and a skeptical, annoyed look.
I wonder which one’s the crazy one? I can feel Lenore’s urge to lean forward and get a better look. I repress it.
Probably both. Just with different things.
I wonder if they’re here together?
Unlikely. I roll my eyes.
The two final patients sit the furthest from all of them, directly across from the man with awful green hair.
Will you stop? I like his hair! It’s kinda fun. Lenore scowls at my disapproving thoughts.
Oh please. He looks like an over-ripe lime.
There is a big, bulky man wearing a suit with a short crew cut and a disapproving glare, who sits uncomfortably close to a woman wearing a light blue tank-top and a dark purple skirt. Her hair throws me off, a thick curly type with half of it long and blond, the magnificent curls caressing her right shoulder, and the other half short, black and each sloppy curl intertwined with itself. My eyes linger to configure which is the original hair color.
Lionel! It’s rude to stare!
I recollect my attention and direct it towards the kind, blue-eyed woman smiling at me from behind a small desk right in front of the door I had just entered.
“Good afternoon, sir!” She has that charming beauty of an older woman; a soft face and sensible expression framed by blonde waves.
“Hello, ma’am.” I nod, approaching the desk. “I have an appointment here with Dr. Derringer? Three o’ clock?” Her face lights up.
“Oh, yes! You must be Lionel!” I am a little taken aback that she would know. But such is the role of a secretary. She stands up and reaches her thin hand across the counter.
“My name is Camilla Derringer. I’m very excited to meet you, Mister Soldner!” I don’t exactly know how to react to that. The... secretary is the... therapist? I knew there was more than one therapist in the office but... is money really so tight that they can’t afford a simple secretary?
Oh, Lionel, maybe this wasn’t such a good idea... I can feel Lenore receding within my mind. She’s going quiet again.
“Hi... I’m uh, I’m Lionel Soldner..” She already knows that, obviously. Damn that really threw me off my game. “I’m sure we’ll get along swimmingly.” I smile shyly. I don’t want to do this. Lenore, please don’t get quiet on me.
“Great!” She smiles warmly at me and beckons me past the waiting room full of people into a small, sensible office. Quiet, the slight smell of incense lingers in the air, there are a few plants scattered about and two, invitingly thick red chairs- more like small couches, placed facing each other. A wide window, with calm streaks of sunlight beaming through completes the scene on the furthest wall. This looks so nice. We agree in unison.
“Wait here a moment, darling.” She waves a hand towards the chairs, welcoming me to sit within their succulent padding.
It looks like it’s going to swallow us whole in its fluff. My sister gawks. I bat this idea away and gently lower myself into the inviting chair. “This is amazing...” Ms. Derringer leans her head out of the door and calls into the office next door;

“Cliff! I have a patient! Be a dear and answer the phones, would you?” I see through the doorway, a young, African American man scurry across the threshold towards the secretary’s empty desk. Ms. Derringer slowly closes the door behind her as she re-enters the room. She has the flowing grace of undulating water, or the softly rising smoke of a lit incense stick. She waltzes over and sits upright in the chair across me.

“Did you bring the documents, dear?” She reaches a hand out, gesturing to the clipboard clung to me.
“Oh- Yes, ma’am,” I hand them gingerly over to her and she glances at the papers.
“Lionel Soldner. Nineteen years old, college student, working...” She raises her narrow blue eyes to me and winks. “Overachiever I see! These grades are stunning, Lionel!” She continues to flip through the papers, murmuring to herself; “Mhmm... five-foot eleven... healthy...Oh-”
Oh god I hate that sound. That expression. That’s the look on their faces when they see what I am. Not even a whole person. My blessing and a curse, which they only see as a horrible mistake.
“My, what an interesting condition!” She smiles at me. “So, X, X, X, Y! Right?”
“You mean my sex chromosomes? Yes ma’am.” I sit straight and watch her closely. How she reacts here will affect our entire relationship henceforth.
“That’s amazing!” She nods, continuing to flip through the pages. Amazing? You can’t possibly think that...This time she stops and the “Oh!” is much less enthusiastic or amazed. It’s more like a mild disappointment, or maybe latent sorrow.
“Oh.”
“Ma’am?”
“So, Lionel...” She leans back in her chair, her seascape eyes pouring into mine of  dirt-and-sand;

“You’ve been in therapy before?”

Reviews

[Ras Fish]

This is plan beautiful, The descriptions of the people and places are fluent and beautifully written, and the Dialogue feels human, the responses of the characters really gives them a lot of personality and I feel like I am getting to know them. Great, just great.

[Ivy Navillus]

Good! Like I said before, the early chapters I fret over, especially because in scenes like this one, there's a lot of new faces and names and situations happening at once, so I try to ease it in...