My Therapy Session

I'm sitting in a surprisingly comfy chair waiting to be seen by my new counsellor. Unsurprisingly, the walls are white with little other than a few health care posters for decoration. Thats what these waiting rooms are always like. Doctor and dentist surgeries, the waiting room of a chyropractor, hospitals. But you never know what the chairs are going to be like, I couldn't have predicted this one. If I could just slip this particular chair into my handbag, I would. And although I don't doubt that there is a bag large enough to cover it in this "age of the large bag" unfortunately I do not possess it.

 

"Dr. Knife will see you now." Says the overpaid, underworked receptionist.

 

The chair will have to stay here.

 

I walk over to the door and open it with nerves mild enough to hide. I'm rather looking forward to this. I've always loved attention. The room is smaller than I expected. Perhaps it was a budget saving approach. Or maybe the agrophobics are the most important to accomodate. Dr. Knife is sitting in a chair behind the desk looking at me with a sweet smile, although she looks a little bored. Maybe the name "Knife" isn't just a name. Maybe she likes to kill people by slicing them up. I imagine just talking to them about their problems doesn't bring quite the same thrill. But I will rest assured that talking looks like her intention for this session so I won't panic. Her hands are laying on a clipboard in front of her on the varnished oak desk (the budget approach is seeming less likely). She looks to be in her mid thirties and has her dark brown hair tied in a neat bun above the collar of a silky, red blouse.

 

"Hello there, Holly." She says. "I'm Dr. Amelia Knife it's nice to meet you. Do shut the door and take a seat." I close the door behind me and look around. There's a white leather, two seater sofa, a little white wooden chair with a cushion, or a shrink couch. Where to go? Clocking onto my moment of confusion Dr. Knife says kindly, "Just anywhere you like, anywhere you feel is most comfortable for you." I opt. for the sofa. As I cross the room I notice her taking in my appearance. My shin length green and white summer skirt with little grey slip on shoes. And my plain grey t-shirt and curly red hair in a mess. Yes, I'm fairly normal. She writes something down.

 

I sit down and Dr. Knife asks "How are you Holly?"

 

"OK thanks and you?" I reply politely. 

 

She looks at the desk and shuffles a few papers while quickly saying, "Yes, fine thank you." She pauses. "Tell me why you're here."

 

"Well, my Doctor referred me to you."

 

"Right, yes. Dr...." She checks her notes, "Dr. Podkolinski. It also says here that you believe you have depression, is that right?"

 

"I guess so."

 

"Why do you feel that way?" She asks, readying her pen.

 

How long do you have? I'm thinking. Well, there's the general hatred of life. Everything is too hard. You buy a hoover, it breaks. You buy a washing machine, it floods the house. You buy a computer, it blows up. You pay for an internet connection and it doesn't work and no one can tell you why!! The story of my life! Nothing is ever easy. Nothing is simple. And I seem to be the only one who can't cope! I must be so weak. A failure. Everyone has problems why can't I handle mine? No amount of happiness or good times can compare to the misery and pointlessness of my life. I hate life.

Tears start to well up in my eyes. I slide off the sofa onto the floor. My legs crossed, hands clenched in my lap and head down. I begin to make terrible sobbing noises and shrieks. I hear the Doctor slide her chair back and walk around the desk.

 

"There are some tissues here if you need them." She places a box on the floor beside me and returns to her seat. How insensitive, I think. Not even a pat on the shoulder for reassurance. I grab a handful and wipe all the tears and snot off my face along with all the make-up no doubt. I'll know better next time.

 

"Do you want to talk about why you're crying?"

 

It comes out as a whisper, "I'm just sad."

 

"Why is that?"

 

Now, I've never been one to keep things bottled up. I've talked my situation to death with numerous friends so I can not see at this very moment why sharing it with this person is going to change anything. I attempt to regain some degree of composure and ask simply, "Why is your name Dr. Knife?"

 

I look up at her and she is frowning. "That has no relevance. I need to learn some things about you to see if I can help."

 

"It's just an unusual name. I'm curious." I'm still trying to keep the snot flow under control with some rather soggy tissues. I grab a couple more and re-establish eye contact.

 

She's wearing a half smile. "Curious about the 'Doctor' part or the 'Knife' part?"

 

I chuckle. Gosh she's good. And funny.  "The knife part."

 

"I'm the descendant of a murderer. Does that answer your question?" She makes another note.

 

"Don't make fun of me, I'm serious."

 

"My last name is my last name for the same reason your last name is yours. It just is. What I want to discover now is the reason you feel so sad. That's what we should be talking about."

 

"Don't you ever want to talk about you?" She looks at me hard, takes twenty seconds to scribble something else on her clip board, then puts her pen down and looks at me again. Her arms folded on the desk as she leans forward. I want to see the reaction of a so called professional when a patient decides to try and take control. I push her further.

 

"Come on" I say, "You obviously care about people because you devote your life to them, but do you ever let people in to your life? You must get tired of it sometimes. Don't you need to talk?"

 

"Is this a diversion tactic?"

 

"Is it working?"

 

All of a sudden she looks a bit uncomfortable. Her eyes falter and shoot to the floor. Then I see them slowly moving up my legs, up my body. She pauses for a moment at my neck and looks into my eyes again. Oh my, she's checking me out!

 

"Well you're paying for the session. Would you prefer to do something else?"

 

I shrug. What is she implying? What am I getting myself into? I think she wants me.

"Come on, its up to you." She stands up again and moves around the desk towards me. She steps gracefully over my legs and sits on the floor beside me. Oh. My. God.

 

"What's up?" I ask, trying to keep my cool.

 

"If this is no longer a professional appointment then I may as well relax and get comfortable, right?"

 

"Er... if you want."

 

She lets her hair out of the bun so it falls around her shoulder in a wavy cascade. "You know you are a very sweet girl and the last thing you should be worrying about is how hard life is at your age. You're very pretty."

 

"Thanks, probably not right now. Ha." I gesture at my face which I figure must be in a state! 

 

She leans in a bit closer and wipes some of the tears away. "Not at all, you're still beautiful." Before I know it she puts her hand behind my head and starts gently pulling me into her. I shut my eyes. I would pull away but, I want the closeness. I want this. 

She presses her lips to mine gently and pulls away slightly. It's lovely. I look down at her. She must be lonely to want to kiss me. Never before have I thought of being with another woman. This is just crazy, "This is crazy."

 

She kisses me again, but harder. She's hungry for this. I kiss back just as hard. If she can love me, then so be it. 

I feel her running her hand up my leg and stopping at my waist. I feel exhilierated. She gets to her knees and starts pulling my top off. I stop her. This is so fast. So unexpected. Is she just taking advantage of me because I'm upset and mixed up and confused which is making me vulnerable?

But on the other hand she must be all those things too. It's clear she needs this.

 

"I'm sorry." She says and recoils.

 

"Don't be, honestly." I re-engage her and begin to do some exploring myself. She has a fuller body than me. Her breasts are much bigger than mine. She sees me looking and takes my hand and places it on her breast. We kiss fiercely and I moan a little.

 

"Sshhh, we can't let anyone hear us." She runs her hand up my leg and under my skirt. We lie on the floor looking at each other as she starts to touch me. Gently pushing her fingers into me and rubbing me in the way that only a woman would know to.

 

"You're amazing..." I manage to whisper between heavy breaths.

 

Before Amelia can respond there is knocking on the door followed by the receptionist's voice, "Dr. Knife? Your next client has been waiting for fifteen minutes now. Is everything ok?"

 

We scramble to out feet in such a hurry it must have sounded very strange from outside. "Yes Fiona, we're almost done. Just one minute!" We rearrange ourselves to look presentable without looking at each other. Amelia looks at her watch. "Good gracious! We've over run by forty-five minutes!" 

 

I head towards the door. So much running through my head. "Wait! Will you come back?"

 

I turn around and look at her. A look of anticipation and worry on her face. I walk over to her and kiss her softly. Then I walk back to the door. Just before I leave I turn and wink at her.

 

"Of course, same time next week?" She grins as a huge sigh of relief sweeps over her. And I walk away, for once holding my own thoughts and feelings to myself. So strange, I helped someone else rather than making it all about me. I think... I gave her hope. And I'll give her some more next week. This therapy worked. I'm happy. 

 

The receptionist gives me the dirtiest look on the way out. But all I can do is smile. 

Reviews

[Ron]

Interesting work. An X rated short story so far. Be interesting to hear the narrator's conclusion after the event and after the sparks stop flying. Next chapter please.