I turned to face the empty chair. My leg was still trembling.
I cleared my throat. I was safe. She wasn’t really here, she wasn’t really listening.
I thought back to that house, the cold, the damp smell, the wallpaper with the cornflowers and the brown carpet.
I heard the cars passing by outside, all of them driving to nice places, safe places,
while we were here, left all alone or —worse—left with her.
“Mummy... please,” I said. I could hear my voice outside of my own head, disembodied in the room, floating.
It was high and very, very quiet. I breathed in. “Please don’t hurt us.”
I don’t resort to foul language as a rule, but that first session with the counselor yesterday was bloody ridiculous.
I started crying in front of Dr. Temple at the end of her stupid empty-chair exercise,
and then she actually said, with faux gentleness, that our session had to draw to a close and that she’d see me next week at the same time.
She basically hustled me out onto the street, and I found myself standing on the pavement, shoppers bustling past me, tears streaming down my face.
How could she do it? How could one human being see another so obviously in pain,
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