PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE READ!!!!!!
White walls-vapid to other sorts, neither beige nor white washed nor even cream, but simply white, pale white. Windows, big and tall, black sills, sun pouring in, melting the plastered snow off the ground outside. Six chairs, a coffee table to every two, stacked magazines- Teen People, parenting magazines, psychology, Oprah-other sorts. A front desk seating a stout woman, a pleasent smile on her face, a large nose and small framed glasses.
There I sat, legs crossed, eyes glued to pictures in Seventeen, mind a muddle of thoughts. Nervous, habitual nail biting. Mother seated adjacent, crinkled People in her perfectly pink manicured hands. She was talking but I was not listening-soft murmurs of comfrot, apologies, guilt. “I’m sorry we have to send you here, but you need help.” A heartbroken look on her face, muttering, “should’ve never let you do that modeling thing,” something about self esteem, drugs, the police, “I’m sorry.” Repeat. I nod, flip the page in the magazine, un-cross and re-cross my legs. Repeat.
“Layla Hawking,” the stout receptionist calls even though we are the only people in the room. “They will see you now.” We are lead to an office with a copper name tag that reads “Dr. Fieldston,” which moments later opens with a jolt. The opened door serves to reveal a tall, lanky black woman in a suit and heels, a rustic wood desk with spool chair and a green leather couch. The woman, presumably Dr. Fieldston, smiles and welcomes us in. The three of us talk as her slender fingers scribble a fountain pen across a yellow note pad. Welcome to St. Mary’s Rehabilitation center.
Two days later, after spending a night in the detox center, I sit in the resident shrink’s office-a cliche cherry wood desk and black recliner, eyes overlooking a pair of glass spectacles that balance just past the bridge of her narrow nose. “Where do you think your addiction started?” I think back, way back, almost a year ago back.
if you read all of that i appreciate it greatly, and would also REALLY REALLY appreciate feedback (hint hint), and want to know if it makes you want to read more!!!!
gratziiiii.
-love liv
There I sat, legs crossed, eyes glued to pictures in Seventeen, mind a muddle of thoughts. Nervous, habitual nail biting. Mother seated adjacent, crinkled People in her perfectly pink manicured hands. She was talking but I was not listening-soft murmurs of comfrot, apologies, guilt. “I’m sorry we have to send you here, but you need help.” A heartbroken look on her face, muttering, “should’ve never let you do that modeling thing,” something about self esteem, drugs, the police, “I’m sorry.” Repeat. I nod, flip the page in the magazine, un-cross and re-cross my legs. Repeat.
“Layla Hawking,” the stout receptionist calls even though we are the only people in the room. “They will see you now.” We are lead to an office with a copper name tag that reads “Dr. Fieldston,” which moments later opens with a jolt. The opened door serves to reveal a tall, lanky black woman in a suit and heels, a rustic wood desk with spool chair and a green leather couch. The woman, presumably Dr. Fieldston, smiles and welcomes us in. The three of us talk as her slender fingers scribble a fountain pen across a yellow note pad. Welcome to St. Mary’s Rehabilitation center.
Two days later, after spending a night in the detox center, I sit in the resident shrink’s office-a cliche cherry wood desk and black recliner, eyes overlooking a pair of glass spectacles that balance just past the bridge of her narrow nose. “Where do you think your addiction started?” I think back, way back, almost a year ago back.
if you read all of that i appreciate it greatly, and would also REALLY REALLY appreciate feedback (hint hint), and want to know if it makes you want to read more!!!!
gratziiiii.
-love liv