My eyes snap open. I'm laying frozen on my bed, the copper stench of blood still lingering in my nose. I take a deep breath and look to my right. My bedroom, not an ounce of red in sight. I slowly start to relax and gather my thoughts.
It's Tuesday. Court mandated psychiatrist appointment day. I drag myself up into a sitting position. My dream, fading to the back of my mind like the ones before it. Forgotten yet still lingering. My grey blanket, falls to my waist making my chest, only covered by a thin tank top cold. I rub my arms, feeling the bumps of scars and goose bumps running along them. I push my blanket off, uncovering my legs. The booty shorts I'm wearing do nothing to help with the cold, and I instantly get goose bumps along my whole body.
I walk over to the closet and yank a black worn sweater off its hanger and put it on over my tank top. I then grab a pair of grey sweats off the floor and put them on, before walking out of my room.
As soon as I walk out, I see the door across the hall tightly shut. Next to the door is a thermostat with a lock on it, I look to see the temperature. 53 degrees fahrenheit.
"Bastard." I mumble.
Seeing how cold it is, he most likely isn't home. I relax a little at that and walk into the kitchen. I see that it's 9:20 from the clock on the stove.
"Great only 10 minutes left till my appointment."
I open the fridge, and bypass the beer and out-date food to grab a lonely water bottle hidden in the back. I go back to my room, change my sweats to black pants and grab a thicker black sweater to wear. I pull my shoes on as I walk to the front door.
As I walk outside I'm hit by the cold. I yanked the door shut and locked it before opening the water bottle and taking a drink. Coldness flows down my throat and into my stomach somehow getting rid of the remaining fear from that dream.
It's three blocks to the three story building that my therapist office is in. The building's bottom floor runs as a vet office, the second, a suspicious chinese restaurant that only serves takeout. I pass the second floor and see a man walk out with a takeout box that reads Wolf Tonics. His head is lowered with a hat covering his face from view. He bumps into me on his way to the stairs, "Sorry." he mumbles as he continues down to the first floor. As he passes I get a whiff of copper. The smell is so similar to my dream that I freeze up for a moment before shaking it off and continuing to the third floor.
I reach the door that says Doctor Abigail Whitelock Psychiatrist.
Opening the door I get hit in the face with the smell of vanilla. It's almost unbearable. Doctor Abigail's office is this ugly shade of beige yellow, like the color of water marks. She has a bookcase on the wall directly across from the door, it's filled with pictures of people, all of them smiling. She says they are her family but I think that they are random pictures she got off the internet. Doctor Abigail is a minimalist , she says, beside the bookcase, she has a filing cabinet in the corner of the room next to the only window, and two couches sitting on opposite ends of a coffee table, in the middle of the room.
That's where she is now. Sitting in a dark red pant suit, that makes her pale skin even paler, straight platinum blond hair in a high ponytail, and crystal blue eyes hidden behind a pair of wire reading glasses. The ones you see little grannies wear.
"Your 5 minutes late." she says looking up from her clipboard. "Again."
I walk over to the opposite couch from her passing a trash can on the way where I drop the now empty water bottle in.
"Sorry." I say as I sit down. I give her no explanation as to why I'm late, never have.
" 'Sigh'. Perdita, I understand that you hate these sessions, but I'm seeing real improvement." She adds, "Truly." when I give her a disbelieving look.
I stay silent and stare at the filing cabinet next to the window, the light that comes through the curtains shines on the silver handles of the drawers.
"Silver." my mind whispers.
"The improvements are obvious if you just try to see them. Look you're able to sit in the same room as me; and I'm wearing an all red suit. That's an improvement." She says bringing me out of my thoughts.
Red. I hate that color. I feel nauseous just looking at it, though I will admit that in the past I used to have full panic attacks seeing so much of it, especially red of that shade. Like blood.
"I feel nauseous when looking at you." I say quietly. 'That's why I'm focusing my sight on the silver of the handles. ' I think.
She sighs, again. She does that a lot, it makes me think that she's a fake physiatrist, they're not supposed to show emotion right? But since the court approved of her she must be real.