Each second is sounding off like a round of gunfire. It's an obnoxious sound paired with the rolling white noise of a small desk fan in the background. A nudge of chilled wind outside creaks the window into a shuddering rattle to add some more symphony to a mundane orchestra.
The room she is seated in is a dull brown tomb with a few minute touches of feminine architecture; a couple pictures of family, some animal sculptures of wolves and bears, and some framed paintings that look like motel art. She takes note of the stale taste in the air -- old coffee and a smoker trying to quit since there is a heavy hang of newly spritzed fragrance in the air.
Her make shift throne is a wide couch upholstered with a scratchy material. Like aged felt the color of rust red. Across from where she postures so careless is another woman in a comfortable looking arm chair. She is older, by at least twenty years, and she can tell that the woman once was a bombshell but fell victim to years of studying and keeping up with a social calender. The glasses seem too thick but they look nice on her weathered features. An arrangement of her hair in a sleek pull back with a tightened bun. It's not brown, or even black, but some medium between with graying streaks.
When she looks up to Peaches is when it's noticed that her eyes are a worn out green.
"So --", her voice starts with a shift from somewhere on the east coast. Maybe New York but most definitely not New Jersey. "-- tell me something about yourself."
Fingers picked at the denim of her jeans. A small rip was beginning to tear into the knee. It fashioned them to be more reckless like the girl who was wearing them. "I could tell y'anythin' and y'still gonna analyze it.", she said before she could even stop herself -- not that she would have.
Doctor Marie Lynell smiled a tight lipped thing, as if she wasn't used to showing emotion after all her years of listening to the ramblings of the eccentric. "Maybe. It's just a nice way to get to know my patients. Just as you are curious to how I will analyze you, I'm curious to know how you work."
"I like t'paint.", she confessed after a moment of watching some early afternoon rain wiggle down the outside of the window.
"An artist? I hear to be an artist, one must be passionate about what they are illustrating."
"I'm not really an artist." It's almost a sheepish way of trying not to be pegged as one; she wasn't as confident as she sometimes pretended to be. "Jus'somethin' I picked up one day. Seemed easier t'paint my dreams, an'the things I see, then it was t'explain them t'anyone." Her hands splayed open in an odd gesture of ironing out her discomfort.
"You see things?"
Her features change from dreamy to semi-frustrated. It's abnormal looking but fades when she speaks. "I decided t'see someone t'help me." A confession that seemed to take years to finally bloom. Her body language quickly tenses even with the loud humming of toxins in her system.
"Help with what, exactly, Peaches?" A pause while she takes note of how the girl is twirling a piece of blonde around a finger. "Is that your real name?"
"Yes.", she snaps, though not in a malicious tone. Robotic; she had answered that question a million times since hiding from her past. "An' jus' the normal things, I guess, yea'? Everyone has problems, yea'?"
"Of course. Though usually people, those who see me, tell me exactly what they are seeking. What they are hoping to achieve from these sessions."
"I jus' -- I jus' want someone t'talk to?" Both her hands are sliding, palm down, across the tops of her thighs. Quietly, she distracts with a crescent smile.
Lynell smiles, too, not immune to the odd charm the girl exudes. "You don't have friends you can talk to?"
"I'ave friends.", she says almost defensively. Thumb jerked between her teeth which rattled a nibble to the corner of a nail. "It's hard to talk to them. About certain things, yea'? Might think I'm a bloody lunatic." A sporadic laugh.
Lynell moves her fingers across the very thin folder in her lap, nudging a knuckle to the flap tab that exposes the girls name. Peaches, and that is all. The girl is paying in cash to avoid more than a trace of her last name.
"Sometimes when we over think certain scenarios, we psyche ourselves out. We assume that the world will refuse to listen to our tiny pleas and that things we theorize about are crazy. That is normal and I assure you everyone goes through a trial where they think those that would hear them out will also be the ones to cast us out."
"No, it's not that. I mean, yea' -- a bit, yea'. Though there are things that I know will sound ******' schizo. An' it's not jus'that. I want t'get better. I want t'let people in." Her hand was used to provide some quiet emphasis when it passed over her breast bone. "I jus'need someone who won't judge me." It might have seemed rude but it was not meant to; her finger pointed at the older woman.
Both of Lynell's hands folded in her lap, over the beige concealment of the slim documents she had collected with her brief interview with Peaches.
"You have my word, Peaches. I won't judge you."
The room she is seated in is a dull brown tomb with a few minute touches of feminine architecture; a couple pictures of family, some animal sculptures of wolves and bears, and some framed paintings that look like motel art. She takes note of the stale taste in the air -- old coffee and a smoker trying to quit since there is a heavy hang of newly spritzed fragrance in the air.
Her make shift throne is a wide couch upholstered with a scratchy material. Like aged felt the color of rust red. Across from where she postures so careless is another woman in a comfortable looking arm chair. She is older, by at least twenty years, and she can tell that the woman once was a bombshell but fell victim to years of studying and keeping up with a social calender. The glasses seem too thick but they look nice on her weathered features. An arrangement of her hair in a sleek pull back with a tightened bun. It's not brown, or even black, but some medium between with graying streaks.
When she looks up to Peaches is when it's noticed that her eyes are a worn out green.
"So --", her voice starts with a shift from somewhere on the east coast. Maybe New York but most definitely not New Jersey. "-- tell me something about yourself."
Fingers picked at the denim of her jeans. A small rip was beginning to tear into the knee. It fashioned them to be more reckless like the girl who was wearing them. "I could tell y'anythin' and y'still gonna analyze it.", she said before she could even stop herself -- not that she would have.
Doctor Marie Lynell smiled a tight lipped thing, as if she wasn't used to showing emotion after all her years of listening to the ramblings of the eccentric. "Maybe. It's just a nice way to get to know my patients. Just as you are curious to how I will analyze you, I'm curious to know how you work."
"I like t'paint.", she confessed after a moment of watching some early afternoon rain wiggle down the outside of the window.
"An artist? I hear to be an artist, one must be passionate about what they are illustrating."
"I'm not really an artist." It's almost a sheepish way of trying not to be pegged as one; she wasn't as confident as she sometimes pretended to be. "Jus'somethin' I picked up one day. Seemed easier t'paint my dreams, an'the things I see, then it was t'explain them t'anyone." Her hands splayed open in an odd gesture of ironing out her discomfort.
"You see things?"
Her features change from dreamy to semi-frustrated. It's abnormal looking but fades when she speaks. "I decided t'see someone t'help me." A confession that seemed to take years to finally bloom. Her body language quickly tenses even with the loud humming of toxins in her system.
"Help with what, exactly, Peaches?" A pause while she takes note of how the girl is twirling a piece of blonde around a finger. "Is that your real name?"
"Yes.", she snaps, though not in a malicious tone. Robotic; she had answered that question a million times since hiding from her past. "An' jus' the normal things, I guess, yea'? Everyone has problems, yea'?"
"Of course. Though usually people, those who see me, tell me exactly what they are seeking. What they are hoping to achieve from these sessions."
"I jus' -- I jus' want someone t'talk to?" Both her hands are sliding, palm down, across the tops of her thighs. Quietly, she distracts with a crescent smile.
Lynell smiles, too, not immune to the odd charm the girl exudes. "You don't have friends you can talk to?"
"I'ave friends.", she says almost defensively. Thumb jerked between her teeth which rattled a nibble to the corner of a nail. "It's hard to talk to them. About certain things, yea'? Might think I'm a bloody lunatic." A sporadic laugh.
Lynell moves her fingers across the very thin folder in her lap, nudging a knuckle to the flap tab that exposes the girls name. Peaches, and that is all. The girl is paying in cash to avoid more than a trace of her last name.
"Sometimes when we over think certain scenarios, we psyche ourselves out. We assume that the world will refuse to listen to our tiny pleas and that things we theorize about are crazy. That is normal and I assure you everyone goes through a trial where they think those that would hear them out will also be the ones to cast us out."
"No, it's not that. I mean, yea' -- a bit, yea'. Though there are things that I know will sound ******' schizo. An' it's not jus'that. I want t'get better. I want t'let people in." Her hand was used to provide some quiet emphasis when it passed over her breast bone. "I jus'need someone who won't judge me." It might have seemed rude but it was not meant to; her finger pointed at the older woman.
Both of Lynell's hands folded in her lap, over the beige concealment of the slim documents she had collected with her brief interview with Peaches.
"You have my word, Peaches. I won't judge you."