“Good morning--” the receptionist at the check-in counter breaks off in an abrupt, tiny gasp; her sashimi-pink lips, that were originally stitched into a big, welcoming smile droop into a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it jaw-drop. And you know it’s because of your left eye.

Self-consciousness back-slaps both sides of your face, evident by the way your cheeks burn a humiliatingly brilliant hue of red, and your hand moves on its own volition to briefly touch your eye in embarrassment.

The receptionist quickly clears her throat, regaining her disposition, and flashes a less exaggerated, closed-lipped grin. “My apologies, miss. May I help you with anything?”

“Um…” Damn the receptionist. She scared your nerve away. “I-is, uh, Dr. Wagner in?” You hate the way the sentence clumsily stumbles over itself, considering Wagner is a psychiatrist, and with an eye like yours, this lady must think you’re crazy.

But she doesn’t particularly react as if you are insane; at least, you don’t think so. Instead, she twitters a chirpy little, “One moment, please.” And off she clicks on her stupid, little keyboard, her attention averting to the computer screen, absentmindedly chanting under her breath, “Wagner, Wagner, Wagner…” She squeakily interrupts herself with, “Oh! Wagner. He checked in half an hour ago. Room 17-D, fourth floor.”

“Thanks,” you mumble curtly. And with that, you shuffle toward the elevator on the other side of the lobby, and ride it up to the fourth floor. As the doors slide open for you to emerge into the hallway, the cold, heavy smell of anesthetics catches you off guard, considering this floor is most likely used for mental therapeutic purposes. Making your way down the hall, you find the seventeenth door down, which sports a gold plaque that reads: James Wagner; Psychiatrist, M. D., D. O. Sighing shakily, your knuckles curl and tap against the door until it swings open.

The man who answers is slim and lean, blond with milk-chocolate eyes and a hell of a lot taller than you, holding maybe a good foot over you, at the very least. Not a very impressive feat, considering you’re only about 158 centimeters tall, in shoes, but still. You’ve never actually seen a professional psychiatrist before, but his lack of shoes and his choice of wardrobe, which consists of shredded jeans and a simple-looking Nirvana “Incesticide” t-shirt, both don’t seem to fit the exact example of a proper psychiatrist. He looks like he’s in his late twenties, and his only serious feature is his John Lennon bottle-caps, but even that’s a stretch.

“Um, hi,” you say awkwardly. “Are you Dr. Wagner?”

He simpers. “Yes, ma’am,” he salutes cheerfully. “Reina Ingham?” When you nod, he widens the door and says, “Come on in.”

He doesn’t seem to notice your eye, or if he does, doesn’t seem to care.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” you murmur.

“No worries, love, I’ve got all the time in the world,” he dismisses coolly, leading you to two purple bean-bag chairs. As you sink down into yours, he plops down on his, crossing his left ankle over his right knee.

“So, Reina, tell me about yourself,” he says. “Where do you want to start?”

You arch your back. “What do you want to know?” He’s too comfortable, too eager, and it sets you off.

His smile returns. “Well, if I’m going to help you out, I figure I should get a little background information, don’t you think?”

“You already know enough about me,” you reply coldly. “The social worker told you what happened with me.”

“Woah, didn’t mean to strike a nerve.” He adjusts his glasses and folds his hands together. “Look, the social worker told me you didn’t cooperate during the group sessions. Believe me, I know. I know you don’t want to go back, so you need to work with me here, okay?”

When you don’t answer, he tries, “I have an idea. How ‘bout this? You ask me a question, and then I’ll ask you one and we just keep going. Yeah?”

Tucking your legs beneath you, you reluctantly bob your head up and down.

“You can go first,” he says.

Sighing, you sink back. “Um...how old are you?”

“I just turned twenty-nine three months and two years ago.” As much as you try to suppress it, you can’t help but crack a smile. “What’s your favorite food?”

“Ice cream. Are you married?”

“Agh, remind me, why don’t you? No, I’m not, but my girlfriend won’t let me hear the end of it. What’s your favorite song?”

“Either ‘September’ by Earth Wind & Fire or ‘Wins’ by Jade McNelis.”

He chuckles. “Don’t know who Jade McNelis is, but I never took you as a girl into disco.”

“Why did you become a psychiatrist?”

“I’ve…” He trails off and deflates a gust of air. “My dad drank a lot when I was young. A lot of the time I was alone and hungry because the money usually went to fuel his drinking habits. I decided I wanted to help people like him when I was thirteen.” He scratches his neck. “How old is your daughter?”

Your breath hitches. In the back of your head, you wonder how much that stupid social worker told him. “Two. I had her when I was sixteen. What’s her name? Your girlfriend’s, I mean.”

“Ramona. What was his name?”

Bile bubbles up your throat. “Who?”

He sits up. He doesn’t buy it. “Isaiah,” you confess. “His name was Isaiah. Do you have kids?”

“No. How did you meet?”

You bark out a laugh out of irony. “Church, believe it or not. One of the few times he decided to show up. Did you ever want to be anything else other than a psychiatrist?”

“In college, I was interested in studying classical economics. For a while, I considered being a historian. When did he first hit you?”

“When...two months after our daughter was born. Doctor, when are we done with the third degree?”

“Almost, almost. Work with me a little longer, Reina. What did you want to be before you dropped out of high school? Why did you drop out?”

“A wr-writer. And I couldn’t juggle work and school. I don’t want to do this anymore, Dr. Wagner.”

“It’s all right. You can do it. Just a couple more questions and we’re done, I promise. What happened to your eye?”

You’re so damn close to throwing up. “Bathroom, w-where’s the bathroom?” you half-beg, half-demand.

“Reina--”

***


Before you know it, you’re stuffed in a bathroom stall, sobbing your eyes out like a wounded animal, vomiting. It’s not like you wanted to. It just happened.

When you’re done, you flush the mess you made down the toilet, and as soon as you trudge out of the stall, you dampen a paper towel and wipe your mouth with it in front of one of the sinks. When you look at yourself in the mirror, you’re greeted by the sight of your mascara and eyeliner trailing down your cheeks, leaving black streaks curving down your chin. While you had been relieving yourself, you had disregarded your hair, flinging it into a messy bun to keep it out of target range. As a result, it had completely swallowed the rubber band you had been using to hold it back and now sprung up in tumbleweed-like fringes. You look like a wreck.

But what catches your eye is...well, your eye. Like it always does. Your index finger runs over the rim of your bottom eyelid, your lashes flicking back as your finger smoothes over them. You sigh and look straight into your eye.

Instead of the warm, russet-brown that used to match the right one, you’re met by a silver-white pool of film where your iris and pupil should be. They’re still there, and if examined with great care, they are still slightly distinguishable.

How did you end up here? Once in your life, you were filled with love, youth, and a promising future ahead of you. And you were beautiful. Oh, you were so overwhelmingly beautiful.

Now look at you. You’re alone and miserable, without the parents who disowned you the moment you croaked, “I’m pregnant.” Or even your baby’s father. But to say the latter, you’re...relieved.

You crouch down, unable to look at yourself, sitting on the balls of your feet, your hands gripping on the rim of the sink for support. Unfortunately, you’re unable to push the steady, pulsating throb in your temples.

You just want to go back to your older sister’s house, who, unlike your mother and father, was at least willing to listen to your pleas for help when you reached out to your family. She and your daughter are waiting for you. Her house has been the only home you’ve known in a while, and that’s really saying something considering you still wake up slightly alarmed by the unfamiliar sight of her living room on the couch you have been using as a substitute bed. And you feel...old. You’re only eighteen. You’re eighteen, and you’re supposed to be free and happy and be barely beginning your life, the primrose of youth and beauty, but you’ve been force-fed so many adult sensations and situations and although you’ve never regretted your daughter, you can’t help but think this whole scenario was all because of that one night you chose to use your body carelessly. And you feel...old. Ancient. Vintage. Antique.

Old.

“Reina,” Dr. Wagner calls quietly from behind the bathroom door. “Are you okay? I don’t need to ask anymore questions, I just want to make sure you’re feeling all right.”

“I’m fine,” you assure meekly. “I’ll be out in a minute.”

“Take all the time you need,” he says.

Glancing at yourself one last time, you wipe the smudges of makeup on your cheeks away as best you can and attempt to muster up the ounce of courage you don’t have.

And for a moment, you almost trick yourself into thinking you are someone you recognize.

Almost.