I let a deep sigh roll off from the bottom of my stomach as I step out of the car and put my feet on the pavement. Another day in this hell-hole. I plug my earphones in with excessive force. As soon as I hear Joe Budden’s raspy voice screaming inside of my head, I calm down a bit. Just a bit though. I’m still not on terms with the whole idea of me needing this experience “so badly” as my psychiatrist put it. I’m not normally on terms with anything though. So it could be me I guess. On the other hand, who is he to tell me what I need to do? Typical shrink. Two sessions and already he believes that he know everything about me. He doesn’t know shit. I’m not that easily read, no matter how much I say, or how much he dries to slowly drain me off emotions, he will never be able to truly understand. Ultimately, I am the one who controls what he hears. He might think he’s inside my head, but he is sadly mistaken. Just like everybody else who think they know me. I shoot a quick glance on my wrist, fuck. Five past nine already. I’m running late. As usual. I grab my bag and sets off in a quick pace for walking, I can’t really run since the ground is covered in ice and slush. I’m not about to fall on my ass at the parking lot. Not in front of all these… things.
I silently enter the room. It’s scarcely decorated. A couple of hideous paintings and portraits of old guys on the walls. A couple of benches. In the centre of the room there is a podium and behind it a whiteboard and a so called “writer” writing some bullshit on the board. She notices me sneaking in but doesn’t address it. I appreciate the gesture and finds a spot at the back of the room. I’m not much for socializing. Making sure the teacher isn’t looking, I dig up a well-used notebook and a pencil. I’m not taking notes. Never. Instead I just write stuff. Thoughts that pop into my head during her lecture. Today, my mind seem to be focusing on different ways to score some pills. Irritated, I scratch the top of my pen over the lines. Never again. An undesired shrug shakes off my shoulders as I remember the last weekend. The reason to all this. I really fucked up. My self-absorption is suddenly put to an end as the only door in the room screeches open. Instinctively I turn my head to the door, wondering who could be possibly be later than me. I’m usually the only fuckup in this program of introverted and robotic teenagers. My brooding is suddenly interrupted when a girl enters, panicked expression on her face and with her hair flailing all over the place. I release a smug smile as I watch with anticipation for the reaction from Teach. She might have given up on me yesterday, but surely she won’t accept this tardiness. Sure enough. Teach’s face is reddening up so fast that I can actually see some purple in her features.
“- I’m so sorry Ms. Bowham! I couldn’t get my car to start and the buses were impossible.”
“- It’s okay Monica. Just don’t make it a habit”.
Monica nods apologetically and quickly walks up to the seat next to me. Oh great. Just what I needed. A fucking lab mate. I don’t know whether God decided to intervene here or if the Devil was on holiday, but incredibly enough, Teach does not ask us to interact in any way this time. I am safe to continue with my scribbling in peace. Nice.
** ©Alexander Berg Mattsson, 2011
Author’s Note: This is the completely, unprepared prelude to my upcoming short story that I just now finished mind mapping. I figured I wanted something to write on when I have a spare minute or two. If you’d like I’ll continually post chapters on here, or contact me via mail and I’ll mail it to you as it progresses.