She tells me to pretend she’s not there, to just talk. She says I can do that, I’m good at talking. I don’t want to talk to her. She says that’s okay, she knows. That’s why she wants me to pretend she isn’t there. If I don’t want her to help, the least she can do is listen. There’s a point she trying to get to, something she’s trying to get me to say, but I’m good at talking and talking and talking before the person I’m talking to realizes that I haven’t really said anything at all. Going unnoticed. I ignore her questions. She can tell. She notices. I ask if she can keep a secret, and she’s says yes, of course, that’s her whole job. But she’s lying, there are lots of situations that permit her to not actually keep a secret. I tell her this, that if I said I wanted to harm myself she would be well within her rights to repeat it to my parents. She sits back, as though I surprised her, asks if I want to harm myself, but I know better. I say that she can’t tell anyone, not a soul, that’s what keeping a secret entails. She asks about my friends, and not even them. Especially not them. I say that she thinks I don’t care about them. She says I don’t trust them, and that’s not the same thing. She’s right, it absolutely isn’t. I look out the window at the sky. It’s one of those weird mornings where you can still sort of see the moon. I comment on it. She thanks me, and leaves. She thinks about negative space in art. It reminds her of me, and how I only ever fill myself with what people want to see. It’s easy to forget about the negative space, and miss seeing the whole picture entirely. She wonders what angle she isn’t getting, what facet of the story isn’t visible to her. She wonders about all of the secrets I’m not telling, if she’s looking in the wrong places for them, and she supposes that would make as much sense as anything.
Dishonored*
StephyTheCutie
dodgeramgirl
PandaPants
Alpaca Prophet *
Aggressive Butterfly *
*gloomy*
liadinis
Fat Amy*