The Meeting

The Meeting

         I need to wash my hands.  The bitter taste of Chris' thumb exploded in her mouth as she nawed through the overgrown portion of her nail.  Nervously, she stared at a notebook on the desk, at least what she thaught was a notebook, which held the evidence that color could actually exist in the room. 
         
         Dr. Eldrick looked at her intently. "So why are you here?"
         
         She shrugged as she spit the now severed nail on the floor.  "You tell me."
         
          "How am I suppose to tell you?"
         
         "You're the doc."
         
         "Yes," he said with a slight chuckle, "but I am not a mind reader."  He leaned back in his chair, locking his hands behind his head, exposing the sweat stains on the armpit of his white cotton shirt.
         
         Gross.  Chris turned here eyes back to the notebook.  She was sure that it was full of pictures he had drawn during the boring hour long "meetings" he conducted everyday.  Some of the girls in the home would come out of this office two or three times a week crying from the session, then raving about the breakthroughs they had had, and then end up with the same nightmares that haunted them before. 
         
         "Well, Chris, why are you here?"
         
         "Because my mom put me here.  I'm a fucking loon," she said twisting her finger in the air.
         
         "Why do you think you are a loon?"
         
         "You really want to know," she said leaning forward.  "I think I am a loon for the some reason you think your a doctor.  Everyone tells me I am crazy and everyone tells you you're a doctor.  I come her because I have to.  But I know that I am just fine.  I come her to appease you, my mother, the school! 
         "And you," she snorted, "you think you actually help people.  You think that little piece of paper on your wall makes you qualified to say what's normal and what's not.  But you do have that seed.  The seed in your mind that tells you that you ain't worth a fuck.  You're not helping anyone.  You just make people more fucked up than they already are.  You know that if you keep these people walking through your door everyday that you can still say that you did something.  But let me tell you, bubba, you ain't helping shit." 
         
         "You can leave now." 
         
         As the door closed behind Chris, he opened the red notebook and began writing.  No progress.  This is the fourth personality this week.  Personally, I like Diane the cheerleader better. 

Estimated word count: 514