Opening my door to let an eager Pickle out, I come face to face with a tall, curvy, dark-skinned, caramel eyed goddess. She had the most beautiful flowing hair that laid perfectly over her shoulders framing her face in all the right places.

“I was just about to knock. Looks like you beat me to it,” a giggle escapes her perfect full lips. “I’m Kristen Cohen, the resident therapist.” She offers her hand to me.

“I’m Camilla,” I take her hand nervously.

“You don’t need to be nervous, Camilla. We don’t do lobotomies anymore,” she laughs.

“Well, you won’t find anything of interest in there anyway,” I sigh.

“Now that’s not true. From what I’ve heard you are an extremely talented woman. So, give yourself some credit.” Kristen winks at me. “Now, should we head to my office?”

“Ummm,” I pause and look behind me, anxiety rises at the thought of leaving my room and talking to someone I don’t know. “I guess.” I look back at Kristen.

“If you’d prefer, we can do this in your room.”

“No, I need to leave. I can’t hide in here forever.” I pull the door closed.

“Baby steps,” she smiles at me.

“That’s what Diane said.” I look down, watching Pickle strut off down the hall.

“Where do you think she got it?” Kristen shoots me a cheeky wink.

“It’s the ego for me.” I look up at her, rolling my eyes.

“Ahh, there’s that sass people have been telling me about. Bring that to our sessions every day, ok?”

“People?” I question her.

“People, friends or cats.” Kristen giggles.

“Do these friends happen to have names starting with K and L?”

“I would never expose my sources, Camilla.” She puts her finger over her mouth in a shushing motion and smiles. “Come, let’s head to my office.”

As I followed Kristen down the hall I kind of felt like Winona Ryder from “Girl, Interrupted”. Not in the sense that I was in a mental institution because clearly, I’m not – but it was the people I saw in the rooms I passed. Some looked lonely and broken while others offered me a sympathetic smile that even I could see they were struggling to maintain.

Is that what I look like? I thought to myself.

Kristen stopped and turned to smile at me. “This is my office.”

I looked at her confused. It was just a small door that looked more like an entrance to an attic, not the entrance to a therapist office. Her office.

“I know what you’re thinking, ‘That can’t possibly be her office, it’s the door to the attic.’” She giggles. “And you’d be right!” Kristen reaches forward and pushes the door open, revealing a small windy staircase.

I step forward and peek my head in. A chill runs down my spine. These things always make me uneasy, but in Kristen’s defence, I do have a pension for serial killers and horror. This is my own doing.

“Out of all the rooms in Maplewood, you picked the attic?” I turn back to her.

“Wait till you see it.” She steps in, gesturing for me to go first.

“I think I’ll let you go first. I ain’t about to be the token white girl that’s killed first.” I reply sarcastically.

“Ok, fair point,” Kristen smirks at me. “But I can assure you there isn’t anything up there that can hurt you.” She says over her shoulder, heading up the stairs.

“I’ll be the judge of that,” I reply dryly.

Kristen just chuckles to herself and continues up the stairs. As we get to the top of the stairs, I immediately see why she chose this space. It’s small but has an air of privacy and warmth to it. I could see Kristen’s touch in every corner. Things had their places and they were very rarely moved.

The built-in bookcase at one end of the room brought back memories of the night me and The built-in bookcase at one end of the room brought back memories of the night me and Jonathan were tangled up in each other against the new one he had just brought. I adored his bookcase, for many reasons other than the dirty things we did on it. Kristen’s was slightly different in that it had a beautiful, light off white paint on it and for some reason, it felt refreshing and had an air of change to it. My gaze drifted from the many books that filled her bookcase to the roof, it was a little different from the rest of the house, the wooden beams met each other in the middle, creating a V shape that perfectly reflected light from the large window that sat behind Kristen’s desk. This place would become my very own confessional. A place where my demons would be brought into the light and perhaps sent away, permanently.

I envisioned myself sitting in the french style chair next to the bookcase laughing, laughing like I used to before all this happened. Before Jonathan happened.

What a strange thought, laughing. I don’t think I have done that in a while, I think to myself as I stand watching Kristen moving around her office collecting papers.

“So, is this where the tearing down of walls happens?”

“I don’t tear walls down, Camilla, I repair them.” She smiles at me, gesturing for me to sit in the chair next to the bookshelf. “Walls are built for a reason; we all have them but the difference between breaking and repairing them is completely independent.”

“How so?” I look at her confused.

“Walls serve a purpose. For some, it’s to protect themselves from heartbreak or pain. Others are built entirely to keep people out and some are from trauma,” she says as she sits in her chair. “A person’s walls cannot be torn down entirely; we need to have a certain amount of control over ourselves and the environment around us. So instead, where there is a break, heartbreak, for example, I repair that break but at the same time build another wall that is more open to change, emotions and understanding one’s triggers. Eventually, the old wall ceases to exist and is replaced with the stronger, healthier one.”

“Interesting,” I reply quietly, fidgeting with the hem of my top.

“Don’t worry, Camilla, today will not be one of those days.” Kristen reaches forward and pats my hands. “Today will be mostly paperwork and getting to know one another. Is that ok with you?”

“Yes,” I force a smile.

For the next hour me and Kristen chatted, she didn’t bring up Jonathan and I wasn’t about to bring him up either. I wasn’t ready and she knew that. She suggested that I try group at least once and if I didn’t like it, then my sessions would be with her one on one every morning for the duration of my stay. Although group sounded good, I wasn’t sold on it. How could I go in there and say, “I’m fucked up ‘cos my boyfriend of only three and bit months was attacked and lost all memory of me.” Really? These people have real issues, important issues. I didn’t voice that to Kristen because I knew she would try to convince me otherwise and I was not in the mood to hear it.

Kristen allowed me to ask her anything about herself and what she did. It was refreshing to have someone so open. I know what she was doing, she was trying to create a rapport with me, and it worked. By the time our session had ended, I felt like we were friends, at least in a small way anyway. Perhaps this will help when it comes to me opening up to her.

We’ll see, I thought to myself as I stood from my chair.

“Lara told me that you aren’t too sure if depression is at play here?” Kristen asked, standing from her chair and grabbing something off the cabinet next to her desk.

“I’ve never suffered from it before. I mean, I know I have anxiety. I have since I was 18 but it’s never hit me this hard before.”

“That’s ok,” she sits back down. “Take this,” she hands me a small exam like booklet. “It’s a depression assessment booklet. All you have to do is fill in the circles that best describe how you are feeling. There are no right or wrong answers.” Kristen smiles at me softly.

“Then what happens?” I ask ridiculously quietly.

“I’ll score it up and then we will know if it is indeed your anxiety or depression.”

“And if it is…” I pause, feeling panicked at saying the word.

“Depression?” She says for me.

“Yeah.”

“Nothing Camilla, our sessions won’t change.”

“Ok, thank you.”

“You’re so welcome and remember no matter the outcome of that,” she points to the booklet in my hand, “you are still Camilla, no results will ever change that, ok?”

“Ok,” I smile.

“Good! Now, before I forget, here is your lockbox key,” she pulls a small silver key out of her pocket and hands it to me.

The key is like any other key but it’s the tag that catches my attention. Written on it in black is, ‘Fuck the patriarchy’.

I look up and smirk. “Taylor swift fan?”

“100% but I also knew it would fit you perfectly, Camilla,” Kristen winks at me.

She’s my person, I think to myself as I look back down at the key.

“Now, that will open the small lockbox outside your door. If you want me to read, see or ask me anything between now and when I see you tomorrow for group, leave it in there. I check those boxes in the mornings and before I leave in the evenings.”

“Does that include this form?”

What a dumb arse question, my inner voice scolds.

“I mean, of course, I can. Stupid question. Sorry.” I look away awkwardly.

“Remember what I said, Camilla. There are no stupid questions here and the answer is you can, or you can give it to me before group. It’s completely up to you.”

“Ok,” I shove the tag of the key into the hem of my leggings as Kristen walks me to the top of the stairs.

“Would you like me to walk you back to your room, Camilla?”

“No, I’m fine. It was nice to meet you, Kristen.” I offer her my hand.

“It was nice to meet you too, Camilla,” she takes my hand, looking a little caught off guard “I’ll see you tomorrow at group.” Kristen beams at me.

“You will,” I release her hand, head down the stairs and back to my room.

As I approach my door, I see Pickle sitting, waiting patiently for me.

“I hope I didn’t keep you waiting too long, Pick,” I say, bending down and stroking her. Pickle pushes herself into my hand. Giving me a not-so-subtle nudge as she moves just out of my reach.

“Pick, I just wanna go and lay in bed,” I whinge at her.

Pickle ignores me and continues to move further and further away. And I know what you’re thinking, just go lay down, who cares what the cat wants. The thing is the room is less empty with her in it and I don’t want to be alone right now.

“FIIIIIINE!” I grumble. “Where are we going?”

Pickle flicks her tail triumphally and trots to the stairs, stopping at the top to make sure I’m still following.

This is my life, I’m being guilted into going out by a cat, I internally roll my eyes at the thought.

Pickle leads me to the common room, takes her seat by the fireplace and begins cleaning herself in a not so glamours manner.

“Put that away, Pickle,” I roll my eyes at her as I plop down in the chair across from her.

I won’t lie, it was quiet, the crackle of the fireplace was soothing. I sit there with Pickle for a while quietly, enjoying the silence and getting lost in my thoughts. For the first time in a while, my thoughts were less dark and depressing. More of the sweet words that Jonathan whispered to me when he thought I was asleep, not the last words we said to each other the day it all ended. I smiled to myself remembering his goofy jokes, his sleepy smile first thing in the morning and the way he would always sweep the flyaways off my face and gently tuck them behind my ear. I felt myself reach up and do just that.

I closed my eyes, picturing him laying on my couch, snoring after a long night out on a stakeout. He didn’t know it, but I would kneel beside him and just watch, wondering what he was dreaming, was it about me? Did he dream the same things as I did? Kids, a home and marriage? My heart began to ache, and the words of our last conversation began to echo over the image. Tears threatened to fall, so in an attempt to keep them at bay I look over at the fireplace begging the warmth it beamed out to dry my eyes.

I’m not sure how long me and Pickle sat there but it must have been most of the day because the other guests started returning from the activities they had been doing and making their way to their rooms. Most either waved or smiled, but none stopped to talk, and I was ok with that. By this time, I was snuggled up in the chair with Pickle sprawled out on my lap, purring up a storm as I lightly stroked her.

“Camilla,” Dean said from behind me. “I didn’t expect to see you down here, darlin.” He sits down in Pickle’s seat, but she doesn’t protest. I mean how could she, free pats, and a warm lap. Heaven.

“Hey,” I say quietly, looking up at him.

“How was your day?” Dean asks as he leans over and pats Pickle.

She lifts her head and hisses at him before moving out of his reach.

“Still sassy, I see,” He chuckles, leaning back in his chair.

“Even comfy and warm she still has an attitude, perhaps she is me in cat form.” A small giggle slips past my lips that I quickly rein it back in, looking down at Pickle.

“Was that a joke, darlin?” Deans looks at me hopeful.

I don’t answer. I just continue stroking Pickle and watching the flames dance in the fireplace.

“How was my day you ask? Well,” Dean says, breaking the silence. “My day was quite interesting. I got up, got dressed, stuffed my face with an enormous amount of bacon for breakfast, went to the stables and wrote what I thought was an incredible joke, stoned your window, took a massive ego hit when I realised it wasn’t as funny as I thought, then took Millie for a ride. I must say she was in quite the mood today. We had to have a few words when we got back this afternoon.” He smirks as I turn to look at him. “I think she is jealous of you, darlin.”

“Pff, she has nothing to be jealous of. I’m nothing special.” I break eye contact again.

“On the contrary, I think she does.”

“Do you always use jokes to mask your feelings?” I snap at him.

His face went blank, jaw tightening as his lips formed a tight line, hurt flashing through his eyes. Breaking my angry gaze, he looks over to the fireplace.

Shit! I think to myself.

I didn’t mean for it to come out the way it did. I guess I was angry. I was angry because, for a moment, I liked what he said, and I shouldn’t have.

“Dean-“ I lean forward in my chair. “I-“

He cuts me off. “You know what, I think I’m going to shower and watch some Netflix till dinner is ready. I’ll catch ya later.” And with that, he stands, striding off.

“Dean!” I call to him, but he doesn’t stop, and I watch as he disappears up the stairs.

“Fuck, Pickle!” I huff out in frustration. “Why did I say that?” I shook my head.

You’re such an insensitive bitch sometimes, Camilla, my inner voice scolds me.

I’m aware, I fire back.

I need to explain, I need to apologize. I decide that right now isn’t the best time to speak to him. He’s mad and I wouldn’t want to make that worse. I’ll give him time to cool off and then I’ll go see him. Dean has been nothing but kind to me, I can’t let the day end like this.

Smelling an intoxicating scent floating through the room I instinctively get up and head in its direction.

There in the kitchen is Doug, singing and dancing around as he drops the veggies into one of many pots boiling on the stove.

“Ummm,” I mumble, my words get caught in my throat causing me to cough. Loud!

“SHIT!” Doug yells, dropping his mixing spoon as he swings around to face me. “You scared the Jesus out of me.” He grabs his chest.

“I’m sorry,” I put my hands up in defence.

“That’s ok,” he picks the spoon up off the floor. “Just don’t do it again, ya hear?” Doug points the spoon at me.

“I won’t, cross my heart.”

“Good, now what’s your name?” He asks, turning back to his pots.

“Camilla,” I reply, perching myself on the stool at the counter.

“Beautiful name, I’m Doug,” he turns and smiles at me. “Did you know that in Arabic, Camilla means ‘beauty’?”

“No, I-“ I pause, feeling both nervous and flattered. “I didn’t.”

Compliments never bothered me, until recently. I found them hard to believe and if I’m honest I felt like they were more for my benefit than an honest thought.

“It’s very fitting for you, Camilla. You are quite the beauty.” He shoots me a warm smile as he turns back to the stove. “Now, if you’re here to hassle me for food, unfortunately, dear child, you are shit out of luck. Dinner won’t be ready for another hour and that’s IF another young lady doesn’t come by and scare the wits out of me.” He chuckles.

“I’m really sorry about that,” I reply, genuinely sorry for scaring him.

“Don’t worry about it. Besides, I see you have befriended the antisocial Pickle.” He looks over his shoulder just as she struts in looking pissed off that I moved her off my lap to find where the delicious smell was coming from.

“It seems so,” I drop my hand down and skim her tail as she walks past.

“That’s a hard job, Camilla. You must be something special,”

“Everyone keeps saying that, but I can assure you, Doug, I am nothing special. I’m just an average girl that is easily forgotten,” I look down at my hands.

“Aren’t we all forgotten, eventually?” He moves to the side, washing his knife before turning to look at me.

“I-“ I look up at him. “I guess.”

“Hmmm,” his brows furrow at me.

Doug turns around, returning to what he was doing. As he begins to hum an unknown song, I’m left with his words echoing in my mind.

“Aren’t we all forgotten, eventually?”

I want to say a huge thank you to my Hanny bear for once again helping me create a perfect description of Kristen’s office. I don’t know how you do it Hannah but I’m forever grateful to you. Love you x