"I hope you don't mind if I don't look at you." I keep my head down. Silence. "I mean, it's nothing personal. It's just this thing I have." Again, no response. Well this is therapy, the whole point is that I talk. "I can't...look...at people. When I tell them things."

"MMhmm." Finally. Something.

"I get scared. Of their reaction." I hear a scribble on his pad. Carefully, I glance up. He's looking right at me. Embarassed I look back to the floor. I'll get to know this floor fairly well probably. "I can't even read my bosses notes on proposals or anything until I'm out of the office." The pattern in the carpet is way more interesting than it should be. "You could call it paranoia I suppose. It's just this...thing. I have others." God, do I really want to tell him all the reasons I'm crazy. Is now the right time? I mean I just met the man.

Again, silence. I've never been disturbed by silence, never felt the need to fill it. But now, this is different. This silence is begging to end. Begging so loudly it's all I can hear. "Pennies. Quarters. Pencils. Chairs. Silverware. Pens. Furniture. Clothing. Books."

I look up. He's not looking at me at least. Making another note. That's at least two in the first five minutes. I put my head back down.

"I can't touch them. Well I can. I just...it's hard too. And it depends on the item. Pennies I can't stand. I'll give them away as quickly as possible. Or hoard them in my wallet so that I don't have to use them. Generally I'm all right with quarters, but if they're noticably dirty or scratched I'll try to get rid of it. Pencils and pens. I can touch some of them. I can't even explain which ones, but if you're going to lend me one, I probably wont' be able to touch it. Silverware. I can't touch silverware that doesn't match. I was at a restaurant once, and the silverware didn't match. It was dirty too. I had to ask for plastic."

I shake my head and close my eyes tightly. I don't think the lines in the pattern are supposed to start moving. That happens all the time. Tiles usually, but it's happened more often now with any sort of pattern. Opening my eyes again, I see that the pattern is still moving. I sigh, knowing I won't be able to stop it.

"Chairs are usually ok, but if it looks too worn, or just odd, I can't sit on them. And mismatched furniture. Old furniture. Unless I really know the place, I won't use it. If I have to sit down, then I'll keep my body as closed as possible and not move."

"Hmm." Curious, I dare to look up again. He's smiling. Why is he smiling? Is he laughing at me? No, I dont' think so. I think he's just...smiling. Odd. Wait a minute, I'm calling him odd. I'm the one that can't touch pennies. "And the clothing? Books?" He does talk. Not just gutteral noises but actual words. Sentences. I must have been staring at him. I look back down.

"Same thing. Used clothing is something I've really never been able to cope with. Hand me downs, used clothing shops, I can't do it. I try, but it's too hard. And books. Well, I can read most books. But there are some, and they're generally at the used book stores or the library. If they're tattered in an odd manner, or dusty, or just falling apart - I'll leave them alone. And if I have to handle one, I'll breathe through my mouth or hold my breath."

"Why?"

I haven't fully explained this carpet have I? I'm a visual person. If I was reading something, and didn't get a full explanation, I'd find it very hard to focus. So I'll explain. It's burgundy. Not plush or anything, flat. And it's got a pattern of triangles and diamonds embossed on it. So that a diamond is in the center of a tile of carpet and on the corners are triangles - like an old photo in an album with the corners tucked under to keep it in place. Those triangles and diamonds, that's what's moving. The lines they create lift off the carpet. And I can see them. They're wiggling around, dashing all around the room. If I reach down to grab one -

"Emma," He says my name as though he's trying to soothe me. I don't know why he's trying to soothe me, I'm not hysterical or emotional. I'm simply looking at the floor. Granted I half think the floor has come alive, but I'm perfectly calm about that. "Why can't you touch pennies, or furniture, or clothing, or pens and pencils, or silverware? Well, dirty silverware I can understand - but mismatched?" See, this is why I don't tell people. They just think I'm insane. They don't understand. But how can I expect them to when I don't even understand.

"I don't know. I've never known why exactly. And it's just always been this way. I feel bad, because I feel like I'm being snobby or something, thinking I'm above it all. But I'm not...I just can't bring myself to do it. Only one person understands, or at least accepts it and knows when to avoid it." I reach down to grab one of the dashing grooves of the carpet. I move my hand through it, as though it's just air. But it's there. I can see them moving. It's distracting really, but mesmerizing.

"Who?"

I grasp at air. I shuffle my feet around on the carpet, trying to break apart the pattern. But I cant. The movements are simply interrupted only to continue when my feet move again. "I'm sorry?"

"Who? Who understands?"

"Oh. My sister." And I look up again. He's looking at me. Why is he looking at me all the time? Maybe because I've spent the past ten minutes staring at his carpet trying to pick up imaginary patterns. But I can't read his face. Is it disgust? Amusement? Understanding? Confusion? For someone who hates seeing people's reactions to themselves, you'd think not being able to read a face is good. But I hate it just as much, because it means that they're hiding something. And I automatically assume the worst.

Tired of the carpet (and I'll admit it, a little freaked out too), I look out the window now. Rain is drizzling down the glass and fog obscures any view I might have of the city. But it's a better view than his stone face.

"Are you two close?"

"Yes."

"Is she younger or older?"

"Younger." This time I look him right in the eye. "Can we not talk about her though?" I wait to see his reaction. Briefly surprise washes his face, but it leaves. And only the calm demeanor is left. I look back out the window.

"Ok."

Silence. I have nothing to say anymore. This one isn't begging to be consumed. Instead the silence waits patiently, waiting for it's own time to end. I expect him to say something. To ask me more about my family, or my idiosyncracies, but he doesn't. He sits there and watches me. While I watch the rain, he watches me. I squint my eyes, trying to find something out there that isn't clouded over. Trying to find something I recognize. But I can't. It's all hidden. Underneath layers and layers of fog and rain. I shake my head again, slowly, and lean back into the couch. I keep my eyes out the window though. Like the carpet, it's hypnotic. But this time the rain is supposed to move. I'm not making that part up. It's not just in my head. And all the while he sits there, sits there with the silence, waiting for me to talk.

"I don't know why I came."

"There must be some reason?"

"There was. There is. But I don't..." I sigh. "I don't have anything to say."

"That's all right. Part of my job is to help you find out what you need to say."

I look over at him again. He's put down his notes, I see there's almost a page. A page. About me. And how insane I am. Now he's leaning forward in his chair. His feet firmly apart, making him seem authoritative. Like he knows what he's doing. Thank god someone does. His elbows are resting on his knees, with his hands clasped in front of him. He looks right at me.

"But you do have to tell me why you called me in the first place. You said there was a reason. You might not know why it's there, or what the problem is. But you have one."

I can't look at him anymore. Looking back out the window I see that the rain has stopped. I watch, waiting for the sun to return. "I'll be waiting all day won't I?."

"Excuse me?"

I look back at him. "The sun. I'll be waiting all day if I wait for it to come back won't I?"

Now he looks out the window. And then back again to me. He must feel it's his duty to keep watching me, as though I'll fall apart any moment and he has to be sure to be there at that moment so that he can catch me. "I think you might." Wow. That was deep.

I smile at him. And realize it's the first time I've smiled at him. Usually I smile when I first meet someone. He smiles back. And I look back out the window. "Depression."

"I'm sorry?" For a therapist you'd think he'd be required to listen better.

"I said, depression. That's why I called."

"Oh. Now I know what I can help you with." I hear him lean back in his chair. Satisfied that he has a goal now. Something tangible he can work with to fix me.

I breathe deeply. I hope so. I hope he can help me. The rain has started again. I think I remember hearing on the weather report that it'll be raining for the next two days, with little sun at all. That's all right. I like the rain. A lot of people think it's dreary, and depressing. It's not. It's wonderful. Calming and relaxing. The sun makes you squint your eyes and gives you headaches. But the rain, that only calms you. And the fog makes it all cozy. They work together. Rain and fog, making a cozy city where I feel completely undisturbed. No one is going to ask me how I'm doing, or pester me with questions that aren't really all that important, or beg me for my time. No. I'll be left alone. In my rain and my fog.

Contact Prologue Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4