Legs

It is a lie that therapists 'have couches in their offices. At least, it’s been a lie so far, in my limited experience.

Focus.

Elena Gar is the type of person you would absolutely like to help in a grocery store, if she’d dropped a carton of juice or accidentally knocked something off a shelf, or couldn’t reach something. I’m not sure that’s a particularly good trait for a therapist, but here we are.

I watch her eyebrows, pulled up between her eyes.

Focus.

My legs still itch ­— a consistent, slight-but-increasing irritation.

“Gray?” Elena’s voice is very soft and warm and always sounds like she’s saying the second or third thing that has come to her mind, never the first.

My hands hover over my thighs. I look up.

“Mmm?”

 “Gray, you were saying. About work. And the incident.” She flutters her hand forward vaguely. That means go on, I’ve learnt.

I open my mouth. I don’t want to talk about work or The Incident because I can’t think much about anything right now. Except for my legs, which are getting steadily worse and I can’t scratch them, at least not properly, because everyone knows scraping at one’s legs, or arms, or most any part of one’s body, during a therapy session is an easy sign pointing straight to Loony. I learnt that word the other day — loony — and I can’t decide if I like the feel of it in my mouth or not. Loony. It’s lob-sided. And tastes funny. Nobody tells you words have a taste.

I sigh. Straighten up.

“Um. It was — it was weird, I know. It won’t happen again.”

Elena frowns. Her eyebrows do the thing again. She’s like a real-life version of those drawings people offer to sketch of you in touristy areas.

I’m trying to think of the name of them — cha-something — when Elena’s voice reaches the sharpest point I’ve ever heard it hit — which is to say it’s a mildly blunt, charcoal pencil.

“Gray. Please, try to focus. We don’t have much time left for today. Let’s make the most of it.”

Yes. Let’s do that.

The skin on my thighs is practically simmering.

“Okay, I’m sorry. Okay. What happened at work. The thing is, I don’t — I’m not a thief. I mean, I know, actions are pretty much all we are, but I needed it, the water filter. I was going to replace it —”

“Is that how you feel? That we’re only the sum of our actions?” Elena interrupts. I can physically see her perk up alongside her pen over her notebook.

I put my hands underneath thighs. Sit on them hard.

I could distract her. Pretend this action thing is something deeply profound and personal to me. But I’d feel too bad. Elena and her PhD deserve an A-class subject. An honest one. 

I shake my head. “No, not really. Maybe. I guess I’m just embarrassed. And I was going to replace it. I swear.”

She looks enormously disappointed.

I give it another go because maybe if I carry on talking the clock will speed up and I can get out of here and stop my legs being on fire. I’m going to have to get creative and try ignore the little kernel of guilt sitting in my throat because lying to Elena is surely one of the single worst things anyone could do. But this — my legs — shouldn’t be happening now and it isn’t my fault, either.

Lying it is:

“Okay. If I’m being honest, the thing is that I feel a lot more whole the moment after I take something. It’s a rush —”

I keep my eyes on Elena’s — look at my face look at my face look at my face.

“And I just. It helps me feels more in control. More here. More able to effect something —”

Elena is nodding, earnest, but her eyes slip to my hands, escaped from underneath my thighs and now scratching the top of them. I shoot them a look of disgust. Traitors. I can feel my heart pulsing in my throat. I start to cry. The tears come easily. Thank God. My sniffs draw her eyes up to mine again.

“And I just — I want to feel alive, more than I do now —”

“Gray, I’m sorry for interrupting, but—”

Elena’s eyes are darting from my face to my hands, which makes sense because I am now semi-clawing at my thighs, my shins, and I can’t stop.

I continue, trying to keep my voice steady: “It started with little things. When I was younger. Gum from the shops. My friend’s Alice band. And now I can’t really control it at all.”

Come on come on come on. Pick up the control-versus-lack-of-control thing. The sabotage. It’s golden. I’ve practically handed her The Great Psychological Paradox for us to pick apart together. Slightly amateur, but still. Except Elena is still blinking at me, and my fingers are still digging into at my leg skin through my jeans, and I feel the top layers of skin give way a bit.

“But the water fountain was my most ambitious attempt yet. And maybe it needed to happen, because now I’m here, making progress—”

I’m hoping to bait her with that last word. Progress is something Elena loves.

I glance down. Next to my sneaker, a small pile of skin flakes, translucent white, has fallen to the carpeted floor. Most likely from underneath my jeans, off of my leg.

“Gray, I’m sorry, I really want to talk about this, and I’m so glad you’re — but is there something wrong—” She motions towards my legs, hand fluttery. “Are you uncomfortable? Would you like to go to the bathroom? Are you okay?” She begins to stand up, a look of clear, acute concern carved across her face.

I jump up. My legs sting sting sting.

“Yes! Yes, I need the loo, I—”

I blink. The door. The door. I take two steps and reach for it. The door handle is cold against my fingers and I turn it and Elena is calling my name but it’s okay, I’m in the hallway now. Down the passageway, down again. Stairs. My hand shakes on the stair rail. I press my palm against the wall, cold and white and slightly sticky. Wonderfully cold.

I reach the bathroom. A full-length mirror along one wall and more cold and white sticky walls and floors.

There isn’t time for a stall, so here’s hoping. I tug my sneakers off. Begin on my jeans and fall backwards, which is probably better. Horizontal is best. I sit on the floor; my pants are getting tighter and I pull. The waistline digs into my thighs. Skin showers around my hands and the floor. Red thighs.

I glance up into the mirror. It happens quickly. A shaking sort of throbbing. I reach up to the faucets and my breath frightens me. Loud and laced with fear. I close my eyes because I can’t stop my hands from shaking against the faucet handle. Everything shakes.

The tap won’t turn on. It’s too tight and the sink is too high and I can’t stand up. Come on come on come on. The bathroom light is very, very bright. I glance down. Too late. My tail lolls against the bathroom floor, scales ashen grey. Dorsal fin bent weirdly.

I get the tap on. It won’t do, this water, but it will have to for now. It’s cold and soft against my fingers, my wrists. I reach up, my forearms aching against the rim of the sink.

It’s too late. My cheeks are damp and I’m crying, I realise. Real tears, this time. A small sob. Everything is still shaking shaking shaking. It’s too late it’s too late it’s too late.

I put my head between my stretched up arms, squeeze my eyes shut tight. Breathe. The water is cool, dripping down my arm and onto the floor tiles, cool too against my tail.

I wait.