Emery

Fat ass. Short ass. Chunky Monkey. Ugly piece of lard. Fat piece of shit. Oompa Loompa.

These are only some of the names my peers would call me at school. Though now homeschooled, even the distance from my tormentors wasn't enough to ease all of the damage. While leaving was some relief, the memory of how I was treated also left with me like mental scars.

I hate that place. I hated it so much that I nearly made Bridgette late every morning as I dragged my feet every step. Up to the point before I left, I'm surprised she didn't place Dad's cuffs around my wrists to force my ass there. But she knows why I hate it. The constant bullying, the ear-deafening cackles, skinny bitches, and asshole guys are everyday torture that I succumbed to.

My weakness, my attachment to the hateful comments and treatment, is what brought me here, to Loraine's office. Last night, Bridgette and Dad dropped the bomb on me that they are aware of my eating disorder. I shudder when I remember they called me bulimic. I'm not an idiot, I know I have an issue, but hearing someone call me that, two someones that I love, hurt. It also angered me. Being put on the spot like that, being called bulimic. I feel like I was under the spotlight all over again, bringing back the memories of when I was still in public school, with everyone's eyes and judgements on me.

For a split second, I almost considered breaking a sissy swear just to keep up this act, but I couldn't bring myself to do it. I don't like throwing up, but it's working when everything else falls short. I have lost a lot of weight, but not yet enough. I don't need help or counseling from a stranger, but here I am.

Sissy swear is something Bridgette and I made up when I was five. We swear we would never lie, then cross our pinky fingers and kiss our thumbs. It was a pure gesture since the day we made it and still is today. I wasn't about to add that guilt to my conscience plate since it was already full enough at the moment.

I still can't believe I talked to my Dad like that. Never have I ever raised my voice at him in such a disrespectful manner. So, to make up for my poor behavior and decisions, I made a deal with him that I would attend counseling every Friday afternoon to meet with Loraine.

When Dad drives me to the building, I am immediately welcomed by a woman with a genuine smile who leads me into her office. I look back at Dad warily before stepping into her office as he takes a seat in the lobby and mouths, "You got this."

The woman extends her hand, gesturing to a worn, old-looking leather chair. "Have a seat, Emery," she says, closing the door behind me. "I am Loraine, it's great to meet you."

With a sheepish grin, keeping my lips sealed tight, I take a seat not saying anything. My heart races and my knees tap against each other as I fidget and shake my legs nervously.

Rubbing my now sweaty palms against my blue jeans that are one size too big, Lorraine takes a seat across from me, crossing her legs over one another. Her legs are long and lean and seem never-ending. I take notice of how her outfit speaks volumes of her. With the red dress and white polka-dotted pumps she has on, her outfit screams feminine quirkiness and... confidence. My baggy pants and black hoodie are nothing in comparison.

From an outside point of view, my outfit probably screams simple, primitive, or she's dressed like that because it's shark week. I may have lost weight and now weigh in at one hundred and fifty pounds, but I have zero confidence to wear fitted or bold clothing like Loraine here.

The weight of Lorraine's hazel eyes as they study me makes me feel like I'm under an interrogation spotlight. She doesn't mind words, and starts with, "So, Emery, let's start off with you telling me three things about yourself and why you are here today."

With a heavy sigh, I begin with the first three things that pop into my mind. "I attend online schooling because I couldn't go to public school anymore. I am Bridgette's little sister and I am bulimic. I made a deal with my Dad which is why I am here now."

She nods her head slowly, registering my words, while her plum brown hair shakes lightly. I watch as her hazel irises shift downward and take notice of my callus knuckles before writing something on her notepad with the pen she grips firmly. On instinct, I quickly pull down my sleeves to cover the ugly marks.

"Is being bulimic something you feel you can stop? Why is it you started in the first place?"

I gulp, shifting in my seat. I am surprised and grateful by how the buttery softness of the material makes me feel at ease. "I... need to lose weight. I get told how great I look and congratulated on my weight loss, but it only reminds me I need to lose more. Before I became bulimic, I attended public school to where I was referred to as Bridgette's sister or people didn't know me, just heard my nicknames or saw my size. I was suffering every day I stepped foot into that school before Dad finally let me join online."

I look down at my entwined fingers that barely peer out from my hoodie sleeves. The edges, like my nerves, are frayed and tattered from how I pull on them. "They didn't tell me anything I didn't already know or felt. I tried everything. Eating healthy, exercise... it worked a little. But... it wasn't enough."

Lorraine sits in the same position, completely at ease with her hazel eyes still focused on me. Her quietness urges me to continue and I feel as if I am in the hot seat.

"This first time it was an accident, I was upset. But with this, I have finally lost weight. I can keep track of my food intake and maintain some control in my life again. It works. Now when someone sees me at a store or anything, people don't even recognize me anymore."

"And how does that make you feel?" Lorraine prompts.

I pause for a moment. "Invisible."

"Tell me more."

My hips squirm despite the comfortable seat. "Do you know how great that feels? To not hear taunting on a daily basis? To not feel disgusted and scared in your own skin? To... not want to die anymore to be with your mother?" A tear slips.

Lorraine sets down her clipboard and sits upright, entwining her fingers together within her lap. Her words hit me like a punch in the stomach.

"From what I see, you are fighting for a false sense of control, Emery. A control that you have handed over to others and have allowed them to affect your emotions and decisions, and desperately trying to regain that control in any way that you can."

I stare silently at her hazel eyes. She's not wrong.

"Don't lose yourself in your fight."

Easier said than done.

"Right now, sitting across from you, I can see how this is tearing you apart. I am here to help you discover the tools you can utilize that will help you stop destroying yourself. Just keep being open and honest with me like you just were."

After I nod silently, she offers me the first glimmer of hope since Mom passed away.

"It won't be easy and it won't be quick, but we'll get there," she reassures me.

The last time I sat in a therapist's lobby for the first time, I was full of disbelief, destruction, doubt, and anger. My father brought me to Dr. Loraine, so I felt forced, trapped almost. Now, I see how therapy truly works if you open yourself up to it.

One year since my last therapy session with Loraine, I sit in another therapist's lobby office. While again I am here not out of personal choice, my perspective is to just finish this so that I can go back on duty.

"Emery Fairess?" I rise from the chair I had been sitting in for almost twenty minutes when a tall woman calls me.

"That's me," I admit nervously.

With a small, genuine smile, the woman tucks a piece of her toffee blonde hair that fell from her messy bun behind her ear and extends her hand. Her clothes are sleek and professional. A huge contrast to the colorful Lorraine, she wears a black conservative two-piece suit. The skirt is knee-length, then the rest of her legs are covered with near skin-colored hosiery and black suede heels.

Sharp and classy this one.

"I am Dr. Marcia Henry. It's great to meet you, Emery. Would you please come with me into my office?" I shake her hand with a nod and follow her inside.

For a fleeting second, I get the urge to look back out into the empty lobby, remembering when Dad sat and waited for my first therapy session. The nervousness I experienced my first time is resurfacing, causing my stomach to turn.

"What did you feel in that moment when you saw your blood on the ground?"

Our hour is almost up and I have caught Dr. Marcia up on pretty much everything. Her polished appearance and nature, plus the work-related focus, made the information easily flow out. She asked the simple, get-to-know-your-client questions which included the part of why I became a police officer and if being one now is still as important to me as before. After explaining her plan for me on how this whole thing works to get me back on duty, the topic changed. To my dismay, after opening up about all of that, the shooting became the topic, causing a cold shiver to run up my spine.

Though she seems nice and good at her job based on how comfortable I feel opening up, I feel almost forced to go through the motions. Dr. Henry is now my gatekeeper for getting back to work.

"I...I felt-" My eyes roam over the sage green walls, the natural-colored wooden desk, and the tall green plant that sits upright in the corner before landing on the three frames mounted to the wall above Dr. Henry's desk. The natural lighting from the windows shines on her credentials and expertise, almost like a limelight on her success.

I wonder how many officers she has spoken with.

How many of them sat in this very seat, feeling the same pressure to talk about shit you don't necessarily want to? Was Marshall one of her clients?

"I felt like I couldn't breathe," I admit, sinking further into my leather chair. "Everything from that day came rushing back in images that seemed to sear my skin, making me drop my flowers. That's the best way I can describe it."

"I know when I was on the verge of... dying, I was cold. Like ice-cold, but I felt hot at that moment. Anger and fear surged through me." With both hands resting on an armrest, I gouge my fingers into the leather material of the chair.

What is it about these damn chairs that seem to make me want to open up?

"Anger and fear, you say?" Dr. Marcia lifts a brow, her blueish-green irises showing no sign of judgment in them. "Who were you angry at?"

"Marsh-" I begin but abruptly stop to think about that question some more. Thought after thought rolls through my mind.

I just told Marshall I forgave him because it wasn't really his fault. So why do I feel angry?

I almost died from a bullet that wasn't meant for me, that should be enough reason. Right? I should be mad at Stormy.

Correction, I am mad at, Stormy.

She is, after all, the attempted murderer. It was her gun.

"I guess at Stormy," I finally say. "At everything that happened. Guns took away my father, they almost took away the man that I love. It nearly took me away from Bridgette."

Tears form at the corner of my eyes. "I almost left her alone," I murmur.

"Have you held your work gun since this occurred?" I shake my head. "Okay, well our hour is up for today but until you come back next Tuesday, I am assigning some homework for you."

I look at her silently with interest since I have not had homework since the Academy but I was top of my class for a reason. That said, I did not feel prepared for her assignment.

"At night, when alone in your room, I need you to put on your police uniform, hold your police firearm -not loaded- and face the mirror. Next week I want to hear how that image made you feel. How holding a gun after being shot by one feels. Just be open with me like you were today and I will be able to get the help you need faster."

"She isn't anything like Loraine. She was more sleek and polished. She also wore clothing that Loraine would have never been caught dead in," I laugh, picturing the colorful Loraine in a dark suit.

Bridgette takes a sip of her wine and pulls her feet up on the couch. "Okay, but do you like her? Can she get you back to work soon?"

I nod. "Yeah, I think so. She asked me some really good questions and is assigning some homework that could be beneficial. I feel comfortable talking to her, I was able to open up to her about things I normally wouldn't." Bridgette's brows shoot up. Laughing, I add, "Professional work stuff you already know. I just meant stuff I wouldn't share with anyone besides you, normally."

"And Grayson," she giggles, wiggling her brows teasingly. I roll my eyes, feeling my cheeks heat. "Oh, you have some mail sitting on the breakfast bar. Forgot to mention it."

"From who?" I ask and she takes a big gulp of her wine before lightly tapping her fingernails amongst the glass.

"Phoenix Superior Court."

I all but run to the bar, grabbing the letter on top of the daily stack of Nurse uniform magazines, and rip it open.

"What is it?" Bridgette asks cautiously. I didn't even hear her walk into the kitchen behind me. She sets down her glass and grabs the bottle of wine from the fridge to pour herself some more.

"Summons. I have court starting this month. The case against Stormy for attempted murder." I feel my heart palpitate within my chest as my fingers tremble while I try to hold the letter still, running my eyes over her name. Over and over again.

Stormy Lewis.

Without effort, Bridgette reaches up to the top cupboard to grab my bottle of whiskey - a cupboard that I normally have to climb the counters to open - and pours me a glass before handing it to me.

The amber liquid usually has a way of calming my nerves, bringing my feet back down to the ground, but not this time.

This chapter is dedicated to my dear friend and editor still_just_me Make sure to stop by her page and check out her story I Hate Football Players.