Chapter 2

Justice POV

Present Day. Toronto, Ontario

I know I'm not crazy, despite what everyone else believes, and I am fully aware that I can’t change their minds; but the definition of crazy means ‘mentally deranged, demented and insane.’ And I believe in no way am I close to any of those descriptions.

My family does not suffer from any mental illness. My older sister suffers from a goddess complex; my little sister suffers from being babied too much syndrome, but no mental illness to bring on what happened that night. That’s my story, that’s the truth no matter how horrible it sounds to my family or anyone else.

Sighing dolefully, I fix my attention on Dr. Fields, sitting across the room from me in his stereotypical brown leather sofa, a book in his lap, pen in his grasp, and I want to leave—I'm tired of being here. I'm fed up with talking about my emotions, that horrible night and what I feel and remember a year later.

Finally ready to answer his question, I lied. “No, I don't believe that I was in the presence of death,” and Dr. Fields cast his brown pegging eyes on me.

In all truth, it wasn't an expression one could notice. To someone who hasn't spent almost a year talking to this man two days a week, Dr. Fields would seem nonchalant, like he hasn't a care in the world with his receding hair line, floral out of date dress shirts and glasses.

Dr. Fields’ scrutinizing glares started to become more and more frequent since I stopped insisting about being in the presence of death. How many people can honestly say that they’ve been in the presence of death? Granted there is probably a handful of them, like the ones who survived cancer or some fatal accident, but did you ever feel the kind of fear that ruptures through your body with the acknowledgment of not being able to move your own limbs? As if you were paralyzed, frozen on the outside but in the inside you’re screaming and banging on the pellucid glass hoping someone may come to your rescue?

I can recall a faint voice that wasn't mine in the back of my head commanding my physical form to move. I remember envying my tears’ freedom to escape the qualm that commanded my fingers one by one gripping the knife, and the absolute churning in my stomach is unforgettable.

Is it the same as realizing that you have cancer; falling off of a hundred foot cliff; having your lungs swell with water; waking up in the middle of surgery or having someone beat you to death with a baseball bat?

Have you experienced such fear? If you have, well then, it seems I’m not alone.

Slightly glancing away from Dr. Fields, I was maddened by his heavy analyzing and pondering leer. Silence screams louder than words. I looked up at his bookshelf to the left of me, scanning over his multitudes of doctor books and certificates—same old books always in the same place. My eyes drifted along his beige wall finding more certificates, awards, diplomas, and I swear the one to the far left is a new certificate.

Settling my gaze on the family therapist, I tried to find the right words to explain, in detail, what was going on in my head. Now that I think about it, for a family to have a therapist that does make me – us, my family – look a little crazy. I mean, let me say, unlike my siblings I have never had issues to see a therapist. Mya, my older sister by three years, overdosed on drugs at a party and the paramedics had to revive her back to life. You would think that would make my dear, crazy sister stop, and re-evaluate her life knowing that she died and was brought back to life. But no, Mya took that as my life is meant for greatness, and a few years later she ran off to Hollywood and became a Victoria’s Secret model.

Kailah, my little sister, has no issues yet, but our mother forces my seventeen-year-old sister to talk to Dr. Fields once a week, to talk about her emotions and life. According to our mother, she has two screwed up daughters and she doesn't want a third kid flying over the cuckoo's nest into a dark abyss—my mother's exact words. My mother can be just a tad dramatic when she's ready. And last but not least, Mom drags Daddy to see Dr. Roberts—couples’ counseling.

Dr. Fields questioned, “So you don’t hear the voices anymore?”

“No,” and that wasn't a lie.

“And what about you trying to kill yourself?” He scribbled something in his pad of paper.

I repeated the same line, I've been telling him for the past three weeks now. “I was missing my ex-boyfriend; my sister had cancer at the time and everything was really stressful for me. I was at a really weak point in my life and at the time I thought taking my own life would make everything easy. I wasn't thinking how that would affect my family and friends. It was stupid and selfish of me.”

In other words, I, of my own free will, did not walk downstairs, turn on the kitchen lights and head straight to the drawer, pulling out a stainless steel knife. I did not try to kill myself!

Without saying another word, Dr. Fields wrote more things down in his notepad. He then looked at his wristwatch. “Justice, it's a quarter to three, we'll continue this session next week Wednesday.”

Thank goodness! Standing up I grabbed my jacket and belongings.

“Oh and before I forget,” Dr. Fields began and I held my breath. “Happy twenty-first birthday.”

Exhaling, I thanked him, bade him a quick farewell and hustled out of the room, out of the building, to find my sister waiting for me. Pushing the glass doors open, a bitter wind hurried by, decorating my winter jacket and hair with snowflakes. I hate winter. Shoving my hands in my jacket pockets, I followed the salted pathway to the parking lot where Mya was on the phone leaning against the new Nissan Daddy bought me for today.

Mya said, to whoever who was on the line, that she’d call them back as I approached and shoved her phone in her pocket. “Birthday girl! We're gonna have a fun night.” Her glossy lips parted into a simper. Translation, get stupid drunk.

Walking around to the passenger side, I said, “I just wanna take a bottle of rum to my head, and erase everything Dr. Fields and I spoke about. Plus you and Audrina have been telling me this for a week now, building the anticipation of tonight, and I hate to say it but you guys have gotten me very excited.” My original plan was to stay home and celebrate with my family and friends, nothing too crazy because I simply was not in the mood to do anything extravagant this year. But I should have known both Mya and my best girlfriend were going to make this birthday the best one ever, since last year I didn't do much because it was days before I so-called tried to kill myself.

Climbing inside the vehicle, Mya said, turning down the radio, “So how is good old Dr. Fields?”

“His eyes burn,” I murmured, buckling myself.

“Learn anything new about yourself today?” Mya mocked our mother’s tone while backing out of the parking space.

The edge of my lips tugged outward. “That I'm a good actress and or liar.”

“Make sure you keep up with the ‘innocent but I’m still crazy’ speech.”

The speech Mya and I came up with a few days after she came down to Toronto. I rolled my eyes, “Did you talk to Mom and Dad?” I tried to talking to my parents about shortening the days of the visit but they didn’t agree. This morning I even told Dad that he could return the car if they talk to my therapist. Yet still I didn’t win. Although, if he did agree, I would so regret my bargaining skills.

Mya mumbled, “Mom said depending on what Doctor Fields says today, and Dad still worries about you.”

“He's going be a tough one to convince,” and I can't blame my father. What he walked in on would scare any parent.

Switching the radio station to something that we would both enjoy, Mya questioned. “So, you still haven’t really answered my question.”

I said quickly, “I don’t wanna talk about it,”

“When will you ever wanna talk about it?”

“When I do, you will know.” Attitude was well cloaked on my tone.

Mya retorted, “You’re being difficult,”

“Really, you’re the queen of ignorance.”

Mya huffed. “I know you better than anyone else, so don’t bullshit me.” And she stopped at a red light. I could feel her glowering upon me, as I intentionally gazed out of the window, watching Toronto’s lively streets. It was early Friday afternoon; everyone was hustling about. TTC buses were everywhere and everyone was trying to get things done for the weekend. Not to mention Christmas was just a couple days away.

Finally, I spoke vaguely. “To tell you the truth, I wish I knew what to tell you but I don’t even understand it myself. So, can we please drop it?”

The light turned green; Mya inhaled deeply, flicking her bounding auburn mane over her shoulders, releasing the brake pedal and she changed the topic. “I know what you can do to get Dad on your side.”

I questioned, “Do I really wanna hear this?”

“Just give him the puppy dog eyes and wear your hair in pigtails like you used to when you were like—”

“—Five,” I interrupted already, seeing the mischievous wheels turning in Mya's head. It was the same technique she used to use on our dad when she was ten, fourteen, sixteen and even when Mya was my age it actually worked—when our father still believed that she was his innocent first born daughter.

Mind you, that image of innocence shattered only two years ago when my father went to buy a Playboy magazine and his first born daughter was showing off certain body parts a father should never see on his full grown matured daughter. Needless to say, Daddy never bought another Playboy magazine again—which made Mom very happy.

I continued, “I'm not going to play mind tricks with our dad. I'm going to sit him down, once again, and we're going to discuss this like grownups.” I tried the grown up approach already and I got nowhere. I was never one for mind games, that was always Mya, but if push comes to shove, I don't shy away from them.

Turning up the radio which was on Flow 93.5, I sat back in the passenger seat and Audrina, my best girlfriend, sent me a text wanting to know how my birthday was going so far. We exchanged texts back and forth, until I noticed Mya turning at a green light.

I questioned, peering down the road. “Where are we going?” This better be a short cut.

“It’s a surprise,” Sis grinned.

No doubt, less than fifteen minutes later I was glancing up at an old building with a sign hanging from the third floor window. I read the huge capital letters: ‘SELENA SANCHEZ’ and smaller writing below said, ‘Embrace the unknown.’

I said to my sister, sniffling a laugh, “You have got to be kidding me. I’m not going in there,”

Mya swung her arms around my shoulders. “We’re here.” Her golden eyes were gleaming.

“And what’s your point?” I wondered. “You know I don’t believe in this crap.”

“Even more reason for you to be more open.”

“I’m open enough,” I huffed in serious denial and a string of my closed minded memories crept into mind. I winced with the flashbacks that kept reminding me over and over that being the good little girl, Daddy’s angel and the perfect over achiever daughter, has seriously dampened my ability to be more open-minded. A minor plight, I plan on fixing in the near future.

My sister was relentless on this Cleo wannabe. The more I said no, the harder she fought. We both can be very stubborn.

Mya crossed her arms watching me chafed, as an unpleasant winter breeze disarrayed her straight coffee locks into her face, leaving her cheeks flushed and the tip of her nose pink. After the short lived breeze had subdued, Mya – with poise – lifted her right hand, tucking the loose strands behind her ears and her hazel eyes glaring at me—casting Mom’s prissy expression.

Sis was Mom's exact replica; long shaft of the body, curvy waistline and long legs-—our mother is Brazilian. I wasn’t as curvaceous as my sister, in fact my breasts weren’t as big either—it was the curse of my father’s family. All the women on his side have a small chest. Mom, Mya and Kailah wore size 6 in shoes; I have size 9’s. Again, the curse of the Morel family. Mya inherited Mom’s perfect teeth from young; I had braces until eighteen. Mya flawless skin; myself bad acne until I started using Proactive when I was thirteen.

The only thing Mya and I share in common is the same big Mila Kunis eyes which comes from the Morel family—my father’s side. And since my father and mother both have golden, puce eyes, we got that inevitably. The only two things that I have, which I know Mya envies, is my natural curly mane, and my light tan complexion which makes it seem like I always have a nice browning tan. Again, my major traits have been stolen from the Morel family, or it is arguable that I’m adopted which Mya has, in fact, argued throughout my entire childhood. And other than all that info, we’re complete opposites. Sun and Moon.

Anyways I digress… I was surprised that Mya had the nerve to cast those big irritated eyes on me, on my birthday of all days!

Mya continued pushing, “All I’m asking for is a half hour with her.”

I filled my lungs with the frosty dry air, contemplating hard. “Ugh. Fine, I’ll go,” I sighed, gritting my teeth. “I don’t believe in this nonsense, so what harm will it do?”

“You won’t regret it.” Mya smiled her roguish grin showing her perfect white teeth.

That money making smile was deadly. It was a smile I hated to see, to witness that same crafty look she used to do when we were little, right before Sis was going to get us in trouble. I hate that look; that expression means a lot more headache is coming my way.