Rows of bookshelves, all crammed full of books lined the
walls. More books were piled on the thick, red carpet. A computer and printer
sat in the corner. Faded posters of old rock bands covered the patches of the
walls where the black paint was scuffed. Another shelf full of fancy notebooks
was positioned next to the computer. At the other corner of the room there was
an expensive looking sound-system for CD’s, I-pods and all other forms of
music. Some armchairs stood at the one side of the room. A chandelier hung from
the high ceiling.
notebook lay near the keyboard of the computer, the pages covered in jet-black
writing, slanted, twirled and curlicued to such a point that it was only
readable to whoever wrote it.
glass cabinet of ornaments contained a rather fierce looking china leopard that
stared down at Malory Whitebled as she cautiously stepped in the door. The room
was like something she’d decorated herself, as if Amaryllis knew her every
maid had shown her to the room and instructed her to sit down on one of the
velvet armchairs and wait until Amaryllis was ready to see her.
was thirteen and had come for counselling. She was a tall, thin girl with
white-blonde hair. She’d started behaving strangely since she started
high-school, behaviour including suicidal behaviour, self harm, making herself
sick after eating, isolating herself, angry outbursts and a number of other
things. Her big, brown eyes had once been happy and carefree but were now ringed
with black, blue, grey and purple from lack of sleep. Traces of black nail
varnish lingered on the nails of her long, thin fingers. Her wrists were
scarred. There was a purple bruise on one of her temples.
looked up as Amaryllis entered the room and sat down on the armchair opposite
hers. Then she let her head hang again so that her white-blonde hair fell
forward like a curtain. A curtain to keep intruders out of her mind.
didn’t look up.
worry Malory. I’m here to help you. Whatever you say is between us. Just us.”
what they all say.”
didn’t like to say too much to counsellors. They had a way of either turning
the simplest answer she gave into a sign of deep psychological disturbance or
twisting what she said so that they could psychoanalyse their own answers just
to believe that they’d healed her of some made-up illness.
guidance-counsellors were worse. It was as if it was their one goal in life to
expurgate every child like a controversial piece of writing. To mould them all
into neat, plastic-brained clones who would swallow any moral-filled story like
a life-saving pill.
had been a bit different, her beliefs considered outrageous, her loner
had exaggerated these characteristics as if they were flaws. She’d been sent to
the guidance counsellor’s office for long hours, to see if they could “Make her
act like a ‘normal’ child.”
parents had been called in about her angry outbursts; specialists called for
her because of the blood staining all the sleeves of whatever shirt she wore to
the ‘none-uniform’ school.
could dissect her mind.