Six or seven hours later I was lying
in bed, trying to sleep, though extreme pain was ravaging me, and my stitches
felt horrible. We’d been to hospital and after trying to explain my case, I was
being referred to a special psychologist.
Mom had almost cried, begging me to
tell the truth even though I was. I had cried, from the pain and from the
humiliation of never being believed about the angels. My appointments with the
psychologist that my parents had booked was cancelled, and I was booked into
this new one, I’d be starting sessions next week.
I planned to show them the photos
tomorrow, as in the panic and searing pain, I’d forgotten about them.
I was given the following day off
school, because of my injuries. I began preparing my photographs to show to mom
and dad. I wasn’t going to let go of this, they had to believe me.
A week later, I was sitting in an
office that had been made to look a lot more cheerful than it really was. There
was something artificial about all the posters on the walls and the bright
colours. There was something artificial about the psychologist as well. I
didn’t like it at all.
She said in that patronising tone you
use when you doubt somebody’s intelligence.
I muttered stiffly, head down so that
my red-brown hair fell forward like a curtain, protecting me.
“Now Sara, your parents tell me that
you’ve been seeing angels in the attic. Can you describe these angels to me.”
I obliged, describing every detail to
the best of my ability, from their horrendous wings to their steel-like claws.
The counsellor listened, with an
almost amused expression playing on her face.
She clearly didn’t believe a word
that I was saying.
“You don’t believe me.”
I said, in what I hoped was a
don’t-care-less voice, but what sounded more like desperation.
“I never said that, Sara.”
“You implied it.”
I shot back in my best educated tone.
She looked surprised that I knew what
The counsellor found a piece of paper
and a pencil out of a drawer in the desk.
“Can you draw what these angels look
I replied with a shrug. I’m pretty
good at drawing.
I drew the angels, taking time on the
detail. The finished result was quite good.
“You’re very good at drawing. Your
parents say that you are creative, you like writing and photography as well.”
“Do you think that you’ve become a
little bit confused over what’s real and what’s not?”
She asked, still in the same
annoying, patronising voice.
“No. I know what’s real, and that’s
the angels. How else do you think I got injured so badly?”
I asked, showing her the stitches on
my left arm.
“Were you hurting yourself to make
people believe you?”
I just stared at her in shock.
“Nobody is going to be mad at you,
“No, nobody’s going to get mad at me
because I didn’t give myself these injuries!”
I raised my voice as I said that.
“Calm down Sara.”
Nothing seemed to annoy that damn
counsellor. She was so damn patient that it annoyed me.
“No, I won’t calm down! Ever since I
discovered those angels all I’ve got is “Sara, you don’t know what’s real and
what’s not.” Or “Sara, we don’t believe you.” Why can’t you just trust that
what I’m saying is real!?”
I shouted. I was getting majorly
pissed off. And it takes a lot to drive me to the point of being severely
“Do you have any proof that the
angels are real?”
The counsellor asked.
“I WAS ATTACKED TWICE FOR THE SAKE OF
GETTING EVIDENCE! FEATHERS, PHOTOS, OF COURSE I HAVE FREAKIN’ EVIDENCE!”
I was like a banshee as I shrieked at
that highly irritating counsellor. I was sick of being treated like a cross
between a liar and a mental patient.
“Well. I think we should end today’s
session. We might make more progress tomorrow.”
She sighed, letting me out of the
office that I’d been incarcerated in for the last two hours.