Shrill cries ricochet off four walls of a small room, landing straight into my heart.

I feel that. Right down to the way it’s rapidly beating against my chest. I don’t even want to know that feeling. Which because I still go through the exprience of the way these reoccurring sounds pierces through my head and a second later, it’s throbbing violently.

Eventually though, the screams, the yells, and cries: the sounds blur until I’m numb.

I wake up dripping in a pool of my own sweat. Faint droplets of morning drizzle pad against the windowsill, into my room. I’m thankful for it. A chilly draft comes in through the crack in the window. If not that, then I’d be laying in perspiration.

I admit. I have an issue involving an ... odd dream. Well, nightmare.

The night before, I slept in a weird position, so I guess it explains why my body’s so cramped. Besides, I know I can’t leave my bedroom right now, even if I try. My hand, still shaking, moves to work towards wiping away the sweat on my forehead. 

“Fourty-five.” I tell myself with all the biterness gotten from the night, remembering just a couple of weeks ago, that 45 was once a 10, but soon became a 20–days later a 30, and now halfway to 50. I seem to count the days I’ve started getting the same ol’ dream. I wonder if it can go on forever.

Running fingers instead of a brush through tangles of my hair caused by a restless night, the blanket slowly rolled off my lap when I recheck the time. 10:14 p.m. I get another feeling someone will be mad, so I stand up. 

There’s never a time where the hallways throughout our little two-bedroom apartment my mother and I shared isn’t silent. But I like the silence most of the while.

Like usual, every morning, I step into the bathroom and flick the switch, going straight to the mirror. Undoubtedly, a wrong choice. The only thing I want to do staring back at the reflection in front of me is to sigh. It’s morning still, I supply myself the excuse and kind of feel better. Though, I drown my face with icy water.

“Hey,” a small voice called. My mom appeared wearily at the bathroom doorframe. “You woke up late. Your oppointment was 14 minutes ago. Get ready. I’ll be waiting in the car.” she told me, after she walked off, down the stairs. In my head, I took note of her slouch, and the tone of her voice.

Dazed, I sloppily get ready, putting on my same hooded sweater, same jeans, same sneakers. I dress with images of a tired-out mother clear in my brain. Honestly, my mom doesn’t want to go through this as much as me. I know it’ll cause her plently of stress. She has her work–the work she chose months prior requiring all employees to fit a tight schedule–and since we moved, I have school beginning next week.

It isn’t and it can’t be perfect, either way, so I just walk out the door.

The drive there is a silent dread. Climbing into the passanger seat, I clasped the dull, grey seatbelt right over my body, almost as if it’s reflecting how I’m feeling. After seeing as I am ready to go, the car takes off into the busy streets. Traffic cloaks the road horribly, but in the meanwhile, my mom mentions the “very polite, young lady” and how I should suggest being more friendly. I can be friendly, I think. That’s not hard.

Then, she suggests talking about my odd dreams, the prime reason of why she signed me up for therapy. Both my eyes automactically squint whenever I hear something like that come from my mother’s mouth, something so foreign.

I nod to her though, like usual. Which comes an action I normally do, I just nod and keep my mouth closed. But in the back of my mind, it’s honestly funny to me—being friendly in the world where no one knew the true meaning of it.

I realize when my mom shakes my shoulder that I’m in too deep a thought. We had already arrived. I try to stare apologetically. Her eyes wrap with desperation. If I don’t pull through with this, it’ll be the last thing she has to worry about. 

“This is important to me, you know.” she whispered, but I couldn’t sworn I heard This is costing me money, you know.

I nod my head subtly, mouth shut, as I reached to unplug the seat belt. She decides to say nothing more, just following me in getting out of the car.

We walked into the cool, air-conditioned room with a waiting area to the right. I seen two faces. Foremost, I didn’t want to see other people when I know I resembled something on the verge of death. Stares were on my mother and I when we stopped at the front desk with a receptionist on the phone. Mom explained to the woman we had a scheduled appointment earlier at 10 and after stumbling over a sorry excuse for an apology about being tardy, we slipped into the hallway leading towards a labeled door. I pondered on how this "very polite lady" looked like, and if she was actually a snotty . My thoughts are stopped as the door came bursting open, a figure flying out in a rush. Surprised, I inhaled sharply, the force of the body colliding into me moving me backwards.

“Think about it, please.” I hear a gentle voice call out to the girl.

The scowling girl who crashed into me glances at me for a brief second, her wild eyes suddenly narrowing. Before I can open my mouth, she speaks in a voice that isn’t so nice. “Yes?”

My jaw nearly falls to the ground— not that it’s a very far trip. I feel my mom hold my shoulder because I involuntarily take a steps forward, my fists clenched. Where did she come off using a tone like that even though she smashed into me? Instead of firing back insults that form in my head, I merely respond to her with a stare.

This girl stalks off down the hallway we came from, fire in her tracks. I watch her, slightly cooling down and again my mother apologizes.

I turn to greet the slim, youthful lady with short black hair that falls in a wavy flow down to her shoulders. She has a dress suit on, heels and all. I pay too much attention to her physical appearance to realize her hand reached out to me. Flustered, I tentatively shake her cold hand and draw it back once it gets too long.

She smiles to my mom. “I’m really sorry about my last client. Right this way, Mrs. Young.” My mother fidgets and smiles at her uncomfortably.

“It’s Ms. Bae.” she informs her, unable to control the strange feeling.

“Oh! I’ll have to fix that on your file. By the way, I’m Dr. Kang.” she mentioned, guiding me into the room. “You may wait right outside Ms. Bae, it won’t take long.”

Mom gives me a reassuring look and sits down in a chair beside the door. I enter her small room/office having a wide spread window taking up most of the wall. I can see the city from the inside, tall buildings, passing cars, and many people. After sitting on a black, leather chair, I look to my left and just above her neatly organized desk was a wall of transparent glass. Behind it is the same group of people sitting in the waiting area, completely oblivious to what is on the other side. Nifty, figuring that they can’t see me, though I can see them, I figure.

“Okay, Kyung Mi,” Dr. Kang starts. I appear a bit confused at the mention of my name. “Your mother tells me you prefer to be called by your surname, Bae.” It doesn’t sound like a question so, I barely even move looking at her.

She closes her eyes and sneakily smiles, walking around her chair and stooping in front of me. Her eyes are serious, “I have a great amount of respect and admiration for you,” I snort in disbelief. “–coming to a stranger’s office and trusting them enough to tell all your problems. It takes confidence.”

“Really?” I peer out into the transparent glass again, noticing a new person has arrived standing right outside of it; a guy. I turn my head back to Dr. Kang and shrug. “I think that’s a bit ironic, considering I’m here.”

“It’s my way of saying I respect you.” she clarifies and stands up, sitting in her seat. A moment passes as I stay with my mouth shut. “Would you mind if I ask you a few questions?”

The interrogation begins, I think going back to previously looking through the glass. To my dismay, I hear her questions pretty clearly, but I tried not to because I wasn’t going to answer. They’re too blunt, too in-your-face and straight-forward, and mostly too sensative. I have the right to keep my privacy to myself.

The intake interview grows rather tiring, that there are other things interesting me at the moment. The fish bowl by the entrance. One pigtailed little girl cuddling next to her father. I watch them a little too long, then I avert to a book shelf right beside someone. That someone, that person I noticed–the guy with dark eyes–on the phone. He talks into the phone, but he running through his words as if no one is on the other line.

Could he be leaving a voice mail? Hm, an angry one? I rest my head against the back of my hand and continue listening to the blah, blah, blah’s Kang’s voice explains to me until I can’t anymore, because after that, I don’t hear straight. Because I’ve been caught.

Because the minute I focus my attention, I realize he is watching me too.

A buzz goes off in my head. I settle on not cutting myself short.

He can’t be watching me.

Maybe wondering what’s behind the wall from the other side, but certainly not what died to make a girl like me look this way. I’m known to overreact.

He’s not looking. He only sees the wall, looking right through me. Right.

My head snaps back in order to not notice anything else, too afraid to notice anything else, about what that stare is technically implying. I’m too flustered and palm-slick to even look at Dr. Kang now.

“Something wrong?” she asks, fixedly looking at me.

I blink rapidly, suddenly feeling smaller than ever as the dark eyes caught my staring. I even hesitate on blinking now, not really knowing why. But his staring is actually captivating, some thing that I won’t forget. “Nothing.” I answer, unsure. The guy rests his head on the wall and heaves a sigh. He easily bounces off and casually exits the building. And I watched until the door shuts with a loud noise and I flinch.

“Do you have any questions for me? I don’t want you feel like this is a one-sided conversation,” she laughs out her nose and I’m shocked out of my daze. “So, please ... do ask.” She shuffles through some papers on her table, her back towards me.

At first, I think about telling her I have no freaking clue where to start, but soon the word one-sided gets me to talk. “Uh hm,” I mumble, dejected. “By any chance, can those people see us...talking or whatever, er–in here?”

“You mean through the glass?” she chuckles, sheepishly. “Sorry, I’m getting it closed off. It kinda invades privacy during sessions. ‘Cause otherwise, anyone on the other side can definitely see.”