Doctor, Doctor [.: Teach Me How to Feel :.] [Nofo]

[sadniss everdeen]

Jessalyn Colbier

♫ Sometimes it hurts less than usual - and that's when I can't hear a thing ♫

~:~ 914493 ~:~ Can't you just watch me? It's so much easier to understand.
~:~ 469344 ~:~ I have a mind, I swear. It's all hidden away up here.
~:~ 936944 ~:~ It's okay if it doesn't look like I understand, because I do.
~:~ 446D93 ~:~ Without music I can't breathe, but it's so hard to make my own.

doctor, doctor, teach me how to feel
I'm forgetting how to hurt, and running out of pills [/size][/font]

You are slightly lost because though for all purposes the actions and movements are the same - you are still waiting in this bright white room, with the faces of unknown passerby that attempt to sear into your soul staring blankly back out, judging your story and deeming you worthy of their pity - something has changed. You seem glossy and lost more than usual these days (like it takes more effort to try and be normal, like that diagnosis has sucked all will out of you) and maybe this will fix you. Daddy says it in the nicest way but you know what he means. darling, maybe it's for the best. they said that you liked the lady when you were in District Six. maybe she can fix you. But you don't need fixing considering you don't think you're broken - are you? you aren't really sure of anything anymore - but still, all your unspoken imperfections fall all over themselves to be heard in silent words and invisible shapes. Yet, you miss your lady because she was yours and nobody else's and you absently hate them for taking her away.

When they sat you down a few days ago and carefully took their time in explaining - you like when they enunciate all their words crisply and without flaws - that she is sick and needs time off to get better, the first thing you thought of is how you probably made her sick. You do that do a lot of people.

It's not your fault, honestly. You try and be friendly and even though they smile back, it doesn't reach their eyes.

(i go through the motions but sometimes i just feel like i'm reflecting what they want back at them.)

Mommy sits by like she always does, looking all pretty and fractured whenever you come here. Maybe it's because it makes her acknowledge that you're dumb and not like the other girls, or the vacant stares from children who, really, are even worse than you are, but it always sets her on edge. You always insist no, really, I can do this. I want to do this. I'm not stupid, I swear. but she just smiles and takes your hand, doing all the things you promise you could do by memory but never manage to execute when asked.

"Why are you sad?" You're never one to sugarcote and that brings a small smile to her lips, tugging at the corners even as her eyes watch you with a certainty that some things will never change. They mirror your own but really are never the same - while they hold a certain depth you've never managed to accomplish, they also lack a complexity that never ceases to astound those that look hard enough to see. Usually they cast you as the dumb blonde and leave it at that (and you do not know how to scream loud enough to shake off the title). "I'm not sad, sweetheart. It's okay."446D93

(it's never okay. maybe they don't understand it or they just don't want to see it, but it's never okay. people shelter themselves from what they don't want to acknowledge.)

"Jessalyn?" You've been here long enough that they don't have to bother with your last name; they know your mane of golden hair well enough to pick it out through a sea of sunshine. You smile at Debra and she grins back (you always have to refrain from reaching out and touching her face because her teeth are so very beautiful) before leading you out into the whitewhite hallway and away from Mommy's gaze that tries to burn quiet holes into your lithe back.

"How are you today?"

"Good."

"Did your mom and dad tell you that Ms. Coricon isn't here right now?"

Furrow of brow, bite of your lip. Unsure, displeased. You blink clouds from the backs of your eyes. "They said she was sick."

"That's right. We don't know when she'll be back, but she says she misses you very much and to keep being a good girl for Ms. Soahc."

"I miss her too."

Eventually you end up at a gentle green wall, and run scarred fingertips over the seams of the wood. You are used to people staring at your wounds and smile brightly before hugging Debra (tightly, tightly, like the end of a good story) and saying your customary thank you, Debra. I always get lost and she smiles back with palpable tenderness with a replied any time, Jessa before turning a corner and vanishing without a trace.

Metal is smooth and soothing against your sensitive tips as you quietly open the door, feet whispersoft against the flooring as you dance inside and nudge the door closed with your hip. Everything is the same but it's so different and the same time and parts of you hate it because you still see Your Lady's trinkets (the little yellow duck still quacks down at you, but now there's a pig next to it) that mixes with the Other's and that's not right because pink isn't supposed to mix with yellow. It makes your skin crawl and hair stand on end, so you reach up (as high as you can go, dancer) and take the pig gently, being careful not to hurt it as you place the painted hooves on another shelf.

Customary tradition dictates that you take the chair in the corner - so that if you play that horrible game in the dark the shadows can't sneak up behind you - and sit down, muscles finally beginning to unwind as you shake the gentle green out of your eyes and take stock of the other person in the room. Your eyes are cloudy and vacant (perhaps you took too many pills this morning) but seem to look through her, studying her face with a scrutiny that normal people can't quite fathom.

(people are ugly in their own way, but they're also so beautiful. sometimes, they're both and it makes me want to cry.)

You watch her greengrey eyes and ache for teeth to be shown because you remember that her smile is the most beautiful thing you've ever seen, all sunshine and happiness and rainbows and honey, I still love you. Unknown to yourself you have leaned forward on your knees and thread slim fingers through blonde locks, watching and wishing and hoping for her to say something, anything. She is sweet - like she is made of sugar, like she is pure, like she should be spooned out and put into a cure for all maladies - and you like sweet things, because they feel good in your throat.

"Hi. I remember you. You have a pretty smile." Your voice is hazy, distant (gone) and it scares people away, but it didn't do that last time you met her. Though some part of you rebels at not having your lady by your side, you think you could grow to love Girl With Beautiful Eyes just as much.

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