Stop Asking Questions

As we walked, I observed Sandra. She was brown skinned with shoulder length black hair. She had square glasses with black eyes. She was small and frail. Her small figure and quick movements made her a little mousy-looking. The guidance door. Sandra stopped. We walked in. Ms. Medley was sitting at her desk. She was a fake woman who just happened to be my school psychiatrist. “Oh, hi James. Come in.” She said over enthusiastically. “I’ll wait here.” Said Sandra.

I entered her room and sat on the couch. “So James, do you still miss your brother?” She said as she flipped through her notes. I wouldn’t expect her to remember what I told her last time. It’s not like she cared. “No.” I said coldly. “When’s the last time you’ve talked to your mom?” She asked. “I don’t know my mom..”

“Oh, that’s right! I remember you telling me that. That was you. Is your dad fine?”
“Uh huh.”
“Oh okay, well if you need to discuss your feelings some more, I’m right here.” She offered.
I walked out. Sandra followed me.

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