Page 1 of Defying the Crown
Act I
Chapter 1
Daniel
“Daniel are you still with me?” my therapist Michael asks, glancing at me from across his notebook.
My eyes jerk up to meet his, realizing that he’s caught me drifting away again. I’ve been staring at the abstract painting on the wall behind him, losing myself in the swirls of color and my thoughts.
“Yes, sorry. I’m listening.”
“I don’t think you were,” he says with a frown. “If you aren’t going to take these sessions seriously, why are you even bothering to come here?”
I hesitate, scrambling to find an answer that will appease him. “It’s not that I don’t care. I just sometimes zone out and get lost in my head.”
He pauses for a moment, considering my words. “And what gets you lost in there?”
His question is simple, but the answer isn’t. I could tell him about the constant loop of failures playing in my mind. I could tell him about the loneliness that clings to me like a second skin. I could tell him about the voice that whispers I’m not good enough, that I’m unlovable, that I’m a burden. But instead, I hold that back because I don’t think I want to give a voice to those feelings. That would make them real, and then I would haveto deal with them.
“Sorry, I was just thinking about work, and my boss. She has been on my case lately, and it has been stressing me out a bit.”
It’s not a lie, really. Cassandra has been riding me hard ever since I came back from my medical leave last year. She’s always on my back, nitpicking every little thing I do. I can feel my mind starting to spiral just thinking about her, about the leave, about why I needed it in the first place. I yank myself back from that dark path before I go too far down it.
“Well, all in all, I would say that’s a normal thing to be worried about,” Michael says, his calmly reassuring English accent grounding me. “You don’t need to stress yourself out over these things, I’m sure you’re excellent at your job.”
I smile back hollowly, going along with him and nodding my head. I know I’m not excellent at my job. I’m barely holding on, just going through the motions. But I don’t tell him that.
“Have you given any thought to what we discussed our last session? I think that you could benefit from being able to discuss your feelings with someone other than me,” he says, changing the subject.
“Yeah, I have been thinking about it. I don’t know that I feel comfortable talking to strangers online about my life, and what happened.” Talking about what happened last year makes me feel timid and small, and you can hear it in my voice.
Michael sighs, leaning forward with a kind expression. “Daniel, we’ve been seeing each other for over a year now. In that time, I’ve seen you make great strides. Yet, you’re stuck on this until you’ve fully processed it. You can’t move on until you let yourself feel everything your mind wants you to feel. Maybe this website can do that for you; what’s the harm in trying?”
“I’ll think about it,” I reply noncommittally.
“Please do,” he says, glancing at the clock. “Ah, well would you look at that, I think our time is up for today.” Michael rises from his seat and leads me to the door of his small office. “Try to work on some of the exercises we discussed, and I will see you the same time next week. Alright?”
“Definitely, see you next time.”
Stepping out into the rain and heading towards the nearest subway station, I glance around the busy streets of New York City. People are huddled under umbrellas, rushing to get out of the downpour. I left mineat home, so I’m soaked within minutes. The rain is cold, but it feels almost refreshing, like it’s washing away the heaviness of the therapy session.
Descending into the subway station, I wait for the train to arrive at the platform. The sign says it will be here in 3 minutes, but I know better than to trust that. Finally, after what feels like forever, the tired train pulls up and I grab a seat before it’s taken. My mind already drifts off, even as I vaguely hear the garbled announcement of the train’s destination over the ancient crackling speakers.
As much as I hate to say it, Michael’s not wrong. I feel like I’m stuck in a rut, and every time I think about what I did I spiral and get locked up in those emotions. I haven’t processed it, more just avoided it as much as possible. Apart from my job, I don’t have a lot of people in my life. Growing up as a foster kid, bouncing from home to home didn’t do me any favors when it came to having a family to turn to for support.
The only people I really have are my best friend Jayda and her long-term boyfriend Caleb. Coincidentally, they are also my roommates in our cramped 2-bedroom apartment. Life isn’t cheap in New York, but we’ve made the best of it and made it affordable by splitting the rent three ways. They have both been there for me over the years, ever since we met each other at the coffee shop job I had after I aged out of the system.
I’m distracted from my thoughts as I hear the announcement for my stop and quickly get up and move toward the door. The train stops and a rush of people flood out of it, carrying me along with them. I weave through the crowd, finding my way out of the station and into the lobby and creaky elevator of my shabby apartment building.
The old brick building is as run down as it can be without being condemned by the city, and it probably has more rats living in it than people on any given day. But, when the only other option is being homeless, it’s still better than that.
Slotting the key into my apartment’s door and opening it, I’m assaulted by the sound of angry punk music blasting from the kitchen. The kitchen looks like a bomb has gone off, which means that Jayda is baking. She’s in her usual goth outfit, looking as fierce as ever, while also being covered head to toe in flour. She sees me and smiles.
“Daniel, you’re home!” she cries gleefully. “Come help me make cookies, Caleb refuses to be my assistant.”
“It’s not that I refuse to be your assistant, it’s just that I have moreself-preservation skills than you, and don’t want to inhale all the flour into my lungs. If Daniel is smart, he will do the same,” Caleb pipes up from the nearby couch. He greets me with a nod, before turning back to the book he has in his hands.
Where Jayda looks like she just came from a punk concert, Caleb is the opposite. If you were to look up hipster in the dictionary, I’m sure you’d find a picture of him as the definition. He’s tall and slim, with a small goatee, black plastic-rimmed glasses, and an ever-present beanie on his head. They make an odd couple, but somehow it just works for them.
