Wendy found herself sat in the waiting room at the counsellor's office once again. The counsellor she told herself she didn't need. The counsellor who spoke nothing but the truth. The counsellor who could now give her hope in her hour of need.
The room felt colder than before in so many ways. The whole world seemed cold now. Cold and empty, like her womb. She wasn't sure what she wanted and she wasn't sure what she was going to say, but she knew she needed to be here, needed to speak to someone who might understand. No-one would really understand, but Linda Street could try. Maybe condescension was what she needed. Something to ground her again.
Linda Street's office no longer looked warm and welcoming. The soft, fluffy toys were as cold as ice, and the cosy, plump chairs were as hard as steel. For a fleeting moment, she wondered whether anything would ever feel the same again.
Linda's voice was soothing and understanding. More so than normal.
‘Wendy, what you've been through is extremely traumatic. The brain is a wonderful tool and it can cope admirably with many situations. The problem is, it's almost impossible to tell when it isn't coping until it's too late.’
‘So you're trying to tell me I'm about to go mental?’
‘I’m trying to tell you the brain is as fragile as it is wonderful. I don't know anyone who has had to go through the trauma you have in such a short space of time. Talking through these incidents will help your brain to deal with them and heal itself more quickly.’
‘My brain isn't broken,’ Wendy said quietly but confidently.
‘There's no telling what hidden damage has been done, Wendy. What do you have to lose?’
What do I have to lose? Fuck all. I've already lost it all.
Linda Street nodded and smiled at Wendy's silent acceptance, as if she knew what she was thinking.
‘What do you feel, Wendy?’
‘Nothing.’
‘You must feel something. Do you remember the last time you came to see me? All those words you gave me to describe your mixed emotions?’
‘Yes. And now I feel nothing.’
‘Hurt?’
‘No.’
‘Dirty?’
‘No.’
‘Angry?’
‘No.’
Linda Street paused for a moment.
‘Empty?’
Wendy matched her pause.
‘No.’
She knew this was a double-edged sword. Physically, of course, she was empty. Barely hours earlier she had been carrying her unborn child — her hopes, her future. Now she was carrying nothing but grief.
‘Wendy, I really do think it would be beneficial for you to take some time off work.’
‘I told you before, I don't do time off work. I don't do moping, I don't do daytime TV and I don't do rest. Work takes my mind off things just fine, thank you.’
‘Do you not think work is a little too close to what has happened?’
‘I’m sorry, but my job is a little different to yours. You might be happy sat in your little office with your stuffed toys, being all perceptive by telling people that they're upset because bad things have happened to them, but my job isn't quite like that. I catch killers, Dr Street. Do you not understand that? If I don’t work, people die.’
‘I understand perfectly, Wendy, but I just think that—’
‘Oh, you think nothing! You don't need to think! I wish I had that luxury, but unfortunately I don’t.’
‘Wendy, I just—’
‘Save it, doctor. The session's over.’