A landscape appeared in the broken rectangle, “Why do I hate this city? Where did this hatred come from?” The wind of the suburb of the city brought a damp cold air of the Michigan Lake inside. She said, “Ugly green flatness, thank god I cannot see the lake, it should have been even uglier. Surely I don’t belong to this area; I should have been born somewhere else.” Then she looked up at the night sky, “Some clouds, I wish snowfall hides all the land.”
She left the window, walked back over the plant to the carpet, rubbed her feet, and smeared the red color to the yellow. She took off her dress and threw it on the bed, went to the wall closet in the bedroom, without attention took a dress hanger out the rack and came back to the living room. She looked at the dress on the hanger; it was a one piece, semi-transparent. She had recently bought it to start tennis training. “I will never wear it. How can I pay back the price with my credit card while my only income is a pitiful 400$-weekly victim support?” She said to herself while turning the hanger back and forth, staring at the dress.
“What should I do now that the sessions have been over with his conclusion that I am cured? I would not be eligible to receive any money. Now I am Jobless and without any work experience. He did not exactly use the wording that I was cured, ‘You are subconsciously cured, all you need is to remove the blockage in your consciousness.’ He ended the sessions unexpectedly, left me alone just after seven months of his unique type of therapy, expecting me to solve the complication of the meaning of his words all by myself.”
She ended the dress observation. “Why not wear it; I am not going out now, surely not with this dress after that horrible thing happened to me twelve years ago.” She pulled up the skirt; it was light as a feather, putting it on felt as if there was nothing on her body.
“The shame I feel is a desire to see you.” She stood facing a huge wrapped object, which had been placed between the sofa and the frame of the entrance door, inclined to the wall. A huge mirror, she had bought a few days ago in the morning of her last session. “I wonder why I bought such an expensive mirror and so big that I had to give the same amount of its price to two strong men to carry it up the stairs. Guys uploaded and placed the mirror at the entrance door while struggling to carry it in, they said exhaustedly,”
“Ma’am, have you ever considered if the mirror would fit in the elevator’.
“There was an extra charge for carrying it up the stairs, five stories. I didn’t have any answer to their next question when the overtired men asked me,
“Ma’am, are you sure if the mirror can pass through the apartment door?”
“I opened the door, the space was not enough. They had to remove the wooden frame off the wall. The mirror was carried into my leaving room. I could read their next question that Ma’am why the hell do you need such a big mirror for such a pitiful dueling? Their modesty stopped them asking.”
“I guess they felt sorry for me because they put back the doorframe, plastered it to the wall for free. They leaned the mirror to the wall and opened the thick cardboard wrapped around it except the last thick paper over the surface of the mirror due to my loud objection. It is strange, I was afraid if they would see me in the mirror. In the end, a hefty price for something now I am standing in front of it.”
She took one step further and stood in front of the wrapped mirror. “Why did I buy a mirror as big as a king-sized double bed; bigger than my tiny bedroom?” Looking at the wrapping, she remembered her psychoanalyst’s answer to the question.
“To see yourself in full, of course.”
“It’s much bigger than me.”
“You feel it is not. That is the reason I am going to end our sessions, inform the Victim Support Organization of your total recovery. I can read in your worried face that you are not ready. Let me explain. Twelve years have passed; you have become a complete woman with no trace of a ten-year-old girl in you. You cannot hide this tall and strong body behind a child anymore. Two months ago, I noticed an odd phenomenon, which dared me to refrain the routine of molding the zombie disposition on you; when I noticed that your true biology has started to reveal itself out the hideout.”
“Don’t say whether I am a werewolf or an alien.”
“Those are stories that we fabricate in response to complicated phenomena. Two months ago, your smell changed, the tiny glands in some specific areas of your body instigate some peculiar sort of odor. As a result, I concluded your nature is very different from normal people. I have exclusively adopted a new method for you with the emphasis on analysis rather than treatment. This was my hypostasis: no treatment of the so-called trauma was possible since there was no trauma at all. The tax money has been wasted on you just to waste your life in vain.”
“And that is why you started to draw signs and symbols in your notebook instead of writings.”
“Exactly, the two pathways of smell receptors end to an isolated, primitive part of the brain with no connection to language as they were evolved way back any speech abilities.”
“What is the purpose of my new smell?”
“Your biology has been started reminding your consciousness of your identity which had been hidden there for a reason. Your consciousness afraid of any unpredictable consequences suppresses the message.”
She raised her hand grabbed the top corner of the paper, snatched it off the mirror. A tall woman with long black hair appeared in the mirror. “This cannot be me,” She exclaimed staring at her unexpected image in the mirror.
Long coarse black hair waved down in abundance passing her shoulders resting and covering her chest. The tall mirror well matched the woman’s height. Hazel-brown eyes surrounded by thick eyelashes were shining below naturally plucked eyebrows. Aquiline nose over well-formed lips, prominent cheeks, as the true character of her origin. The twelve had not passed in vain; the dusky red color of her teenage skin had changed to some shades of light brown with redness of circulation blood under her cheeks. The straight neck was standing high over wide shoulders and then a broad chest. She enjoyed for a moment the upright breasts. There was still a lot to see if she could overcome the shame of looking down. She paused for a moment then lowered her face to see how rude the semi-transparent dress was.
The skirt edge ended short an inch below her white panty. Slipped down her eyes, overlooked the area belonged to the white panty. She lowered her hand, to touch her thick thighs, make sure, if they are real; so hard. Slipped her hand upward along her arm, a pleasant surprise, not of a very feminine type, but strong, well matched the legs. She murmured asking the image, “Who are you? Are you the same woman at psychoanalysis sessions asking for help every time for seven months? How could the wise man see any notion of a victimized ten-year-old girl in this image?” The embracement could not stop her eyes go down below her belly button; just