a therapy session

We sit in silence. Not an uncomfortable silence, but silence nonetheless. I wait for her to speak. She's waiting for me to speak. It's a game we play, but she should now by now I'm better at it.

"Why don't you have a smoke with me?" She asks with a smile, a quarter of a smoked cigarette hanging casually from her manicured hand. Her white, bright smile is picturesque, but her eyes are screaming. Please smoke with me. She's damn near begging me. She can feel the unspoken tension in the air as much as I can: we're having a conversation about the locket today, whether she likes it or not. She hasn't conceded yet, and based on our past meetings it certainly will not be easy to get her to say what she needs to say, but it's going to happen. Not next week, or next month. Today.

I reach into my pocket and slide out a cigarette and a lighter. I put the filter to my lips but don't have time to flick the lighter as she's already leaning towards me, holding out her cigarette. She intends to light mine with hers. It an intimate gesture with her bent over, shirt lowering to show her cleavage with her face and cigarette inches from mine. She's testing me. She wants to see if I'll take the bait.

I'm not a good man for many reasons, but I've worked hard to make my office a safe space space for my clients. Besides, anyone who is alive today has had to make morally questionable decisions such as myself. The Greater Good Government has required us all to make sacrifices. If I was the only one with a guilty conscious about the way we live life today, I wouldn't have a business.

I meet her in the middle, the end of my cigarette touching hers and inhaling deeply. I make sure my eyes never leave her face. She needs to know I'm not playing her games.

I lean back in my chair, blowing out a puff of smoke before quietly thanking her. She slowly leans back, looking mildly shocked that I didn't accept her advances. Her eyes wander to the window; a distant gaze in her eyes, a distracted mind. She idly plays with the locket around her throat.

"Cecilia?" I ask, breaking her thoughts. Her eyes jump to mine and her hand drops to her lap. She grins, but its humorless and dark. I take a deep breath--it looks like she knows today is going to be as big of a day I had anticipated.

"My husband gave me this locket before he went to fight in The Great War," Her smile begins to fade. "I put it on this morning for the first time in a long time. It gives me hope."

"Was there any significance to you wearing it today?" I ask, before taking another drag of my cigarette. She sighs and puts her cigarette out in the ash tray on the coffee table dividing us before standing and walking to the window, her back facing me. She crosses her arms.

"Don't you find it funny that we can smoke anywhere we want now? I mean, in the Old Days, smoking was basically forbidden everywhere." She's changing the subject. I'm prepared for this.

"Does the concept of smoking bother you, Cecilia?" I'll go along with her subject change for now, but I'll quietly steer her back to the more important subject, the real reason she's here, before our session is over.

"Everything bothers me." She mumbles. "I remember when I was a child, and my grandfather would tell me stories of when city had air...real air, not this synthetic garbage. He would tell me tales of fields of green grass, farms that had real cows and cornstalks. A life before the earth's oxygen was depleted and the government wasn't at war with it's civilians. His narrative made it sound like heaven." She turns toward me, tears streaming down her face, her eyes fierce. "It's not the concept of smoking that bothers me, Dr. Joseph. It's the concept of life."

Her statement startles me, but I keep my face impassive and my voice calm while I lean forward to put out my cigarette as well. It looks like we're going to be getting to that breakthrough faster than I anticipated.

"Have you been thinking of suicide, Cecilia?" I ask quietly.

"No more than usual." She mumbles, walking over to the couch and sitting down in front of me. She wipes her face, takes a deep breath and closes her eyes for about ten seconds. When she opens them, she has a fake smile plastered on her face, but her lips are trembling. "Seriously doc, you can't say you don't look out the window of this gorgeous city and don't get depressed?"

Her sarcasm frustrates me. Her and I have have had countless sessions where she flirts, cries, changes the subject and mocks me. I know I'm going to need to push her to get to the bottom of her masks.

"We all get depressed at times, Cecilia. Myself included. And to answer your question, yes, looking out the window doesn't make me particularly happy. It's been 40 years now since synthetic air started, before you were even born. But just like everyone else, I find reasons to go on." Find reasons to try and forget the sins I've committed against this pitiful society by cooperating with the Greater Good Government.

Cecilia looks down, tears spilling again. "I don't think I have much of a reason to go on." Her voice cracks.

"Cecilia--"

"I was 26 years old when I found out I was pregnant." She cuts me off, and for the first time in a very long time, I am stunned. I expected many things from her, but not this. I stay silent and wait for her to continue.

"We were young to have a baby, but we were so excited. The problem was, we didn't have remotely the amount of money needed to buy the breathing apparatus for the baby. The doctors told us the baby only had a sixty-five percent change of surviving the birth, and only a five percent chance if we didn't get the oxygen simulator." She took a steadying breath before advancing on. "When I was born, the odds were so much better. Anyway, we didn't have the money, so my husband joined the army. They were offering a significant up front bonus just for joining." She stopped speaking, and for the first time, I saw fear in her eyes as she glanced toward the camera recording our session. Of all the emotions she's displayed in here, it's never been fear.

I sigh and run a hand down my face. For some reason, I had already known. I woke up this morning knowing Cecilia was going to have a break through. A small part of me knew, and I don't know how I knew, that my career might be over today. I lock eyes with her as I reach out and shut off the camera recording us for the Great Good Government. Her eyebrows furrow, but she doesn't look as terrified.

"Please, continue. You were saying your husband was signing up for The Great War?" I encourage, trying to keep her on track.

"Um, well, yes. We needed the money so Josh signed up. It wasn't something we were...entirely comfortable with, but--" I all but ignore her unguarded demeanor as I interrupt.

"Were you two for the rebellion?" I ask candidly, trying to hide my own emotions. Her face morphs to horror as she stares at me, debating internally if she should answer.

"The camera is off." I prompt. She still looks hesitant, so I grab the camera, eject the memory card, and hold it out to her. "Here, a sign of good faith. You can trust me. Please." I implore. Her shaky hand reaches out to grab the memory card. She clutches it in two hands like she's praying, holding it close to her chest like it's her life line.

"Not entirely. We weren't happy with the government but we knew joining the rebellion meant no future for our baby. So, we decided we had to do what was best for our girl. But Josh died in the war, and then our princess died at birth. Her little lungs just couldn't handle the synthetic air." She reveals, and I suck in a sharp breath. Silence greets us again, heavier than it was when she first walked in. Heavier than it's ever been. I stand up and cross the coffee table that was once dividing us, and sit down next to her. I put an arm around her shoulder. I am crossing a line, but I already crossed it when I turned off the camera. She's crying again.

"So here I am, living in a world without my husband or my baby, with all the money I can ever hope for. Blood money. Money from a government that took my husband. A government that ruined the air we breathe sixty years ago and started a war that divided everyone. So, what do I have left? A ruined atmosphere? A crumbling society? All I have are cigarettes, dirty money, and therapy." She sniffles, ending her rant. I'm resolved almost instantly. I know what I have to do. I reach into my pocket that has the cigarettes, but I pull out my wallet. I retrieve a card of an old friend and hand it to her.

"Go home and call the number on this card. They are people who feel similarly as you do. They're as angry as you, as upset as you, as done as you. With your money and reputation, you can help these people make a change. Give another family the option of not losing their husband or baby." My hand is shaking as I hold the card out to her, hoping she'll take it. Hoping she'll understand. Her hand reaches mine and she takes the card. I close my in relief and let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding.

"You're part of the rebellion?" She whispers. I chuckle darkly.

"Not remotely. My time for change has passed. But I can help you, and other people like you, the best I can." I reveal. I mentioned before I am not a good man. After all these years, all the bad I've done, I couldn't possibly fix all the mistakes I've made.

Cecilia takes the locket off from around her neck, puts it in my palm and folds my hand over it.

"I think you need this right now more than I do to. You are good." She smiles sadly at me, and I give her a small smile back. She stands up, leaving me sitting on the couch, and her plastic smile is back on. She flips he hair over one shoulder, pats her face to make sure all remnants of tears are gone, and shoves the memory card and contact card in her purse.

"Well doctor, I'd say I'll see you next week but we both know we're beyond that now." She winks and blows me a kiss before giving me a soft, sad smile. "Thank you, for everything." She whispers. I nod and smile at her before she makes her way to the door.

I let my head hang. I have to make a plan for losing the memory card; my supervisors will have some intense questions. Or maybe I'll close down entirely and go into hiding. I run a hand through my hair, stressed, and remember the locket I'm holding. I open the locket and find it empty. Suddenly, it doesn't matter that I am not a good man. Suddenly, all my sins are forgiven. Suddenly, all my worries about the next steps are resolved. The locket is empty because it has everything it needs: hope.