Therapy — Abbey Archer

Sobs permeated through the walls of the old house. Sound machines hummed in every room, even in the bathroom, taking into consideration those with pee anxiety. A disgruntled little boy sat in the far back room, playing with blocks and chanting about his anger issues. His mom sat on the white leather sectional, hands folded in her lap, face contorted into a very concerned sort of angst. The all-knowing woman sat in a chair across from the troubled family, stark blonde hair parted in the center, framing a freaky Barbie face. Botox, laser treatments, microdermabrasion, all things her thin skin had endured over her 36-year lifespan.

She had small traces of cystic acne as a teen, picked at it furiously for about 2 months before seeing a dermatologist. She felt the need to have her skin repaired again and again—and again after that. Beauty lies within uncovered layers, or so the man in the scrubs had told her. Now people put the trust in her that she once gave to that man. Becoming a licensed therapist was crucial in her remorse in the decision to get a second rhinoplasty.

“And when Tommy took your graham cracker, how did it make you feel?” she inquired, the boy beginning to ram an orange block into the cow hide rug.

“It made me feel upset,” he growled, his underbite prominent as the vain therapist analyzed his jack-o’-lantern-like teeth.

“Did you try telling Tommy how he made you feel?” she asked as the mom clenched her jaw.

“No, I took the graham cracker from him and crumbled it.” He began to pick at the rug.

“Ryan, baby, I need you to tell her what you did after you crumbled the cracker.” The mother’s voice was shaken yet somehow soothing in a monotonous way.

“I punched him . . . and his tooth fell out of his mouth.” Ryan did a punching motion and then dropped a block on the floor, as though it were a tooth.

“Do you realize that you didn’t handle the situation correctly?” the psychologist prompted as she shifted her body weight in the white leather chair.

“Yes,” Ryan answered calmly.

“What should you have done differently?” A montage of regrets flooded the therapist’s mind as she said this.

“I shouldn’t have hit him.” He stacked a green block on top of the orange one.

“Very good progress this session, Ryan. I hope to see you back next week.” She closed with a fake porcelain teeth smile.