I can see the whole room from where I'm standing. Subdued pop music plays from hidden speakers as people mill about, talking and laughing and socializing. All while I watch from my little corner, back against the wall. I wish I could join them but it's just as difficult now as it was in high school. Maybe harder. I can barely look anyone in the eye.
The cup I'm holding in my right hand feels warm against the very center of my palm so I know that means it's probably burning myself. I move it to my left hand, holding it by the handle when I feel the heat radiating away from it.
My right palm is bright red. I close it and tsk at myself for letting it go that long. As usual, I can barely feel my nails against my hand. All three of them. I can't help but frown as I open my hand, staring at the stump of my ring finger and the ugly scarring that runs from the base of it to my elbow in an arching, erratic spiral - a fleshy crimson lightning strike that I keep hidden behind long sleeves.
"Darla," my friend says warmly in front of me
I hide my hand behind my back out of habit and take a sip of my cider, wincing as it burns my tongue.
"How is everything?" she asks, standing close but not too close. I can see the concern in her eyes. "Not too much to handle, I hope?"
"No," I tell her, blowing at my cider so I don't have to look up at her. A lock of my black hair shifts and nearly dips into my cup until I brush it away. "It's okay for now."
Cynthia, my friend, is the only one that hasn't given up on me over the years. I fight a constant battle of wishing she would just walk away while also privately clinging to the care she's shown.
"I know it took a lot to come," she tells me, glancing to the side and waving when someone calls for her. "I'm just really happy you showed up. There's plenty of food and alcohol and-"
"Go do your thing," I tell her when someone else calls her name. Another sip of the drink and another painful, internal curse. "I'm fine, really."
It's a lie, of course. I'm not. But I smile the best I can as she walks away with a backwards glance. I feel crushed and it's hard to breathe, like the world is closing in on me. Growing brighter and louder and
heavier
until it's too much to bear.
Looking over for Cynthia, I accidentally catch the eye of a man standing beside her. Short with a straight brown beard that looks like it's been oiled. He grins at me and breaks away as if to come over.
That's my cue.
I reach to put my glass down but it's a wooden end table and there aren't any coasters. Who doesn't have coasters for a party? Cynthia, apparently.
Oh god, he's coming closer.
The coffee table in front of me also doesn't have coasters and is also wood.
My heart is pounding. I can almost feel him breathing down my neck.
At the center of the coffee table is a flat ceramic dish containing a small flower pot and a fake rose. I hurriedly lay my cup down inside the dish with a whispered 'sorry' to nobody in particular. And then I leave, looking back toward my friend to see if she's noticed.
The man realizes I'm leaving and he's stopped in the middle of the room, watching me with a frown. Cynthia is talking with more of her friends, her hand against her mouth as she laughs at something but I see her glance my way as I go for the door. She looks sad for a moment but nods her head in understanding before turning back to the people around her.
Snowflakes whirl around me as the sudden, sharp burst of cold steals my breath away. Ducking my head, I suddenly wish I'd brought a scarf as the wind finds every gap in my too-thin coat. I turn up my collar and walk briskly past the line of cars parked next to the narrow sidewalk.
My feet crunch in the snow and I'm already feeling my ears burn as I shove my hands deeper in my pockets.
I hate that I couldn't stay. Cynthia's shown nothing but understanding throughout the years and she's such a good friend but it's too much. All I can see are the jeering acne-marked faces and the sly looks of girls who knew they were better than me when I stepped into class in the middle of the junior year of highschool.
It's not that I could blame them. My family lived away from the small town and we were recluses. My momma taught me herself until she'd suddenly passed, leaving my father with six children and no idea what to do. So, he'd sent me to school.
My right hand clenches when I remember the first time someone noticed it. An oversized boy had held me down to pull my sleeve back and they'd clustered around like I was some circus freak. Which was what they'd often call me. One girl threw up in the corner when she saw my arm.
Father hadn't told me to be wary of them and he'd been too tired to notice the tears in my eyes when I'd come home. And I'd had to help around the farm so I didn't have the time or energy to try to tell him.
The whole time I'd tried to tell myself that it wasn't my fault. I couldn't even remember when it happened. The incident. I just woke up in the house, in pain with my momma screaming and my father holding me down. Blood everywhere.
There was an old piece of machinery in our barn, gas powered with a massive belt and I'd gotten too close to it, apparently. Tore my finger off and degloved my hand. They rushed me to the hospital with my older brother staying behind to watch my siblings. I remember his face was as white as the snow falling around me now. And my brothers and sisters wailing. But I don't remember the pain. Not at first.
The next week I was in and out of awareness and when I finally came to, I was less. Less a finger with a massive scar that I had to rub lotion into so it wouldn't stiffen.
Even
I
was horrified by it so I wasn't surprised at the other kids. Just ashamed. So I kept to myself. And I learned that it was an extremely hard habit to break over the years. Although, I think it's graduated beyond a habit at this point.
A faulty sign buzzes and flickers and I look up by reflex. A pale, calming blue light outlines a business titled, simply, "Floating Therapy." It was a large building - far bigger than the narrow ones neighboring it in the boutique neighborhood. In the window to the left of the door is a poster of a woman floating with her eyes closed and a subtitle of "Restricted Environmental Stimulation Technique" followed by bullet points espousing the benefits.
Sensory deprivation. I've heard of it before and it sounded intriguing. Alone. Floating. No people threatening your space. No sounds or images. Just silence.
Maybe- maybe I could try it. Cynthia wants me to see a therapist but maybe this would be a good first step.
Snowflakes melting on my neck remind me that I'm standing in a flurry and I hurry on, clicking my keyfob until a car in front of me beeps quietly, muffled by the snow surrounding us. I try to shake off my coat before I slip inside and carefully back out to rush home to my bed, safely away from crowds and people.
---
No doorbell chimes when I open the door to the Floating Therapy business. It moves smoothly and closes quietly behind me as I stomp my feet on the rug at the entrance.
The lobby has recessed blue lights with white paint and it's quiet. There's no reception desk but, instead, a white curved leather couch with a glass coffee table and three white chairs facing the couch. It's all oddly soothing.
A side door opens and an olive skinned man appears, smiling when he notices me.
"Ah, Darla, yes?" he asks, his voice precise and warm and surprisingly deep.
He's dressed in khakis with a white short-sleeve Polo shirt and brown penny loafers. I can't guess his age but there are small wrinkles beside his eyes and the corner of his lips. He doesn't reach for a handshake.
"I'm so glad you could make it today," he tells me, his eyes watching my face. He's taller than me - not a difficult feat - but he's relaxed with his arms to his side. His wavy hair is short and well maintained. I think I can spot a few gray hairs at his temples but then I look down. "The weather is terrible for my business and I'm always happy to have a new client. Such an exceedingly rare event."
"Thank you for making time for me," I tell him.
"Nonsense!" he says with a soft laugh. "You're my client, of course I'll make time. Would you like to sit? I'll go over the process. But, briefly so we don't waste your time."
I sit at the edge of the couch and he takes a chair, facing me across the glass table. He leans forward slightly with his hands clasped and I can see a large metal watch on his wrist. His forearm is thick with black hairs.
"I take it this is your first time?" he asks.
"Yes," I say.
"Good, good," he nods. "It's simple, really. I'll lead you to your room where you'll be allowed to change into a bathing suit in privacy."
He pronounces 'privacy' with the 'i' like igloo. Pr-i-vuh-cy rather than pr-eye-vah-cy but otherwise has no accent I can discern.
"There's a small button on the wall," he continues. "You can press it when you're ready and I'll come in to assist. There's a large, well, capsule in the room that you'll step into. I'll close the hatch behind you when you're settled. You'll be immersed in darkness and utter silence, floating on your back with your head above the water. I keep the temperature at exactly body temperature so you won't even know you're floating."
He waits for me to say something but I just nod.
"And that it's it," he concludes. "The time is yours. When your thirty minutes are over, a small red light will pulse and I'll come to open the hatch. Do you have any questions?"
Yes.
