Welcome to the Program

We are sitting in an office with no windows and no decorations. It feels more like a closet than an office. Mildew creeps onto the edges of the ceiling tiles, and the man behind the desk looks like he would rather be anywhere else. “I absolutely must get some decorations up,” he tells us. "I've been here for four weeks but this will be my second week with an office." He wasn't embarrassed; it felt more like a brag. Oooh, an office. Go Trent.

“Maybe you can help with that,” he suggests, smiling without his eyes. My mom smiles back and nudges me in support of the idea. I stare at him, unmoving. I can't imagine helping him with anything. He stares back for a second.

“Okay," he follows, "Why don’t we get started? I’m going to ask Winnie a series of questions about why she thinks she is here and then I’ll talk to you, Mom.” This really bothers me a lot. Why am I "she" and my mom is "you"? Fuck you, Trent. I know why I’m here. I answer his stupid questions with stupid answers.

While he talks to my mom I look under the desk at his shoes, which caught my eye when we first walked in. They are too long for his feet, which I assume are child-sized. At first, I think this is funny, but then the thought creeps me out so I stop it. The shoes are shiny and new-looking. Are they made out of alligator skin? What a freak. I smile to myself. I accidentally make eye contact with Trent and he tilts his head to the side, questioning whether or not I belong here.

"So she can smile," I imagine him thinking. Fuck you, Trent. I attempt to neutralize my smile without scowling, but this proves to be impossible. My eye twitches. He’s talking like he has done this a million times before and is just so bored with it all. After getting his office one week ago... the fuck? “I do all the intakes,” he tells us, apparently looking for sympathy.

I will give you no sympathy, Trent. I glare at his alligator shoes. He probably rummages through the attics of dead people and steals their shoes. Or maybe he goes to black market shoe auctions and pays thousands of dollars for them. I look back at the mildew in the corner. It reminds me of the mold in the upstairs shower of our old house.

The room begins to shrink, first slowly and then rapidly. The air starts seeping out of the corners, or maybe I just lost the ability to breathe. Either way, my lungs can’t take in any more. I start sweating and suddenly I can’t move.

My mom and Trent are completely oblivious to the fact that I am dying over here. Trent continues typing the intake information into the computer, talking out loud as he does so “Seems friendly, not hostile, personable, calm…” All things I am not feeling. The room continues to shrink and my palms get sweaty. My heart is racing and I am terrified; I am about to die. I cannot take any more. I have to get out. I have to leave right now. I have to scream. I have to-

“Okay!" Trent snaps his laptop shut and picks it up. "Let’s go this way now!” He stands up and directs us out of his office. Slowly, my breath returns to normal, the room expands, and my heart rate slows. Trent takes us out into the hallway where he hands me off to a woman in a lab coat who apparently is going to give me a drug test.

"I won't go in the stall with you, but I will be in the room," she tells me. Whatever that means.

As Trent saunters away, he calls out, “Welcome to The Program, Kendra! See you tomorrow!” Fuck you, Trent. See you tomorrow.