Chapter 4 — Therapy Begins

Clara

I perched stiffly on the edge of the beige armchair, my knees locked together and hands folded so tightly in my lap that my knuckles blanched. The faint murmur of traffic outside the window seemed to pulse in rhythm with the tick of the clock on the wall—persistent, deliberate, unrelenting. The lavender scent in the air, meant to soothe, pressed against my senses like an unwelcome visitor, its cloying sweetness amplifying my unease.