Stolen

I have a piece of paper on my lap. I’m supposed to write down my thoughts, my feelings, anything, but something stops me. I can’t feel anything. I haven’t felt anything in a very long time. I’m blank. I’m bleak. I’m...gone. Or I may as well just be gone. What difference would that even make? I’ve been as good as gone since the day it happened...

“What made you write this?” My therapist asked me as she skimmed over the paper.

I shrugged. I didn’t know why. I didn’t know anything. To me it was just a piece of white printer paper with my scruffy handwriting written in a regular, bold, black pen. That’s all it was to me. It didn’t hold any importance, any clues or any feelings. It looked just about as blank as my mind. It meant just as much as that.

The therapist looked up through her round glasses with a questioning gaze when I didn’t answer. I averted my eyes away over at a big, cherry-wooden book shelve in the far left corner of the room. 

The woman sighed and put the paper down on her matching desk. Her voice sounded tired when she spoke. “How am I supposed to help you, if you won’t talk to me, Katie?”

I looked back at her for a second; at her warm brown eyes pleading with me. I felt nothing. Blank. Bleak. Blank. Bleak. As emotionless as that piece of paper.