The waiting room felt like a graveyard for lost souls. Jack sat in a plastic chair, feeling like a statue carved from resentment and regret. Across from him sat a girl munching on dehydrated okra and a boy jerking wildly at nothing, waving away invisible flies. The girl looked as if she had stepped straight out of a magazine photoshoot for some trendy brand of sadness. Her long hair framed a face marked by the same vacant stare he saw on the boy, who was engaged in a strange dance, lost in a world only he could see. It made Jack wonder if they were some kind of collective entity, a hive mind of teenage angst.
The girl continued to munch on the okra as if it were the most fascinating thing in the world. Crunch, crunch, crunch, crunch—each bite echoed in his brain, a sharp reminder of the reality he was stuck in. Jack glanced at the clock on the wall. Time dragged on painfully, each second stretching into what felt like a small eternity. He was here for therapy, for some semblance of healing, but all he could think about was how out of place he felt. The therapist's office was just through a door across from him, and each tick of the clock deepened his reluctance to go in. What did he even have to say?
I don't want to talk about wanting to sleep with my mother, he thought, the idea creeping in like a shadow he couldn't shake off. He clenched his jaw, trying to push it away. He did not want to unpack that in this sterile room filled with the scent of Lysol and teenage despair.
A nurse came in. She smiled at the okra girl before calling the boy's name. “Dawson, come on back. It’s time for your appointment.” The boy shot up from his seat and stumbled toward her, still swatting at invisible flies. Jack watched as they disappeared down the hall, leaving him alone with the okra girl.
Jack felt a flicker of irritation. How could anyone be so detached? He was seething inside, a pot of boiling water ready to spill over, while this girl sat there munching on her dehydrated vegetables as if everything were perfectly fine—crunch, crunch, crunch, crunch.
Finally, the door to the therapist's office opened, and a woman stepped out. She wore yoga pants that hugged her curves. Her taut body moved with the confidence of someone who had her life all figured out. Jack felt a surge of resentment as she called his name. He didn't want to be attracted to her. He didn't want to feel anything at all. He just wanted to escape the weight of his thoughts, but there he was, feeling like he was walking into a trap. How unprofessional to dress like that, he thought.
“Come on in, Jack,” she said, her voice smooth as honey. He followed her into the room, the door closing behind him like the door of a jail cell.
Inside, the atmosphere shifted. The walls were painted a calming shade of blue, and the furniture was arranged in a weird feng shui way that felt too cozy for a place where you were supposed to bare your soul. Jack sank into the couch across from her and tucked the throw pillows around his body like a fort.
“So, Jack, how are we feeling today?” she asked, as if she genuinely cared about his answer.
“Annoyed,” Jack said, unable to hold back the bitterness. “Like I’m stuck here, waiting for something to change, but I’m just sitting in a room with some kid swatting away imaginary flies and a girl eating dehydrated okra.”
She raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Dehydrated okra?”
“Yeah,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “Weird, right? The both of 'em just shells of who they could be, swatting and crunching away at their problems instead of actually facing them.”
She nodded and tapped her pen against her chin—tap, tap, tap, tap— and Jack could feel the anger inside him rising again. “Interesting. What about you?” she asked.
“Me?” he continued, his voice edged with frustration. “I’m just a guy who doesn’t want to talk about wanting to sleep with my mother.”
“Let’s explore that thought process,” she said, leaning forward slightly, her gaze fixed on him. “Why do you think that desire is coming up for you?”
“Because it’s easier to focus on that than to confront the reality of my life,” he snapped, the words spilling out like venom. “I’m not here to discuss an Oedipus complex or whatever you want to call it. I just said that. I don’t have an issue with wanting to give one to my mom, I’m just angry all the time.”
“Anger is a valid emotion,” she said. “It's okay to feel angry. We can work through it together.”
Jack wanted to scream. “Work through it? What does that even mean? I’m tired of working through my emotions. I just want to be free from it all.” He gestured around wildly at nothing, the anger bubbling over. “I’m stuck in a place where everything feels wrong, and the only thing I can do is sit here and think about how I want to escape.”
The therapist watched him, her expression steady and unwavering. He could see the faintest hint of a smile on her lips, and it sent a jolt of irritation through him like lightning. “What are you smiling at?” he demanded. “This isn’t a joke.”
“It’s not a joke, Jack,” she said. “But finding humor in the darkness can sometimes help us see things differently. You’re here for a reason. Let’s figure it out.”
He wanted to protest, to push back against the gentle probing, but something about her calm presence made him hesitate. He glanced around the room, searching for something to anchor him, but all he found was the same bland decor that felt like it was meant to erase his pain rather than confront it.
“I don’t want to be here,” he admitted finally, the words hanging in the air like a confession. “I don’t want to talk about my life or my issues. I just want to be free.”
“Freedom comes with understanding,” she said. “You can’t run from your feelings, Jack. They’ll follow you wherever you go.”
As much as he hated to admit it, he knew she was right. The anger, the confusion, the dark thoughts were all part of him, like the roots of a tree buried deep in the ground. He couldn’t just cut them off; he had to confront them to understand why they were there in the first place.
The session dragged on, the clock ticking down as Jack wrestled with himself. He knew he had to face it, to confront the shadows that loomed over him, but the thought felt overwhelming.
Finally, as the hour came to a close, the therapist smiled her infuriating smile again. “Thank you for sharing today, Jack. Remember, it’s okay to feel lost. It’s part of the journey.”
“Journey,” he muttered as he stood, “Don’t stop believing, right, Doc?”
“I’m sorry?” She said.
Jack gave her a half smile. “Nothing,” he said as he left.
In the waiting room, the okra girl was still crunching as if it were the answer to all of life’s problems.
Jack took a deep breath, feeling the weight of the world settle back onto his shoulders. He wasn’t sure where he was going or how he would get there. Maybe he could face the darkness, embrace the struggle, and find a way to overcome it.
But as he turned to leave, the okra girl caught his eye, a thin layer of okra dust coating her fingers. She looked at him with a mix of curiosity and something else he couldn’t quite place—understanding, maybe?
“Hey,” she said, her voice soft, “How’re you?”
“Just trying to figure things out, you know?” Jack said.
She nodded, crunching another piece of okra. “It’s tough, isn’t it? Figuring out who you are.”
“Yeah,” Jack said. “It really is.” In that moment, he saw something in her eyes—an echo of his own fears and anxieties, a reflection of the struggles he faced. Suddenly, he didn’t feel so alone. They were both just people in a waiting room, wrestling with the demons that haunted them. “Where’d you get that okra?” he asked, half-joking, but he meant it.
She grinned, a twinkle in her eye. “Made it myself. I put Ranch dust on it. Ranch makes everything better. You like Ranch?”
Jack nodded. “I do.”
The girl smiled and held out a piece, “You want some?”
“I think I might,” Jack said.
And as they shared that okra and moment, Jack realized he was part of something bigger, a connection forged in shared struggles, a reminder that even in a world filled with confusion and darkness, he wasn’t alone.
/
DAN RUSSELL is a writer. He holds an MFA in Creative Writing from Concordia University-St. Paul and is the host of The Fair to Middlin' Podcast. He and his wife and family live in Arkansas atop Crowley's Ridge. His debut novel, Poor Birds, will be published by Cowboy Jamboree Press in 2025.
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