Just Like Magic

Randalyn's POV Raindrops ping in a heavy rhythm, sounding like a meticulously made song. Pounding loudly on the metal roof of this office, easily taking my attention away from this annoyingly persistent woman who is only doing this because, like me, she was assigned. But I see straight through her faked-kind presence... I know exactly what this is, this is just a distraction from the barricaded wall of reporters at the front of this building, to help out the officers in anyway she can. By putting me into a category of victims to see how bad the damage really is and if there are any other victims.. But as far as I know, it's just me... Lucky me. So here I am only halfway listening to her ramblings about what is right and what's not. I know all this already, but for whatever reason, she thinks she needs to reiterate this to me multiple times, as if I'm stupid and did this torment to myself. So I'm supposed to be concentrating on the questions thrown at me continuously, but I don't want to and with distractions to help with that, I'm finding my mind trailing off way too easily. I'm staring off for who knows how long before I'm brought straight back into this moment from my body that is fidgeting subconsciously. Like the thumping of my foot to the hardwood floor as my leg shakes under my arms, or the twiddling of my thumbs, almost making my heart beat just as fast as my thumbs can circle one another. I'm reading these signs that my body is giving me silently. This is my body's way of telling me that it knows what will help bring the anxiety down a notch and that's getting me out of this place and away from everyone. The anxiousness and stress filling this room is absolutely suffocating. So my anxiety is through the roof as I impatiently wait to get outside after this law-influenced time is finally in the books. This is all a little overwhelming for one thing, but for someone who has never experienced the inside of an office like this before, is making everything feel so much worse. The sophistication is oozing from every crevice in this place and I have no reason to be here, no matter how much they tell me, I have all the reason in the world. I feel like all of this is a waste of time, since I won't ever believe what they have to give me for advice. Mostly because they don't know what I have been through day to day, living in this nightmare, begging to awake from the pain, but knowing this will never end, since this is my sad life... They probably will live with this fogged idea of what they imagine life to be for everyone else out there, since they won't ever have to worry about what I had to do every day, since the moment I was brought into this harsh world. I groan to myself in frustration as I run my hand through my hair, playing with the ends of each strand showing this woman looking for any flaws in my personality, another nervous habit to add to the list. This has conveniently popped up for her, coming to the surface while being bad timing for me, because it probably has to be a side effect of the trauma endured. I hate showing how broken I really am to anyone, especially a complete stranger who is judging my every move. But I'm trying to stay as casual as I can about all of this. My eyes trail over to the window since the curtains are openly exposing the darkest clouds I have seen in a while. I watched each drop of rain hit the top of the glass and slip all the way down. This is making me ache just to get out there, letting the storm's soothing streams wash away my stresses like they always do, even if it's just for a moment. I'm caught in this moment until I hear her clearing her throat from across me, so I look her way, automatically observing her stature. She is absolutely beautiful in a button-up suit, her makeup perfectly put together looking like she got it professionally done and her gray hair pinned back, letting the curls sit on top of her head. Her small, thin, metal glasses at the tip of her nose are the complete opposite of mine in every way. But make her look more serious and professional than I ever will on my best day. With my pointer finger to the center of my big, round, plastic glasses, I push them farther up my nose to sit on the bridge. They are oversized for my face but they were the only option given to me by my stepfather. He took me everywhere to get what he wanted me to wear.. it didn't matter what I wanted or remotely liked, he got what he wanted to see me in... which was tight, exposing clothes that looked, by their colors and designs, like they might be from the '60s. Hence the big, plastic, rainbow-colored glasses. I noticed her gaze jumping to my outfit and then quickly back to her notepad. I swallow the lump in my throat as I cross my arms over my chest, trying to cover what I can from her judging gaze. Women like her who look as if they have it all figured out make me feel self-conscious because I have nothing figured out for myself. By the look she is trying to hide, I would imagine she is probably in shock by what outfit I'm wearing at the moment. I'm still in my outfit from work last night. Since everything traumatic happened after I got home from work with my stepfather, who was well past the point of drunk when we left the club together to head home. And with me being a bartender at a strip club that was managed by my stepfather... I am required to look sexy in any way I can to get more tips. So, even though it's cold outside, I will still only wear one of the skimpy outfits my stepfather would pick out for me regularly. Luckily for me, he did put pants with this outfit so I'm not frozen at this point. It is controlling in every way which you would think would be rough, but he has been doing it for me since the day I was born... I thought this was normal for every girl out there. Especially since I was home-schooled all the way through middle school. But when I started high school, I quickly figured out from seeing the other girls around, plus everyone's mean comments and bullying that ensued at school, that what I wore wasn't normal. But since I have been out of high school for years now, the outfits don't bother me as much... It was way more embarrassing with so many judging eyes. But now the men at my job love what I wear, so no more judging except from people who see me in the daylight.. which doesn't happen often.. or didn't happen ever, until now... my stepfather never let me leave the house and controlled what I was wearing and doing. So I had no choice but to stay home and go with what he demanded of me. Mostly because that was the least conflicting action to take, since I already had to take care of my parents plus the house and then we would both work together at night anyways. I look down feeling almost bad about my outfit, but she knows I spent all morning in the police station and I haven't had a chance to be given anything else... Doesn't mean I'm any less embarrassed about my belly shirt that is barely being held together by a thick string in the middle, weaving back and forth, pushing my chest together like a push-up bra. This shirt or lack thereof, is causing the bruises and scratches to be even more noticeable on my stomach and ribs, grabbing her attention every time she looks over at me. She is sitting with her back as straight as a board, looking more professional than comfortable at this point... But with her nose held high, looking down at me with judgment, it's showing me how much better she is than me... whether she means to come off like that or not, that's how she makes me feel. I let out a deep breath before prying my gaze away from hers as she continued to talk... I'm not really listening to much that she has to say... I honestly don't care... I'm just doing this because I have to. So the words fly into one ear and out the other, just hoping this will be enough to pass the time and satisfy her need to try to fix me. But sorry to burst her little psychology-know-it-all bubble, I can't be fixed after everything I have been through... I'm broken and no one would want any part of that.. Or so I have been told way too often to not believe those words. My gaze shoots above me. The dots on the ceiling are easily turned into something strategic to stare at. Like when you stare up at the clouds making pictures from each one.. I just connect the dots and see what I can make from them. I investigate as if I'm some sort of detective, just wanting to get away from this interrogation into my sh*tty life for just a moment, but of course, I have to do this... it's ordered by the police investigators because from what I understand, they are concerned for me.. someone who has been through the abuse I have, needs this, supposedly.. but honestly, I don't think poking and proding at the wound that's trying to heal will help at all... it's just reopening the wounds that he spent years creating, that only time can heal. But no one will give me any time to try to comprehend what has happened, and why... let alone try to heal from it. "Randalyn? Did you hear my question?" Melinda, the therapist, asks as I shrug my shoulders. I think I heard her or at least I know what she is asking about again because of one specific word used... but honestly, I just didn't want to get into this again...I have already told her this, it has nothing to do with what happened to me last night and yet she asks me to repeat it like I made it up or something or like she is trying to catch me in a lie. We are just going in circles at this point and that is annoying, to say the least. I hate that this woman who doesn't know me thinks she can break down every painful point in my life and then try to tell me what I should be doing with my life when she hasn't walked a foot in my shoes... Though everyone swore up and down that talking about everything to get it off my chest should help me get over everything. But it doesn't seem to ease my mind whatsoever. Maybe it's her or maybe it's me.. but we will never know. "Yeah. It was the same as every night. Like I have told you over and over again." I spat out, leaning back, sliding down even more as I stretched out across this couch. I have been in here for a while and it is starting to feel endless at this point. "So your dream IS the same every night? Can you describe it to me again?" She asks as I huff out before tightening my arms across my chest. I hate this.. but I just do this to get it done and over with so I can get going. I let out a deep breath showing how annoyed I am, but I'm sure she knows this by now... it's just that one of my biggest pet peeves is having to repeat myself and she is just poking at my nerves, asking the same intrusive questions over and over again. "Ok, here we go again for the millionth time... My dreams start out when I wake up, and then I try to get out of my house to find my mother. I can hear that she is calling me. But the doors for each room won't open. So I tried to find any way to get out of this place but nothing worked.. the only way out seemed to be the front door but... my stepfather is barricading it with his huge body. Then, before I knew it, his arms stretched out. So I try to get away from them.. but no matter how long or far I run, the arms don't stop stretching until they wrap around me and I'm pulled back into him. I try to grab anything around to keep me from going into his arms but nothing helps. I keep being pulled until he has me and is touching me." I squeak out hating this.. but supposedly it's good to get these things off of my chest.. but I honestly don't feel any better about explaining this relentlessly. It's been told many times and I honestly feel worse, not any better. "Where is he touching you?" She asks me as I gasp in, aching for air in my system, feeling my eyes well up at that disgusting thought. I don't know why she has to throw salt into this wound over and over again. "Everywhere a stepfather shouldn't be touching his adopted daughter," I state as if it should be obvious, but I guess it wasn't for him, so I bet there are others out there that are the same. "Can you be more specific?" She asks me as I shake my head vigorously. "No, I would rather not do this again." The somber moment is taking over my body as I feel my heart clenching and my body shivering in disgust at those types of memories that this dream is based on. "Randalyn." She says in a motherly tone that has authority to it... telling me she wants me to participate but I hate this with every inch of my body. "It's Randy " I demand from her because the only people that called me by my actual full name are my parents and they have only attached bad memories to my full name.. so that's why I tell everyone to call me Randy. She nods at me as she continues. "Randy... This is the only way you will be able to get over the rape, molestation, and abuse you endured for so many years from your stepfather, is by facing this head-on." She almost demands this of me but I bet she wouldn't be saying this if she had been through all I had. "I don't want to think about the strong scent of alcohol on his breath and all the drinks he forced down my throat to make it easier, as he said.. I don't want to think about his strong body odor that took over the alcohol scents, or his grimy sandpaper-feeling hands all over my body.. touching me and making me touch his dirty, disgusting body... I never want to think about that ever again. Every time I do, I feel like I am giving his spirit life. I feel as if he will never be gone when I constantly bring it up in detail." I spat in disgust as I quickly sat up, putting my head in my hands to cradle while I rock myself hating all of these tormenting thoughts. "Ok, take a deep breath.. We will skip that for now and then come back. So if I can ask you a question... When did he start sexually assaulting you?" I gasped for air, hating being questioned as if I had done something wrong. "He... he started coming into my room at night... when I was 8 or so and the abuse got worse from there.. can we please not talk about this?" I beg of her as she huffs out sounding annoyed by my pain. "Fine... why didn't you leave when he started abusing you in every way?" I shake my head at her question trying to calm down but it's easier said than done. "I honestly never knew what he was doing was wrong.. he told me I was doing well and that's why this was happening.. it happened every day for so many years that I thought it was normal. My mother was never alarmed, so I just let him do what he wanted because I knew if I fought him the beating would get worse... So, besides the officers telling me that his grooming and s****l assault was wrong.. the only other thing I had to go off of, was the fact that it felt wrong to me every time it occurred.. But I had no other reason to suspect his intentions and I think he knew that and took complete advantage of that." I declared to her as she looked slightly shocked but wrote down a little more before asking. "Did you have any family you could've called?" "No, I never met any family... and my father never allowed me to have friends.. when anyone would talk to me at school or work he would get very protective over me and would make them go away," I explain to her and she nods but continues to question my part in all of this. "So why didn't you leave?" she asks me as I shake my head feeling confused about her question. "This is Alaska, where could I easily go to?! I have no money because my stepfather and mother took everything. They said that I couldn't have a driver's license because, at first, my mother said she couldn't find my birth certificate and then that reason changed to the fact that only good girls get that, but they said I wasn't being good enough and that they thought I would leave the first chance I got. But I don't know where I would go if I could leave." I said to her, feeling almost attacked for my reasoning about what to do every day to survive.