The sudden silence causes Azryel to finally look up from her writing, and see Allison’s apprehension. Azryel says, “everything I’m writing down is for Mr. Morningstar. You can be as honest as you want with me and with him—your father will never see these notes.”
Taking a deep breath again, Allison folds her arms around her stomach. She suddenly feels cold. She says, “it’s not that I don’t feel safe—but it’s very stressful.”
“How so?”
“We argue a lot,” she breathes. “Dad is a pretty strict guy. He keeps me on a short leash, so to speak, and doesn’t give me room to do things for myself. I’m on a tight schedule, and that doesn’t leave me room to see friends or go out.”
As Azryel writes, she asks, “can you describe to me what that looks like?”
“Well…” Allison leans back against the couch. Her arms stay firmly around her stomach, holding her as she thinks. “During the school week, I have a really strict routine to follow. I wake up pretty early to get ready, and dad usually drops me off a couple hours before school begins. After school, he waits for me in the parking lot to make sure I don’t try to skip out on my duties at home. Usually I’ll take care of my chores, and then after dinner, dad makes me sit with him in the living room to do homework. If I have school projects, he monitors my research and doesn’t let me look at my phone. He doesn’t usually leave me alone until around bedtime—where he confiscates my phone and laptop until the next morning.”
“What about your weekends? How are they spent?”
“My bedtime is still as strict, but he lets me sleep in a little,” she says. “I still have to wake up early enough to make my bed still, and have breakfast with him. I get a little more freedom with my laptop, but I’m not usually allowed to go out with friends unless he approves it earlier in the week.”
“It doesn’t sound like you get a lot of time for yourself,” Azryel remarks.
Allison laughs hollowly and shakes her head, “no… I feel pretty suffocated by it.”
“How old are you again, Alli?”
“I’m seventeen, but I’ll be eighteen in March.”
“Well,” Azryel raised her eyebrows in surprise and said, “I can understand why you’d feel like you aren’t ready to be an adult. It’s hard to feel ready for something you’ve never gotten to practice for.”
“Yeah,” she says, “it’s like taking a test over something you weren’t allowed to study. It’s really stressful.”
“You said you two argue a lot,” Azryel notes. “Can you tell me what those arguments are about?”
“Sometimes it’s about mom, other times it’s about how strict he is. More often than not though, I usually get frustrated with him for preaching to me about the Bible.” Allison starts to relax a little, her grip around her stomach softens. Instead of being apprehensive, Azryel notices she looks more defeated.
“I see,” Azryel says, “and how bad do these arguments get?”
“They can be pretty rough sometimes,” she admits. “More recently, it’s become more screaming at each other like how he used to do with mom—y’know, before she left.”
“Your parents argued a lot too?”
“Oh yeah,” Allison nods, “a lot of the time actually. I used to just sit in my room and listen to music, or watch television. Mom used to let me have those things when she was around, but ever since she left, dad changed how everything works at the house.”
Azryel finishes writing, and glances down to her watch before closing the folder.
“Well, Alli, it sounds like you’ve been through a lot,” she says. “Whether or not you agree, it’s a lot of stress for just one person to handle.” Allison shrugs her shoulders and stares down at the coffee table.
“I guess,” she murmurs.
Azryel gives her a sympathetic smile and stands. She says, “usually I would spend more time with you, getting to know you more… but I was told to keep things brief and allow you time to meet with Mr. Morningstar. I’ll be getting him for you now—I’m sure he’s more than ready to meet with you.” Allison watches the woman shuffle away without another word, ushering toward the great bookshelf before disappearing around an open door off to the right. Left alone, Allison takes in the rest of the room.
In the sunken lounge with her is a fireplace, something unremarkable at most. It looks cold and unused, she notes, but ready with the usual prongs and pans. Off to the right of the room is a long glass table, with a thin white cloth draped down the middle. A woven basket with waxy-looking fruit sat in the center, surrounded by evenly spaced placemats for guests, but barren of chairs. Above the table is a series of wall ledges, winding like a set of stairs toward the mantle. Every ledge held things Allison thought were a bit odd to display.
The first ledge holds a rusty looking rock, followed by a small glass case sheltering an amber tree with red leaves. As her eyes climbed the walls, each display became larger, stranger, and more extravagant before her gaze fell upon the hung jaws of - what she could only assume to be - a great white shark. Its bones are massive, large enough to swallow her whole, and perhaps even the couch she sat on. Its teeth are serrated and barb-like, lining the jaw in uneven rows; some bearing down at her with threat. Allison couldn’t begin to imagine how massive the beast must have been alive.
Staring up at the beast dangling above her, Allison caught the glimpse of a tall, dark figure taking shape out the corner of her eye. It merges from the corridor Azryel left to, with footsteps so quiet against the wood floor, they were almost mute. The presence carries weight, like dark, heavy clouds full of rain not yet weeping, and although Allison knows who it is—she feels the urge to look anyway. Something about them startles her, but at the same time, they feel familiar.
A man standing over six-feet tall manifests by the shelves. His broad shoulders carry in his almost-theatrical black attire, accentuated by his upright posture. He walks with the elegance of a king, but the air he carries is greater than that. His olive-tone skin is warm and healthy, his face is narrow and touched by stubble. He looks young and graceful, but wise. His hair is short, curly and black, clinging close to his head and held together with gel. This must be Mr. Morningstar, Allison thinks. He looks rugged, but it suits him.
“Miss Allison,” he exclaims! His voice is thunderous, booming from deep in his chest. His eyes stare at her knowingly, and smile with him as he reaches out to shake her hand. Allison stands to greet him properly as he says, “a pleasure to finally meet you.”
His grip is firm and his fingers feel rough, she notes; forgetting to respond to him. All she manages is a tense smile and nod, before returning to her seat on the couch. Mr. Morningstar, as she knows him by, takes the same seat as Azryel had done before. In his hands are the file from earlier, a thin, leather notebook, and a large pen. He sits with one leg crossed squarely over the other, laying the notebook in his lap and the file open on top.
Nonchalantly he says, “my name is Lucifer Morningstar—I’ll be your therapist.”
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