(This is only the second draft of the book Worthless. Expect typos, plot holes, odd subplots and the occassionally wrongly named character, especially minor characters. It is made public only to give people a rough idea of how the final story will look)

Chapter 5

"And how do you feel about that now?"
The room was white, very white. I felt like squinting, like the whiteness was too bright for my eyes, but it was all psychological. It was, ironically, in my head, the idea that the white was shining. It wasn't. It was just a color, and it was carefully selected to keep me alert and attentive. Even if my brain kept thinking that it was a light shining in my eyes from everywhere around me.
"Well, I don't know. Maybe it makes me feel a bit angry? I don't , I don't know. Maybe sad?"
The conversation was crawling along like a limping snail. The young man, maybe a year or two older than me, was clearly having trouble understanding some part of the question. He was wringing his hands, his face distorted in what almost looked like pain. He looked like a recovering junkie, battered old clothes hanging on him, likely two sizes too big, and his hair thin and frail, but most of all unkempt, dangling in front of his face.
"Harald, relax, you're safe here. Nobody is going to use what you say against you. Right, people?"
The therapist, a woman in her early fifties, her name constantly escaping me, was speaking in the usual slow, soft tone that seemed designed to calm people down. It clearly did nothing to calm down Harald here, because his hands kept wringing, seemingly increasing in speed and the erratic way they moved.
"I don't.... I don't know what you want me to answer. I don't know," he stuttered, eyes shifting between hands and the therapist. He was immensely uncomfortable, anyone could see that. Perhaps anyone except the therapist, or if she could, she was ignoring it for some reason.
"This is just a group talk, Harald. There are no wrong answers. It's all about accepting that."
Kate? Karen? Karoline? The therapist's name kept escaping me, and it was starting to bother me. The others in the room, one more guy and three girls of varying ages, seemed largely disinterested in Harald's suffering. Two girls looked my age or older, and one of them had very telling long sleeves that she kept tugging on, trying to hide her arms. I was silently trying to weigh the chance that she had bruises against the chance that she had self-inflicted cuts. I had known girls of both types, and they both did that same thing with the sleeves. The other older girl seemed to restrain a lot of anger. She had hair dyed blonde just as poorly as my hair was dyed black, her natural brown color both regrowing at the roots and showing in thick streaks beneath the outer layer of lighter hair. She was wearing an old leather jacket, cuts and scratches in it that might look like evidence of fights, even knife fights. But they were too carefully placed. Either she or someone else wanted the jacket to scream to everyone to stay away.
"I know," barked Harald, frustration sarting to break through. "But I don't know how to explain it. It just seems like something yelling at me. So can we just, like, leave it alone, Sarah? Talk to one of the others, okay?"
He folded his hands behind his head, curling partially up in the wobbly chair, forehead almost pressing against his knees. He was clearly shutting down, at least for the moment. And with that, everyone snapped to attention, knowing that anyone of us could be next.
"You're new here, Ida," she finally said. My eyes widened, painfully, as I realized what she was going for. I nodded vaguely with a grunt, trying desperaterly to look in any other direction, hoping to make her understand that I was in no way going to be next!
"I understand you saw someone get hurt with fireworks. That must have been a rough experience. How do you feel now?"
Everybody was looking. No, everybody was staring. Staring at me like some freakshow attraction. I could almost feel their eyes and hear their thoughts.
"Not fireworks," I grumbled back. Sarah, as the therapist was apparently named, made some indeterminate sound and checked something on a clipboard.
"Okay, tell me what happened, then. In your own words."
I felt like it was a trick, like she had lured me in by making me correct her. It was unlikely, though. My mom had simply told her that I had seen a fireworks accident, and this Sarah person was taking it for granted.
"I don't know. Colors."
That answer did not satisfy anyone. Sarah, of course, seemed less than convinced, but everybody else seemed to also want something more juicy to sink their ears into. Even Harald seemed to have returned from his mental hibernation, to listen to me, of all things.
"Colors? Like, crayons? Or some kind of laser show?"
I shook my head, feeling frustrated at the questions. My brain was starting to fight with itself about whether or not to recall the night before. One night. Not even 24 hours. It had been last night, and my mind was already trying to erase it. I wanted it to be erased, wanted it to be gone, to never have happened. I wanted everyone to leave me alone. But deep beneath it all, something was screaming at me. Something inside me wanted answers, too.
"No, just, like, dancing colors. Little dots. Like when you hurt your eyes or something."
"Did you hurt your eyes?"
Everybody looked to the girl pulling on her sleeves. It had clearly been an accident, a slip of the tongue. She had no desire to have everyone watching, but her brain had skipped the caution and simply blurted out a question it had.
"No, no my eyes are okay. I mean they were okay. It just looked like it. Besides, it was only around the woman."
"Tell me about the woman, Ida."
It was starting to bug me how she kept using my name. I knew this trick, using someoneøs name repeatedly to make them feel like they were the most important part of a conversation. To make them feel special, to make them talk. I didn't want it to work, but I had the nagging feeling that it did.
"She... she looked weird. Like a hobo, but with a sense of style." I wasn't looking at her while I spoke. My eyes just sort of focused into the distance, on nothing. On the memory, on the images in my head. I saw a blurry picture of the woman, different things clearer than others, probably the things I had paid most attention to in that moment.
"Like she had made her own clothes, but like she was, you know, good at it?"
The answer took some time for them to process. Suddenly, I felt in charge of the conversation, something I was less than used to, at least with strangers. It felt odd. It felt good, but in an odd way.
"And then she disappeared, you say? Was she hurt, or did she..."
"No," I said, interrupting in a calm voice. My mind was still trying to reconstruct everything, and the little bits were returning, one by one.
"She just disappeared. The colored lights became real intense and she was just... gone"
Silence fell over the room. My brain tried to escape the worries about what they were all thinking by looking at everything around me. Books and thick folders lined the walls on shelves, and I kept wondering why anyone had so many books and folders in a computer age. There were a few pictures that looked like family, or maybe other therapists or the like. Sarah was in some of them, but not all.
"Magician," said the boy that wasn't Harald. I tried to remember his name. Nick. Or Mick. Maybe Neal.
"Stop making fun of her, Dennis," said the poorly dyed blonde. In that moment, I simply gave up trying to remember any names.
"I wasn't," complained Dennis. "If I saw someone disappear in a lot of lights, I would think magician right away!"
The conversation was clearly starting to spread. I looked at Sarah for a moment, but she seemed perfectly okay with it.
"Like wizards?" Harald interjected, but Dennis shook his head. He suddenly seemed oddly passionate about the whole thing.
"No, like a street magician. Like Chris Angel and those guys. It's a trick!" he chirped, seeming very excited. I felt a weight lift from my shoulder when I noticed that everyone was now looking at him, and not me.
"Why? If Linda was the only one to..."
"Ida," I corrected, quickly regretting the risk that people might notice me again. It passed quickly.
"If Ida was the only one to see it, and she was only there by accident, why would anyone do a magic trick?"
Dennis seemed stumped. "Practice, maybe? I dunno, just sounds like street magic to me."
I felt an urge to protest that it wasn't street magic, but not only had I no real evidence of that, I also had no desire to be the center of attention again. So I let it slide.
"Ida, are you sure you're not just remembering it differently?"
I could practically hear her thoughts screaming that she was trying to not use the word 'wrong' about me.
"I mean, it sounds like a really bad experience. Sometimes our minds just change things to protect us from things like that."
I said nothing. I didn't feel like arguing. I ran the images through my mind one more time, making sure that there was no chance she was right. Nothing. I could find no glitch or missing pieces that looked like my brain was tampering with any of it.
"It wasn't fireworks," I said in a low voice, avoiding eyes. "I dont't know what it was, but it wasn't fireworks. I know how fireworks look."
The conversation continued in much the same track. She asked everyone how they felt about their various situations, then commented on how it was normal. The basics. I kept wondering if my mom even knew what went on in a meeting like this. She had arranged it, through her work at the clinic. She was a buyer, making sure the place got everything it needed and at the best price, but she knew people there, plenty of them. It had taken one phone call for her to get me in. Less than 24 hours. I hadn't even been to school since the incident.
"Noooo."
The drawn out word pulled my attention back to reality, at least for the moment. It was the smallest of the girls, the one I had not heard a word from yet. She seemed uncomortable, even more than the others there.
"Is it still the same people?" asked the therapist. The girl completely refused to meet anyone's eyes, just shaking her head.
"I told you last time, never the same. Just people. Their being weird. They should be here, not me."
Her tone was angry and hurt, but she kept her voice low and vulnerable. Something told me she had figured out that showing actual anger was a fast way to get far more unwanted attention.
"So, just everybody around town? You do understand that..."
"I know," the girl interrupted, still with a low, almost depressed voice. "I know it sounds crazy, that's why I'm here, right?" This time, she lifted her gaze for just a second, meeting the therapist's and then quickly scanning the room before balling up in her chair and staring at the floor again. Her voice sounded on the verge of breaking, and I felt a sting in my heart for her, more so than anyone else present. Her oversized hoodie and loose, slightly dirty pants made her look poorer than most, but she had nice earrings, so the clothes were probably just a preference. A way to stay in the background, not get noticed. In here, none of that worked, and she was clearly frustrated about it.
"Nobody here is crazy," Sarah tried to comfort her, "we are just..."
A small buzzer sounded, snapping everybody out of their uncomfortable silences. Except Sarah, who quickly reached out and touched her phone, the source of the buzz.
"Okay, gang, that's it for today! I have talked to your parents about private sessions, so they will get the times soon. As for the..."
Nobody was listening. Even more than school, everybody was just trying to get out of there, now that the bell had rung, so to speak. I sat a moment, looking, half paralyzed by the sudden activity. The small office had a different vibe to it than a classroom, making everything seem louder and closer. I waited until everybody was more or less gone, then I got up myself. I looked at Sarah, wondering if she had a finishing remark for me, but she just smiled quietly once she noticed it.
Stepping outside was close to painful. The room had its curtains mostly drawn, and the early noon sun shone brightly from a clear sky. It had yet to rain, but it was only a matter of time before the downpour hit. Adjusted, slowly.
"I..."
The voice startled me, making me spin. Ironically, my spin seemed to startle the girl.
"I believe you," she said. It was the small girl, the one who had been arguing with the therapist last. "I have seen... things... to," she continued.
We stood there, silently, me looking at her and her looking at the floor as if she was reading her lines from words painted on it. She broke her gaze a few times to look around nervously, clearly not wanting others to hear whatever she had to say. And from her body language, she definitely had somethng to say.
"Okay, I know I'm crazy, but there are..."
"I don't think you're crazy," I said, sort of a knee-jerk remark, something I felt I should say, if nothing else then to make her feel better about talking to me. She raised her eyes for a split second, then looked back at the floor and took a moment to collect her thoughts.
"Okay, so, but, I mean, I see them, I see people, and they don't belong here. And I think I saw someone do what you said, disappear in a cloud of colors. That's what you saw, right?"
I nodded, expecting her to continue. She did not.
"What is it you see? Who are those people and why don't they belong?"
My question clearly made the girl nervous. She squirmed, constantly looking around, like someone about to break the law or show something extremely embarrassing. I suddenly realized I was frowning at her, but I forced myself to stop before she noticed.
"Okay, so you know how people never really look at each other here, right?"
"Yeah," I answered, drawing out the word as I thought about it. It was actually pretty spot on. People in Nakskov were always nice and polite, but there was an aura of leaving people to their own devices. You could go down main street, end to end, and never make eye contact with anyone, unless you actively tried to. If you did try, they were nice people. But whether it was shyness, privacy or something else entirely, people really didn't look at each other much.
"Except some people look," she commented, her voice suddenly changing to a more harsk tone, like she was more in her element all of a sudden. "They look a lot. And they keep an eye on people. People like me."
I stood there for a moment, my jacket still hanging by my side. My school bag was at home. I was supposed to go straight back after the therapy session. The girl said nothing more, and her nervous act began to return.
"What is with people like you? Why do they watch you?"
She shrugged, mumbling that she didn't know, or so it sounded like.
"My parents say I'm paranoid, or something else crazy. They just want me to stop, so I try not to talk out loud about it. But I still notice. I'm not stupid, you know."
I shook my head quickly. Not stupid, no. Whatever she was, she was not stupid. Or so I chose to assume.
"Just, like, be careful, okay? Maybe they want to hurt people or something."
With those words rattled off in a quick blur, she tugged her arms in tight and walked past me. I didn't react for some reason, hearing her words repeat in my mind. Then I heard my mother's words repeating, telling me to go straight home.
Then I saw an image.
I quickly pulled out my phone, switching it back on after the whole therapy thing. That had been a big deal, no active cell phones. Maybe that was why everybody seemed uncomfortable and fidgety. As the colors sprang up on screen, my background image of me and Mischa stuffing our faces with pizza in an unclean manner appeared. I ignored the blip about notices from this and that app and instantly opened the picture gallery. It was the last picture I had taken, showing right at the top. Those shoes. The ones that the disappearing woman had left behind. Pink, charred, partially melted. On them, crude black lines from a marker, hastily drawing a laughably simple logo that was impossible to read now. But it was possible to recognize it. I thought long and hard, then sent the image to four of my friends from school, unsure which was the right one. Suddenly feeling strangely nervous myself, I stood in that hallway, bathed in sunlight, waiting. Seconds felt like minutes, minutes like hours. And after eight of those unbearable minute-hours, a blip told me that someone had responded. I hadn't moved in the meantime.
"Y, is m old shos" read the message, making it hard to see what was quick text speak and what was just bad spelling. It was from Rita, a girl I had known since third grade, but rarely talked to these days. We just chatted quickly whenever we met, and I had apparently noticed those shoes at some point. I wrote a message back, asking where those shoes were now. It took her far less time to respond this time, luckily.
"Gav to flee market. one in scool soth."
I chewed through the message, taking a few seconds to get all the words right. Everybody seemed to be making their own version of texting language, and it was slowly starting to bug me. I had been practicing writing with an app, and people were noting that I was becoming a bit of a grammar nazi. I was okay with that, to be perfectly honest.
"I know the place," I wrote, checking every word to make sure I was being as proper as I secretly judged others for not being. I instantly shrugged that thought out of my head, focusing on what mattered instead. I had to get home. I had promissed to go home. I was supposed to go home.
I looked up when the bus went to the school south of town.