Free Stain by Francette Phal Page A

closed doors that continue down the carpeted hallway. Black plaques with golden lettering hang next to each door indicating the names of the physicians and their specialty. Outpatient group therapy is the fifth door on my left. I step inside to find a room of seven familiar faces. They’re all seated around a long, white-topped rectangular table. Every other chair is empty because no one is sitting next to each other except of course for the bleary-eyed couple at the end of the table. Jay and Sylvia. They’ve moved their steel chairs so close together that Sylvia is practically on Jay’s lap. They have their hands firmly interlocked on top of the table as if letting go seemed blasphemous. There are five chairs that remain unoccupied. I take the empty chair toward the back next to Sylvia and it’s not too long before the remaining four trickle into the room rounding out our group of twelve. There’s two clinical social workers in charge of our group. Monday’s, Wednesday’s, and Friday’s group therapy is always lead by Patricia Wallis. While Tuesdays and Thursdays are Regina Petersons’ days. I like Patricia the most because between the two she seems far more experienced at her job than her coworker. She also has a sort of empathy that makes it easy for people to talk to her. So I’m a little disappointed to find that rather than Patricia, Regina is leading the group today.
    “I’ll be covering Patricia’s sessions for the next two weeks,” she announces.
    “Why?” the girl seated across from me asks curtly.
    Pushing her wire frame glasses further up on her nose, Regina sighs. “I’m not sure, Allison. All I know is that she won’t be here for some time.”
    “I heard it’s because she got caught giving a handy to one of her patients. Is that true?” While the rest of the room erupts in laughter, I look at Regina for a reaction. Although she tries to remain calm, the expression on her face gives her annoyance away.
    A deep frown knits her brow. “How about we start the group, instead.” It’s not a question. “I’m thinking today we focus on personal control.” 
    Standing beside an easel holding a dry-erase board, she scribbles down illegible words that look like chicken scratch. I take my sketchpad out of my canvas bag and open it up to my recent work in progress. I’m not completely ignoring her. I have half an ear of what she’s saying, but she’s not saying anything I haven’t already heard. It’s going to be ninety minutes of her droning on and on. I can get my sketch done in that amount of time. The sound of Regina’s voice fades into the background as inspiration takes hold of me. I lose myself in my artwork, my fingers laboring across the charcoal-covered page to conjure a demon. One of mine, more than likely. Another entity inspired by my fascination with the macabre drawings. The more gruesome, the better it seems.
    There’s a monster on my page. He’s made up of slashing, angry, bold, black lines and shadows. He has stygian black eyes and claws that seem to extend from the sketchpad with the intent of snatching me from my contrived bliss. It’s the sound of the door banging close that draws me back to reality. Like everyone else in the room, my eyes automatically fly to the entryway. Instant recognition has my heart lurching painfully against my chest, while my mind races.
    What’s he doing here?
    That silent inquiry ricochets inside the walls of my mind as I survey him. Black hoodie, black, fitted jeans, and scuffed, black boots sum up the whole outfit. He has rock star hair today, mussed around his head like he just rolled out of bed. There’s a presence about him. It’s something so unmistakable, patented only to him, that I can’t seem to deny or resist the draw. It has me sitting up a little straighter in my chair. That magnetizing appeal he wields so well is the reason why I stare like he’s the Second Coming. It’s also why when I try to swallow, it feels like the