I chose not to choose life. I chose something else. The reasons? There are no reasons.

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S t o l e n
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[ P . r . o . l . o . g . u . e ]
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She was talking again. But then again, she was always talking, so that discovery didn't make me feel any more intelligent or statistical in the least bit. She was always telling me about her unifying theories as if I cared, but that was the funny thing with psychiatrists. They always had a theory, no matter how ridiculous it sounded, and always seemed to think people who were forced to listen actually really cared.

"Tifa, it's very common for young women and men to channel their energies into drugs, alcohol, and any other self destructive actions when someone they love is suffering. They may feel trapped and helpless, like there's nothing they can do to stop the suffering, but then again, is doing drugs actually going to save the suffering from any further pain? No, of course not, it'll make the internal pain within them even stronger."

"What do you want me to say," I asked, folding my arms across my chest stubbornly as a stern expression of rage crawled upon my face, "that you're right? That you know exactly what's going on in my head? That I should listen to you because of the vast awards and Ph.D. certifications hanging from your walls? Because of the Nobel prize you're so very sure you'll receive one of these days? Is that what you want because if that's the case then you can just fuck off. I'd rather die in a painfully obscene way than prove to my father he knows what's best for me. Let's make one thing clear, Dr. Crawford, just because you attended Midgar's most prestigious schools and studied with well known doctors all over the world doesn't give you an anticipated VIP pass to save every person who walks into your office."

Dr. Crawford looked astonished. Her cherry lips were parted as the chin attached to her delicate face seemed almost dislocated. I loved every moment of it. Was I a class act bitch for admitting that to myself? I don't know, but I could really care less. I didn't ask to be helped and I sure as hell didn't ask to survive my overdose. Oh, yeah. You didn't know? Before I was forced to these pathetic sessions, I was almost dead. Breaths ceasing and short lived life flashing before my very eyes. It's a beautiful fucking thing, to see every moment of your life - good and bad - playing like a double feature in the compounds of your very own mind. All those who understand my experience, sadly, will most likely never feel that rush again. The first time is always the blood coiling delicacy. And for all you people who don't understand my passion, you will. Maybe even sooner than you think.

"You were almost dead," the female psychiatrist proclaimed, removing the thin framed spectacles away from her eyes and scrutinizing every breath and motion I may be producing. It made me feel very uncomfortable, "So don't you sit there thinking you don't need help! I just don't understand why you're so hell bent on killing yourself. You're such a beautiful and smart girl who's destined to achieve great things! Why would you want to do something so stupid as taking drugs and excessive amounts of alcohol? That's all I want to know. Not even to save you but to help me understand this situation."

"I'm not destined for great things. I'm a nobody," I curtly explained, allowing my leg to lie on top of my other relaxed one as I continued looking up at the ceiling from my comfortable position on the couch, "I don't want to be anyone. I just want to be vapor. Vapor doesn't feel and it doesn't emotionalize itself over stupid things. It doesn't feel like a loser and isn't forced to suffer when the only person they ever loved slips away right between their fingers. You know why? Because vapor doesn't love anyone or anything and it doesn't have fingers for that very importance to slip unnoticeably through, it's just there without a mission or obligation. It lingers one day and the next it'll be gone. No harm. No foul."

"But don't you want a mission? That's the whole purpose of the human race being in existence. It's what separates itself from animals and inanimate objects."

I sighed and turned on my side, propping myself up on my elbow, and looking straight into the young doctor's eyes, "I have no mission and I'm in no rush to ask for one. All that you design your own destiny crap is a crock of shit. It's a fucking manifestation which makes us strive to be someone, anyone, but who we actually are. We're always ashamed of what we have, we want to change it, make ourselves a new version of what other people find pleasant. We want to be perfect but what we don't know, is we'll never get there. There's always something missing and there's always some flaw. No matter how hard you try and remodel it, it'll always be there, gnawing at your insides like this incurable guilt. People don't understand that and 'that's' what separates us from the rest of the creatures of this world. It's not that we have a purpose, it's that we're the only breed on God's green earth that makes unreasonable expectations for ourselves."

"I think you're being a little too pessimistic."

I grinned and shook my head before slowly laying back down, "Not pessimistic. Just realistic."

The office was quiet for quite some time. I actually got to the point where the boredom was so incredibly tedious, I began licking my lips and making sucking noises due to the obvious lack of moisture which refused to grace my mouth. This session was pointless and as my fingers drummed the leather surface of the couch my body was invading, the eyes which I have chosen to close re-awakened themselves and, in irritation, dart to the side to stare at the woman which supposedly held the hidden key to my unharnessed sanity.

I watched Dr. Crawford look down at me with curious eyes, removing her glasses from the bridge of her tiny nose, and pursed her red lips together tersely. That was when I knew she wanted something. To get more specific and ask what, I had no idea. But the body language and uncomfortable vibes this doctor was displaying proved her request was something I would strongly disapprove of. Something emotional and destructive that would leave me in a complete state of vulnerability. I had a slight idea of what she wanted, but the thought was so disgustingly unbearable I didn't want to admit it to myself, because if I did, it might just come true.

"Tifa, as your psychiatrist, I need to know about your life. Past and present."

I felt my body tense up as my insides grew numb with dred and undesired insecurity. Yet, over all these discrepancies, I allowed myself to ironically produce a smile. Maybe it was out of nervous fear. Maybe it was to buy some much needed time. Or maybe it was to hide the rage which was only agonizingly short seconds away from erupting. No matter what the reason was, the smile would never stop being originally known for it's sheer inadequacy and stupidity.

"You don't have to be afraid of confessing the dimensions of your past. Not a single word will leave this office. You have my word."

"That's easy for you to say. You're merely sitting in that cozy chair of yours listening to some poor sap's interpretation on what specific evil corrupted their lives. You, yourself, aren't the poor sap who wakes up every morning wishing they hadn't," I explained surprisingly even-toned as my hands found their way upon my face.

Every second which lapsed by on the clock hanging over the door to my unattained freedom was every second I wished the world itself would just stopped rotating. They should, in all seriousness, consider making controllers for that specified need. Maybe even a self-destruct mechanism along with it but that depended solely on whether those geniuses at Shinra ever did get around to projects which didn't involve the excommunication of hardworking citizens from their homes, the occasional town burning, and who can forget televised public executions.

"Tifa, you can trust me. I'll listen and hopefully give helpful insight into the struggle your past has left you to endure," I heard Dr. Crawford soothingly whisper, her curiosity and inquisitive disposition overwhelming me with it's unsubtle approach. Even with my eyes closed and hands over my face, I could still vividly picture the flicker of need in her eyes.

"No, Dr. Crawford. Your own ignorance will save you many sleepless nights of wondering in horror how destructive this world can really be," I declared, slowly removing my trembling hands from further protecting and shielding the expression on my face. I knew this day would come, especially since my bastard of a father signed me up for sessions at the local hospital with Nibelheim's most determined and successful psychiatrist. It was the denial in me that caused me to believe if I didn't think about it maybe it would go away. Become a fear only crucial to the thoughts in the back of my mind. But because I was too busy believing false advertising for my future, I never had enough time to build my defenses. I was a weak little kitten thanks to the fact I denied possibilities instead of accepting them.

She stared down at me with eyes full of sincere compassion and for a split second I could have sworn I saw my mother. The certain sparkle of life which lied within the doctor's eyes was once an unmistakable characteristic of my mom. It was what she was infamous for besides her incredible musical talent. I felt the tears of nostalgia begin to surface themselves in the pools of my eyes. The visible weakness within me made me sick and that sickness soon, without skipping a single beat, turned into passive fury.

"Who the hell are you to ask me for painful details of my life," I managed to shout, passionate anger being the only emotion fueling my words, "How would you like to resurface the life which brought you so much shame you wish you could just crawl underneath a rock and be wiped off the memory of every single person walking this Earth. Because everytime you manage to step outside, you get stared at like the deformity which is preventing them from ever achieving a much anticipated picture perfect kind of world. When people look at me, they don't see a normal teenage girl by the name of Tifa Lockheart, all they see is a disease that they can't wait to be rid off."

"I'm sure you're overreacting. Nibelheim isn't quick to judge, it isn't Midgar or Kalm," Dr. Crawford proclaimed, leaning back in her chair and placing the silver framed glasses back on her face comfortably, "The problem which you choose not to admit to yourself is you're immaculately bitter and what astonishes me is you're not even an adult yet. You're too busy criticizing all the faults of humanity and the world itself when you should be out, with friends, and enjoying what life has to offer you. Your mother died, yes, and I'm really sorry for that, but don't subject yourself to a life you think you should have verses a life you actually do deserve. Not over the crimes and hardships you seek retribution for but simply for the life a girl like yourself deserves to have! I promise you, Tifa, if you give it a chance, you'll find out the world isn't as bad as you pictured it to be."

I remained completely still, listening intently to the doctor's intuitive words. What I didn't bother saying did prevent her from seeing the real reason I was so 'immaculately bitter.' How do you tell someone you don't want to experience the world for absolute petrifying fear that in the end, it wasn't worth the second glance? How do I find this unspeakable good in a world which takes away the only person I ever loved? It was so easy being close-minded in a world which offered nothing but malice, but then again, I was never the first one who initially took the road less traveled.

"You need to know when to ask for help," she continued, her voice urging me to think about the future repercussions of ignoring salvation, "I can help you if you would only let me in. All I ask is if you just let me in, Tifa, and I promise I'll do my best to remove permanently the skeletons in your closet. I can also assure you anything that is said during this time of recollection will not leave this room or be recorded in any way."

"Why can't you just leave it alone?" I exclaimed, getting frustrated with her incessant questioning, "Haven't you ever heard of the phrase let by gones be by gones?"

"And have you ever heard of the phrase one flew over the cuckoo's nest because let me tell you, if you keep your past hidden without ever confronting it, that will in no doubt be the title of your self-acclaimed autobiography. You have no idea how many patients come in search of my help and can't be healed because they're so far down the road they can't turn back even if they wanted to. Don't let your pride stand in the way of giving yourself much needed closure."

I basked in the idea of preventing my nightmares from continuously returning every night to finish it's cryptic job on destroying the healthy psyche I worked so hard to rebuild after my mother died. I also came to an abrupt conclusion that I was just like everybody else, yearning for some kind of certainty on where I stood in the world. I did want to make ridiculous expectations for myself. I did want to strive for perfection. I did want the mission and the purpose in one neat packaging. I did want to live the life I deserved not the life I thought I should have. I wanted a lot, and surprisingly I noticed for the first time since my downward spiral I decided to give life a second chance. I suddenly realized, I was going to be just like you.

Snuggling back into the lawnchair modeled leather seat, I took the deepest breath my lungs could withstand, and closed my eyes so I wouldn't be tempted to glance even briefly at the doctor's facial expressions during the tragic monstrosity which was my life. As I produced the sigh which seemed to stop time, I slowly asked, "Where do you want me to start?"