Sneak Peak: Constant, Interlude 2 (Patreon)

Updates showing numbers going up is one thing, but at some point I imagine you'd like actual evidence the story's progressing.  Here it is!  This is a sneak peak extract from the current chapter.  A while ago I posted the scene leading into this (Katherine reviewing the footage of the incident at the cafe).  This is (at least for now) the next scene.

This is the scene I abandoned when I stepped away from the keyboard.  I found this, initially at least, very difficult to write.  I'm not sure why; I felt it was an important scene but it's possible I hadn't really sorted in my mind what I wanted to do with it.  I'd also lost track of the character, Crystal.

I think--hope--I turned it around, and hopefully this reads okay.  It's still at the draft stage, and i expected to give it another revision once I've written the full chapter.

Let me know what you think!

***

A small room, greige walls, sparsely decorated and designed to feel unthreatening. Spikey green succulent in a simple pot; paintings of muted colours in textured swaths on the wall; comfortable chairs and a large, heavy table in solid wood. Two women faced each other across the table. The first, very pretty and dressed to accentuate her youth, presented as fashionably vivid in contrast to the subdued room and the other woman opposite. She slouched in her chair, legs crossed at the knees, hugging herself against the air conditioned chill of the room. Painted fingernails clicked against the chair armrest.

Opposite her, an older woman—in her mid-forties, perhaps—sat poised and professionally attired in a charcoal grey blazer and knee length pencil skirt. A little matronly in appearance, with a strong jaw and pronounced chin, her sternness was softened by the ruffle of her collar, severity offset by the lace trim of her white shirt and the bright colours of her rings and chunky necklace.

Behind heavy-framed glasses, deep-set eyes sparked with perceptive intelligence. She leaned forward. “Before we begin,” the woman started and rattled off the usual patter that this was a safe space, a non-judgmental space in which the patient was free to speak openly and honestly; however, the Clinic nevertheless did record all interactions between therapist and patient. She left out the tracking of patients’ reactions through GSR, heart rate, pupil response, thermal change and a host of other methods, per standard procedure. Specialised equipment setup in the room tracked the patient, and the wristband assigned to all patients at the clinic contributed a steady stream of its own data.

The therapist added that her full name was Crystal Carlotta Dawn; that she was a licensed therapist employed by the Asklepios Clinic; the patient’s name was Cindy Bellamy; and that this was a follow-up session to their previous meeting six months ago.

The younger woman seemed startled. “Six months?”

The therapist continued: the session was to evaluate the patient’s wellbeing and to assess how she was coping following her previous treatment at the Asklepios clinic.

“Is this thing part of it?” the girl interrupted, plucking at the thin strip of soft plastic around her wrist. “Like, I get that it gives access around the clinic and pays for food and whatever, but when I went to the gym this morning is also had my heart rate and stuff on it. Is that part of the interview?”

The older woman nodded. “Yes. It allows us to monitor the patients’ vital signs and respond in case of an emergency,” she answered. “And it provides other useful data. Is it comfortable?”

“Yeah.” Cindy crossed her wrists, and the clinic’s pale strip of white plastic made a dull contrast to the colourful bangles decorating the other arm. “Bit bland, though.”

“I’ll be sure to pass that on to our tech department.” Thin lips in pale beige lipstick twitched in a hint of a smile. “So, with all that out of the way—shall we begin?”

“Um… sure? I guess.” The younger girl tapped at the wristband, fingernails clicking against the plastic, seemed suddenly conscious of her fiddling, and stopped. She shrank back into her chair. She seemed smaller, now, less confident and more vulnerable.

“Would you mind if I asked you a few questions?”

“I guess not?”

Crystal took a moment to draw a tablet from her briefcase and placed it before her. She took a moment to review some notes written there. The girl opposite fidgeted with her bangles, spinning them around her wrist as she waited in silence.

“How are you feeling today?” Crystal finally asked. She smiled. “Cindy?”

For a moment the young girl seemed taken aback, as though surprised by the question. Her mouth opened once, closed—she took a deep breath—and shrugged. “Fine, I think,” she said. “A bit tired. It was a long drive yesterday, and it took me awhile to wind down. Didn’t sleep very well, I guess, and I woke up early.”

“Oh?” Video capture and biometric data confirmed Cindy was awake at 4am and jogging on a treadmill in the patients’ gym at 5. The concern expressed by the therapist seemed genuine; it probably was. “Why was that?”

“I….” Cindy hesitated. “I don’t know. Yesterday was a stressful day, you know? Or, you know what it’s like, sleeping in a strange room?”

“Bad dreams?” She knew, of course, that Cindy had indeed been plagued by bad dreams last night – again, the collected data suggesting the familiar pattern of recuring nightmares had followed her back to the Clinic.

“I don’t know.” The young girl’s fingers played with her dangling earrings, twitching and twirling the glittery strands. “Like, maybe? I can’t remember.”

The older woman nodded, and then hesitated before her next comment. “You look good today, Cindy.”

The compliment seemed to placate some of the girl’s anxiety. “That wasn’t a question?”

“No, I suppose it wasn’t,” she said. She made a note on her tablet, then looked up. “Could you walk me through the steps you followed in selecting your outfit today?”

Cindy’s brow furrowed, her nose wrinkling slightly with apparent confusion. “I don’t follow.”

There was a pause in which Crystal leaned back in her seat and observed the younger woman over steepled fingers. “Last time I saw you, Cindy, was six months ago. Do you remember?”

“Ye—ees? I mean, kind of. It was all a bit informal, right?” She frowned with the effort of recollection, a gesture so cute and disarming it couldn’t possibly be unconscious. “We had a couple of chats. You asked me a bit about my life before, you know…”

She nodded. “Yes, I know.”

Cindy shrugged. “No offense, but honestly – I’m drawing a bit of a blank. I kinda thought you were a bit flakey, you know: ‘Crystal’? and ‘Dawn’? I remember thinking, that can’t be her real name, can it? It just seemed, like, a bit spacey new-agey?”

Crystal stifled a laugh. “Fair enough,” she said. “However, from my point of view, those encounters were very meaningful, very memorable. You left a very strong impression.”

“Oh.” Cindy voice, but small.

“And so, to return to my request: before leaving your room this morning, you were free to dress any way you wanted. This is the outfit you chose.” Here, she indicated the black top Cindy wore, sheer, tight and sleeveless, over lacy balconette bra shadowed by the mesh fabric; and the high-waisted, button-down shorts and wide metallic belt, and ankle boots. “Can you to walk me though the process that led to you wearing this?”

There was a pause before Cindy answered. When she spoke, her voice wavered. “Is there a problem with the way I’m dressed?”

“No. Of course not.”

“Then why--”

“I’m hoping you can explain the thinking, maybe the emotions, behind your choices. Nothing more.” Crystal indicated the girl’s footwear. “For instance, can you explain why you chose to wear heels today?” She leaned a little closer and offered a reassuring smile. “They’re very pretty. Very colourful.”

Cindy expression wavered; something akin to anger flashed across her eyes, but then she smiled with something akin to relief. Almost as if a switch had been flipped, she slid easily into her answer. “Thanks! I wasn’t sure, you know? But I saw them there in the closet of clothes the Clinic provided – and I mean, like wow, how’d they get my size right for everything?” She rubbed her hands down the length of one long, lithe and smooth leg, the skin luminous with youthful vigor and body shimmer lotion. Cindy danced her fingers along the boots, curling graceful fingers around the chunky heel. Sequins sparkled in the light. “But I don’t know. Like, sure, the flats were tempting but I guess I wanted to feel a little taller today? And I saw the boots and went from there?”

A little moue of concentration, pinked pursed lips and wrinkled nose, again, and she shrugged. “I read an article about Sin-DI this morning? And she looked pretty and cool and had shoes kinda like these, and so I tried to copy the look a bit? Maybe?” Cindy unfolded one leg, recrossed as the knee, faux leather shorts crinkling with the movement. “Is it too much?”

“Not at all.” Crystal for a moment and tapped at the tablet again. “I may have read the same article as you. Was it the one in -Lumen-?”

With a little nod, Cindy answered, “yes, yes that one,” and she seemed relieved to move away from the topic of clothes and dressing. “She talked about some older influences, like… um, Grimes? Hadn’t heard of her. And that Japanese V-pop girl, Haruki, the AI hologram?”

Crystal nodded. “Yes.” She frowned. “Did you know her owners decommissioned her last month?”

“No way! I mean, she was, um, before my time but still – an icon, right?”

“No longer profitable, apparently.” She sounded a little sad. “And too expensive to maintain. She’d already expanded into trillions of parameters and exabytes of storage. I visited the server block in Osaka that used to house her; massive, skyscraper thing.” She shrugged. “But after the earthquake—even with the distributed backups, they just couldn’t get her right again.”

“Sounds like you’re a fan?”

“I am.” Then she shook her head. “But I’m the one that’s supposed to be asking the questions, right?” Crystal laughed. “And of course, Sin-DI mentioned another influence, didn’t she? A friend of yours. Harry Longman.”

The younger girl blushed. “Um. Yeah.”

“Quite the fashion shoot, I thought,” Crystal continued. “There was the one you mentioned; I can see the influence. Any thoughts on the other photos from the -Lumen- article?”

If anything, Cindy turned redder. “They were… um. Interesting.”

-Lumen- was notorious for both its writing and its photography. A higher-end Arts and Culture magazine (critics might call it a pretentious celebrity gossip glossy for pseudo-intellectuals) its reputation was built on a promise of entirely human-written content—no AI-generated word-porridge—and for launching the careers of a handful of recent media superstars. Constantly mired in a morass of controversy and gleefully flirting the moral outrage of politicians and pundits across the political spectrum, -Lumen- never apologized, retracted or changed tact; and each monthly publication was one of the literary talking points of the season; or at least has been since its inception less than a year ago.

True, most of the articles were half-imbedded advertising and shameless promotional pieces for the artist being interviewed; and yes, it often skirted if not outright ran roughshod over generally accepted boundaries of common decency: but getting covered by -Lumen- almost always indicated a media personality worth knowing about.

And everybody already knew about Sin-DI. Yet the newcomer pop star remained enigmatic, alluring, this sudden, sexual and potent new female presence on every screen, every speaker, every tongue. Unsurprisingly, the article dug into her background (mysterious) and inspirations (old and new), her real name (still secret) and insinuated some tough questions touching on her personal life (who was that young boy she was spotted with last weekend? That older woman?) and touched lightly on the future (ambitious; very much so).

A few queries raised a frisson of disquiet. How, exactly, had she acquired Harry Longman’s back catalogue, considering the reclusive musician’s famous insistence he’d never sell? When did aggressive sensuality tip over into blatant pornography and smut? Was she inspiring young girl to express themselves creatively, or normalising fetishism, and emboldening indecent and sexual promiscuous behaviour? Her responses were—for the most part—ambiguous.

Mostly, though, the article was just a promotional piece for the artist, hinting at her next release, advertising her current tour, and dripping with saccharine statements inspiring other girls to chase their dreams.

Then there was the photo shoot.

The statements of feminine empowerment sat awkwardly, deliberately so, juxtaposed with the four-photo spread, the highlight of the piece.

Judging from the biometrics data collected that morning, Cindy also found the images compelling. Time on screen, eye-movement tracking, accelerated heart-rate and her transition from the kitchen to the privacy of the bathroom: all suggested the girl had spent both time and considerable attention reading the article over breakfast, with a close focus on the images in questions.

The first image, the influence on the day’s outfit, was relatively tame, at least in comparison to the others: trendy young woman dressed for a night out, though skewing uncomfortably towards jail-bait sensuality in its school-girl aesthetics, highlighted by the pigtails and sparkly pink makeup. Glossy lips curved in a open smile, and one hand held a Champagne flute, its edges tinted pink with lipstick. With one leg foot-popping up behind in apparent bliss, she gazed adoringly towards the screen—from which a heavy shadow stretched towards her. Angle and framing gave the shadow a distinctly male caste, made it imposing, threatening; and in doing so positioned the viewer within the male gaze.

“I suppose you’re far more the target audience for this publication than I am,” Crystal continued, and she positioned the tablet on the table between them. She spun it around to show the article to her patient. “I’m curious what you made of the second photo?”

Here, Sin-DI was all ultra-tight under-bust corset and fetish ballet heels; long hair braided, tied and twisted into wrist cuffs held high behind the girl’s back. Sin-DI’s defiant glare, narrowed eyes and flared nostrils were directed towards the camera. Her makeup was glossy, vivid; there was a passing resemblance to Cindy’s. Wet, red lips were stretched wide around bright teeth bared and clenching down on the bit between her teeth, she was collared and a leash ran back to the figure in the shadows, another heavy, masculine presence holding her bridle. On her knees, her naked breasts heaved, nipples pierced and engorged, and every muscle was taut with tension, cords of her neck distended as she pulled at her bondage. Her skin gleamed with sweat and grime, and the materials were all liquid metals, dull cold steel gleaming in the harsh glare of an unseen light.

“Any thoughts?”

Cindy squirmed a little in her seat and didn’t quite make eye contact, blushing again under her heavy makeup. “I don’t know. I mean, sure, it’s kinda cool, I guess.” The biometric data collected earlier that day suggested she’d found this specific photo particularly arresting; elevated heart rate and breathing implied at least one, if not more, rounds of masturbation that morning.

“Online discussions,” Crystal mused, “are heated and divided, as you can imagine. Does this present the struggles of a successful, powerful young woman against the oppressive, controlling constraints of patriarchy; of is it just more fetishized commodification of submissive femininity under the guise of sexual empowerment, simply pushing more beauty pornography glamorising the degradation of women in the interest of selling more copy?” She tapped the screen and zoomed in on Sin-DI’s face, her fierce glare and bright lips and the bit between her teeth. “How does it make you feel?”

“Uncomfortable,” Cindy answered without hesitation. She stared at the photo. “I don’t know how… she can do that?”

“Do you mean embrace and exploit her sexuality so overtly?” Crystal pulled the image back, showing the full spread of the pop star in bondage. “Or submit and be sexually commodified and exploited for profit?”

Cindy didn’t answer.

“Some critical responses argue the photos problematize contemporary idealisations of womanhood,” she said. “That this is what we want – aggressive femininity, blatant sexuality – but restrained, under male control.” Crystal swiped, brought up the third image. “As is typical with -Lumen-, there’s a sort of narrative arc to the photos. From date night to its conclusion, perhaps, and then….”

“The bridal shot?” Cindy’s voice was quiet, distant and thoughtful.

“Perhaps this is intended to capture the inevitability of the female journey? That this is every girl’s dream, their destination?” Crystal shrugged. “What do you think?”

“She’s… beautiful, in that one.” She tucked a stray blonde bang back and her nose crinkled in awe. “Beautiful and a little scary.”

Ivory and tight, from neck to wrist, a sleek column of silk and lace that flowed over exaggerated curves to pool at the woman’s feet, a shimmering froth of feminine fabric that glittered with a thousand tiny gemstones and flooded across the rough concrete floor. Standing ramrod straight, perched on skyscraper platform heels exposed by a slit in the dress, her poise and posture was that of a storefront mannequin. The tightness of the dress and the height of the heels must have made even the slightest of steps impossible.

The bride’s delicate hands presented a bouquet of flowers to the viewer, one half lurid scarlet cala lilies; the other half a cluster of obsidian black irises. The vivid colours made a startling contrast against the desaturated, over-exposed brilliance of the scene. Long and graceful fingers seemed to distend, meld and disappear into the stems of the bouquet, girl-becoming-accessory at the extremities, just as her elevated feet seemed to disappear into the lacy froth. Thorned vines from the flowers wrapped and writhed around her wrists like binders; the bridal fabrics at her feet wound like laces up to her knees.

A curtain of clinging glimmering weave veiled the bride’s face. Behind the veil, a hint of a smile, of eyes demurely downcast, of tears dampening the delicate fabric.

But then ambiguities: was that a bulge below the waist revealed by the unforgiving tightness of the dress, an unexpected curve rather than cleft to the bride? Were her shoulders just a little too square, and the veiled hint of jaw too strong? And the ubiquitous shadowed figure, still featureless, still threatening, standing behind the bride, with crop and leash in hand, though now unused—did they suddenly seem less masculine than before, with a hint of hip and longer hair to the oppressive silhouette?

Cindy looked at the photo for a long moment. Her fingers were tightly interlaced in her lap. “But, um. Yeah.” She shook her head. “I don’t really know about any of that stuff. I get this is meant to be telling a story, but I guess I don’t get what that story is meant to be.” Cindy sighed. “Like I don’t know if she’s, what did they call her? ‘The herald and vanguard of sixth wave feminism’?”

The young woman shrugged. “I just think she’s kinda cool. I like her music and she sounds smart when she wants to, and she really just seems to be enjoying herself. And some of her lyrics just really connect for me, you know? And the way she presents herself is so brave and challenging?”

Another sighed, and she tapped at the screen with one colourful nail. “But this stuff, I guess it’s not really my thing. Like, I’m sure it’s fun and all? And the photoshoot must be a blast and trying out all the different outfits and the shoes and having a makeup artist and all that. But I couldn’t imagine ever wearing stuff like that.” With a flick of the finger she brought the second photo back, tracing the lines of metal bondage lightly with one finger.

She paused, staring at the tightly bound woman on the screen. “It looks… uncomfortable.” With a shiver, Cindy flicked the photo away. “I don’t think I could ever… do that.”

“What do you mean?”

“Give up control like that.”

“You don’t think she’s in control?”

“How could she be?” Cindy said. “Tied up like that.”

“She rich. She’s powerful. It’s her photoshoot. By all accounts, she’s got complete control over every aspect of her media image and is the primary creative force behind all this—I’m not sure even -Lumen- could coerce her into modelling she didn’t approve of.” Crystal took back the tablet and again brought up the image in question. “There isn’t a single person involved in the making of this image that she couldn’t have fired and blacklisted and their career ruined. Is that not power? Is that not control?”

“No,” Cindy answered, her voice quiet. “Because once you’re tied down and gagged everything you’ve just said becomes theoretical. The… woman on the screen here?” Again, she traced Sin-DI’s bondage, the bit between her teeth, the cuffs at her wrists, the taut lines of her neck drawn back and exposed. “This isn’t power. She’s powerless. She’s half-naked, tits out, voiceless. She’s there for the enjoyment of men.”

“Isn’t that a form of power in itself? To be able to provoke, to influence others’ reactions?”

Cindy shrugged.

“And yet,” Crystal said, “you drew on her for your own look.”

Suddenly a little sheepish, Cindy nodded. “Sure, she inspired what I’m wearing today, but I think this is my limit.” Cindy rubbed her hands up and down her lithe, exposed legs, then pulled back into her chair, hugging herself with bare arms. “It already feels like I’m barely wearing anything.”

“Does that bother you?” Crystal asked, blanking the tablet screen.

Cindy seemed to consider this for a moment. “Maybe?”

“What do you mean?”

“I feel exposed. I feel watched. And that makes me… uncomfortable. These clothes,” and here she plucked at the high neckline of her mesh top, “they’re designed to draw attention, right? Like, the whole point of this thing is to see the bra under it right? You know, just in case people forgot I had tits. And the bra, it’s designed to push these puppies up on display.” Cupping her breasts, she gave them a little push upwards. “And because its so goddam cold in here, even my nipples poke through, right?

“And then you can nearly see my ass cheeks in these things,” she continued, tugging at her shorts, “and I’m baring so much skin I’m nearly naked, right?” She gestured at the tablet. “I mean, it’s not that far off that final picture, is it?”

The final image, the conclusion of Sin-DI’s photographic narrative, presented the bride after the ceremony. The bride, defrocked and lying resplendent in lingerie on ebony sheets, shimmering ivory basque and stockings and suspender belt, gilt gleaming to every seam, link and edge; and straps, so many straps coiling sensuously across every curve, one-half caress in lace, one-half bondage in satin.

With a look of coy—apprehension and anticipation?—or satiated yearning?—on parted lips and lidded eyes, Sin-DI held one arm across her chest, and the other, fingers spread, covered and hid her naked genitals. Shot in greyscale, the bride resplendent shone luminous whilst the edges of the frame lay in churning darkness, encroaching, powerful and threatening but in the moment held beyond the pale.

“I think there’s some distinction between post-coital posing in underwear on a bed, and what you’re wearing,” Crystal answered. “But I take your point.”

“I guess I’m just not used to being so… on display, all the time.”

“Not yet?” Crystal suggested.

“Not ever.” She shook her head. “I don’t think I’d ever get used to it.”

“Yet you chose those clothes,” Crystal said. “You chose to display yourself.”

Cindy cocked her head to one side. “Not much of a choice.”

“Cn you expand on that?”

“I mean that this, all of this—it’s what expected, right?”

“Expected by whom?”

“By…,” Cindy waved her arm to take in the woman opposite, the room—the concealed cameras in the room?—and the world around them. “By everyone!”

“By you?”

Cindy blew a lock of hair out of her face.

“Tell me,” Crystal continued, “You found inspiration in Sin-DI’s style before.” Crystal tapped at the tablet, brought back the photo of the redolent woman in her bridal lingerie. “Could you imagine wearing something like this?”

Green eyes tracked across the bride’s partial nudity, lingering over slender heels, shimmering stockings, straps and catches and hooks and delicate decorative bows. Cindy grimaced and looked away.

“Cindy?”

“Yeah,” she said, her voice surly. “Yeah, I guess I can.” But then she turned back, eyes flashing with anger. “But not like that!”

Crystal waited.

“Like, okay, fine – yeah, I’ve worn… stuff like that. Heels and the garter belt and all that shit. Julia’s really into it right now.” Crystal made a note to ask about Julia as the younger woman continued. “But it’s different, okay?”

“How so?”

“Because… it is, okay?  It just is.”

“Is it comfortable?”

She seemed ready to launch into a retort, stopped, and then shrugged. She gave a little half smile. “Honestly? It’s not that bad. Not as bad as I’d thought. Listen. You want the truth? Fine. It’s kinda fun, sometimes. Bras are a pain in the ass, usually, but the underwear’s comfy enough, and even the garter belt isn’t as much a pain as I thought it’d be. And yeah, it feels sorta sexy, okay? And that can be nice, too.”

But then she pointed at the photo. “But not like that. Not—displayed, like that, so some guy can get his perv on and jack off to the sight of my tits or something.”

“So you wouldn’t wear something like that for a man.”

Cindy growled with frustration. “Not by choice, no.”

“I see.”

“And definitely not… you know, bridal lingerie.”

“No, I suppose not.” Crystal made a few notes. “Not even for the right person?”

Cindy frowned. “No.”

“I see.” Crystal nodded. “But I’d to return to this idea of choice. It was that choice that I wanted to explore when we first started.” She indicated her own outfit. “My choice, for instance, feels very different than what you are suggesting.”

“You feel comfortable?”

Crystal hesitated for a moment, and her eyes unfocused briefly. She smiled, slightly, though she gave an impression of sadness. “Yes,” she said. “I do.”

“Fine,” Cindy said. “But it’s not the same.”

“Why?”

“I don’t have the same freedom to choose as you do.”

“Why not?”

“Well for one thing,” Cindy said. “You’re old,” and she half-covered a smile with her hand.

“Thanks,” Crystal answered drily.

“But it’s not the same, is it?” Cindy continued. “You’re on that side of the desk, and I’m on this side. You’re the professional and you look it and that’s what’s expected. But I’m….” and here she trailed off into silence.

“Yes,” Crystal urged. “What are you?”

Her jaw clenched; she sneered; then deflated and sagged. “A girl,” she answered. “Just—a girl.” Her hand fluttered in indistinct circles, fingernails flashing in the light. “And this, all this, I guess, it’s what’s expected of—of a girl like me.” Her eyes fluttered, closed, as though tired.

“And what kind of a girl are you?”

“I’m….” A deep breath, an inarticulate groan, and she retreated deeper in the chair, pulling her legs up and hugging them close. “For fuck’s sake, I dunno, doc.”

Crystal waited.

Cindy opened her eyes and peered at her over her knees. “Why don’t you tell me what you see?”

The doctor nodded. The doctor eyed her young patient for an extended moment in silence, as though weighing her words carefully.

She began slowly. “I see someone struggling, caught between socially constructed ideas of femininity, which she presents so strikingly, and other buried aspects of her identity—some of which may elude even her.”

Bright green eyes, round and unblinking, watched her in silence.

Crystal continued. “I see a girl who, despite her outwardly showy, even confident appearance, is clearly in conflict. She expresses both her femininity and her strength through clothing and accessories that are both revealing and empowering to her.  I see the way she pushes her breasts up to attract attention but veils them as though to say “look at me but not too close” - she is covering herself but still showing off. There is a desire… no, a need for recognition and acceptance, but equally there is a fear of it.

“I see a young woman who is struggling to find her place in the world,” Crystal said. “Someone who doesn’t quite know who she wants to be, or what she wants to do. She is trying to reconcile conflicting impulses of desire and shame in a world that expects her to be both sexual and yet ashamed of that sexuality. I see fear—a fear of being alone—and she yearns to connect with others but defaults to connecting through her physicality. And the yet the very physical nature of those connections themselves are fearful to her. Caught in a liminal state between embracing and denying, she is left in suspension, incapable of just being….” And here Crystal paused. She tilted her head, thinking, and then shrugged. “Of just being the girl she is.”

Humour tugged at Cindy’s lips. “You see all that, do you?”

“You asked. I told you.”

Her eyes flickered, betraying a glimmer of recognition. “Am I normal?”

Crystal gave a small smile. “Normal is a subjective term, Cindy. But what I can tell you is that it’s not uncommon for young women to feel the way you do. We live in a society that places a great deal of pressure on women to conform to narrow ideals of femininity.”

At that, Cindy shifted uncomfortably, her fingers fidgeting with the ankle strap of her boot. “But what can I do about it?” she asked, her voice nearly a whine.

Crystal leaned forward, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “You can embrace it,” she said. “You can recognize that there is nothing wrong in taking pleasure in who you want to be in this moment.”

There was silence, a silence that extended and reached out and filled the room as both women watched each other from either side of the desk. Neither moved; until even the white noise breathing of filtered air drawn through the room felt loud. Finally, with a creak of tight shorts and the gentle song of metal bangles chiming, Cindy uncoiled in her seat, sitting up and leaning forward, and faced her therapist directly.

“It must fucking kill you, yeah?”

Crystal’s face remained impassive, indicating no surprise at the sudden shift in tone. “What do you mean,” she said. “Cindy?”

The younger girl flinched at the sound of her name. Her painted lips curled in a sneer. “I mean, just look at me. These tits. These legs, this hair, these goddamn lips… I’m gorgeous, right, just look at me, a real sexpot, right? Feminine. So goddamn feminine it hurts, and… I hate it.” Her fist slammed down onto the desk with a dull thud. “I hate it.” And again. “I hate it!” she all but groaned, and this time she surged to her feet, standing and punching down into the desk in a jangle of tinging bracelets.

Blood dotted the wooden surface. “I fucking hate it,” she hissed.

“And you sit there and tell me to embrace it, that there’s nothing wrong with it, to be who I want to be but this—” and here Cindy all but hit herself, small fist smacking into her chest. “This isn’t who I want to be!”

And then leaned over the desk and the impassive woman sitting opposite. “But I bet you’d give anything, wouldn’t you, to have—to fucking -be-, what I’ve got here. I bet it eats away at you, yeah, just really aches to see me despise this thing you’d give you left fucking nut to have, to be this beautiful, this feminine, this… girly.”

Crystal looked up at the panting, red-faced girl. “I gave up my left nut many years ago,” she answered drily. “And the right one too.” She waited for a slow count of three, and then asked. “Are you done?”

Cindy let out a deep breath. She looked embarrassed by her eruption. “Yeah.”

“Please sit down.”

Cindy did.

Crystal gestured at the girl’s hand. “A pity about your hand. I think you broke another nail again.” She smiled. “They looked lovely, by the way.”

Cindy stared at her, mouth open but silent. She sighed, and then returned the smile and seemed relieved by the change of subject. “Thanks. There wasn’t much to do this morning, so I popped into the salon after the gym and breakfast.” She raised her hand and wiggled her fingers; vivid nails too long to be considered sensible, each painted a different colour, shimmered and sparkled. “They fixed up the broken one and then had a bit of fun, I guess. They’re, ah… a touch longer than I’m used to.” The younger girl raked her nails though her mane of perfectly straight, long blonde hair, sweeping it back over her shoulder. “They also did my hair and makeup. Really went to town on me.”

“Very feminine,” Crystal said. “Very pretty.”

“Yeah.” Once again, the edges of Cindy’s smile strained. She unfolder her legs, sat straight, and splayed her hands on the table. “Pretty.”

“And how does that make you feel?”

Cindy’s eyes narrowed. “Just fucking great, doc.”

Crystal seemed unfazed by the sudden change in demeanour. “I take it from your tone that this isn’t so.”

“What the fuck are we doing here, Crystal?”

“What do you mean?”

“Am I passing your test?”

“Do you feel as though I’m testing you?”

“Fine, fuck it, whatever.” The girl held one hand to her chest in joy. “Oh, I just love feeling pretty!”

“Cindy—”

“No, really, I do!” The girl jumped to her feet and sashayed back and forth across the narrow space of the room, talking over her shoulder. “Like, wearing these heels! I love the way they make me feel; taller; more confident; sexy! Like nothing can stop me, you know,” and here she spun on one heel to face the therapist, “and I even kind of like it when I catch people, you know, especially guys, checking me out.

“Like, who can blame, them, right?” Cindy’s glittering fingers swept across her torso, picking out the veiled cleavage on display. “But it’s not like I -need- their validation, of course? It’s more like, knowing the effort’s being appreciated, it feels good. Like when a girl, I mean -another- girl, notices my nails or something new I tried with my makeup, and it feel good, inside, a little flutter of happiness.” She paused and bent over the desk between the two. “Feeling feminine, feeling pretty, it’s like being part of a fun little secret society, where the price of entry is that little bit of effort, a touch of makeup and glam, and bam! I’m in.”

Crystal remained silent and waited.

“You want more?” Cindy rolled her eyes. “Fine. Dressed like this, I feel like… like—a sparkling gem, catching the light, shining and bright on a dark day. Like I’m a sunset, painting night clouds in soft colours at the end of the day. I’m a porcelain doll, delicate and loved because my beauty’s so fragile.”

Crystal grimaced. “Please stop.”

Cindy dropped back into her chair. “You asked.”

“I didn’t ask for greeting card platitudes. I’m asking how it feels for you to be seen as by others.”

“You want to know?”

“Yes,” Crystal answered.

“Fine. I’ll tell you.” And here, without any wrinkle of the nose or any pretense at cuteness, the young girl slouched back in her chair and glared at the woman opposite over, with her elbows on the armrest and her hands clenched together under the chin. Her knuckles whitened as she spoke, and her voice was firm and strong.

“You ever hear of an iron maiden?”

Clearly bemused, Crystal nodded.

“The medieval torture device, I mean, not that rock band from way back.” Cindy’s smile was tight, and her eyes remained angry. “So these iron maidens, maybe they never really existed. I don’t know, I’m not a fucking historian. But everybody knows the story, you can find a million examples online. Sin-DI even used one in the video for “Spiral”. I’ve read new they’re popular these days are popular with the kind of people who like kinky shit in the bedroom.

“So yeah, originally they were a container shaped like a human – like a woman, a maiden – sometimes even decorated and beautiful on the outside, painted with girl’s clothes and a pretty smile. And inside, spikes: hundred of them, and you throw some fucker in there and close the door.

“And so what happens to the poor bastard? If he’s -lucky- he gets impaled on the spikes and dies quickly when they close the door. But maybe those spikes, they just prick the skin, right, hundred of little knives that perforate him, just a little, just enough to make him bleed but not kill him. No, instead, the maiden milks him dry, slowly, steadily weakening the man inside the shell until he gives up.

“Or maybe he just goes fucking insane because he can’t sleep from the constant pain and fear.

“Or he starves to death, slowly and in agony, over a period of weeks.”

And here, the girl in the chair, eyes glittering and pretty lips curled in anger, leaned forward. “So you want to know how it feels when people think I’m pretty? When you call me pretty and tell me how cute my goddamn nails look? It fucking feels like that.”

Though she remained unemotional, to anyone who knew her it was clear that Crystal was shaken by the answer. Her voice remained calm. “Please explain,” she answered, with only a slight tremor.

With obvious effort, Cindy unclasped her hands, knuckles still white, and deliberately stretched them open on the table. “These pretty nails. This makeup I’m wearing, these clothes, the hair, soft skin, the goddamn tits and, and… everything – it’s fucking torture, like a box as strong and unbreakable as iron, no matter how delicate and painted it is on the outside. And I’ve been thrown into it – you threw me in here, you and everyone here at the Clinic. You threw me in and slammed it shut and locked me in to this shape and threw me out into the world, but it might as well have been a dungeon because there’s no escape.

“And you did this and never once thought of all those spikes.  They pierce me every day, doc, and I’m bleeding, I can feel myself draining away day by day. And every goddam day I think about impaling myself on those spikes, just ending it… but I don’t, I don’t because everyday I hold on to the hope that somebody’ll unlock this metal door and let me out.

“And so instead I try and stay as still as I can, disappear inside this torture and hope the rest of the world just sees the pretty exterior, so that I survive as long as possible inside this beautiful shell, this girl’s shell, and the less of me there is the easier it becomes, in a way, the spikes don’t hurt so much, you know, and I can fool myself into thinking this is it, right, this is the way, just don’t move, don’t even breathe if you don’t have to—just don’t -be- and just leave it to the maiden, she’s made of iron, she’s tough enough to get me through this.

“But I’m starving, Crystal, I’m withering away in here, I’m going fucking crazy in here and soon, soon there’s not going to be anything left inside, just a hollowness at the centre of a painted husk, lipstick and blush painted on a rusted shell.”

Cindy took a deep breath. Tears sparkled at the rim of hers but refused to fall. “So you tell me to just embrace who I am? What is there left to embrace? You ask me how I feel when you call me pretty? It fucking hurt! Yeah, the iron maiden, she just keeps on smiling on the outside. But inside? Some poor bastard’s still clinging on to that last sad hope that somebody’ll let him out.”

And Cindy—but it was clearly not Cindy any longer, but David, seething with anger and exhaustion and something entirely darker and more desperate, and he clawed the table with those beautifully manicured nails. “So tell me, Doctor Crystal Dawn: are you gonna fucking let me out?”

And for the first time, the emotional turmoil felt by the older woman seeped through; there was a crack in her demeanour as anger flared in her eyes and briefly, her finger curled around the frame of her tablet, so tightly it momentarily seemed as though the plastic might crack. She visibly counted to five, and relaxed, and uncurled her hand.

“That decision isn’t mine to make, Cindy.”

“Then we’re fucking done here,” the girl answered, and stood. She strode to the door and flung it open but stopped at the threshold. “And the name’s David, for fuck’s sake,” he hurled back at her over his shoulder, and left the room.

Katherine took a few minutes to finalise her notes before leaving the room from where she’d watched the interview. She entered through the same door David had left and sat in the now vacant chair opposite Crystal.

“You okay?” she asked.

“I’m fine.” The therapist’s voice was tired. “You watched?”

Katherine nodded.

“We need to talk.”