The First Step (Sean) {potential triggers}

At Dr. Neville's voice, Noa raised her head, her eyes fully open and almost glazed - just sort of blank, numb. She didn't answer the doctor, instead just standing, picking up her bag, and walking past him into the office. Her ears and her head were ringing, unable to form coherent thought, as she bypassed the seat directly in front of the doctor in order to sit farther away. She didn't like confrontation, even if it wasn't real confrontation. She didn't like to confront herself.

She didn't exactly look herself - wearing simple jeans and a sweatshirt instead of her usual eclectic attire - but she felt comforted in what she wore, and pulled the sleeves of her sweatshirt up over her hands before leaning forward, elbows on her knees, tapping her cloth-covered hands together in thought.

Right. She was here.

Okay, that was a start, but she still had the ringing of a thousand thoughts all balled up like a tangle of yarn sitting at the back of her mind. She'd just have to pull them out one thread at a time. But it was so difficult to do that, as she couldn't consider one without the rest tacking on.

"I..."

What was she even going to say? She couldn't get her head straight. She felt like an idiot - so stupid - how had she managed to - why couldn't she -

With a deep breath, she closed her eyes, the first sign of emotion appearing in a crinkle in her forehead, the critical words in her head replaced with one never-ending frustrated syllable: a continuous drone that fluctuated from annoyance to rage until she wrestled it back down to numbness again. Her hands loosened, though she hadn't realized just how tightly fisted they'd been, and her face flattened out again, unwilling to acknowledge the turmoil racketing around at the back of her mind. This was much harder than she'd expected.

His words were able to pull her, however briefly, out of her own head. Noa opened her mouth again, intending to speak, but still found herself at a loss for words. She didn't know how to start, how to unravel a massive knot of things that all needed to be presented at once.

She tried to shake it into some sort of line, but it didn't want to work.

With a growing hollowness aching in her stomach, she managed a few words. "It's... hard to- it's... complicated." She got like this frequently, stuck in her own head, and she blamed it entirely on the depression. It was like a vortex of fear and doubt and self-loathing and loss and confusion that she never felt able to escape from. Usually, when these feelings gripped her, she wouldn't get out until she finally managed to sleep.

But this was important. She needed to do this. She had to get this off of her chest.

With another deep breath, the anxiety overrunning her numbness in a flood of overwhelming terror, she pushed the feeling down until it was just a jittery ringing placed ominously at the edge of her mind. First thing's first.

"I've... met some people-" They flashed in her head - Elyse, accompanied with a flicker of righteous indignation and heartache; Oriel accompanied with a mix of pride and nerves; the man, just a shadow, who was only accompanied with an icy chill; and finally Kimmy, accompanied with a brief lightness. And then she had to push them all down again, back into the knot, unsure where to go from here.

Her chest was aching, like something was trying to pull her ribcage open, and her throat sore. She was so confused. The tide of anxiety grew a little larger, the ringing in her ears returning. "My- I haven't been..." she gulped again, and finally admitted, painfully, "...taking my medication." Had it been this bad before? It probably had been, but she never remembered those times, just times like this - times where she felt paralyzed with fear and confusion.

"I-" The single syllable caught in Noa's throat, and she gulped painfully as she shook her head, her brow furrowed slightly. She hated talking about this. She hated thinking about this. She wanted so badly to be independent and well-adjusted, and not be looked down on because she couldn't manage to take one fucking pill that could make her normal. She couldn't meet his eyes as she admitted, her fingers knotting themselves in her sleeves, "I'm not sure. I think a month? Maybe a little more."

Her mind flicked from emotion to emotion, not sure if she was angry or sad or confused... just a buzz of helpless and hopeless frustration. And she wanted to cry, suddenly. But why? She wasn't going to cry, she really wasn't, that would just be so awkward and -

...She wanted a hug.

But not from Dr. Neville, that would feel so fake and forced - she wanted a hug from someone who understood. Someone who could just surround her and tell her it would be okay, who could warm every cold corner of her psyche. But that wasn't possible. She didn't know people like that. She was too old for that, that was childish, she was almost 20.

Oh god. The thought hit her like a brick. Almost 20 and still dealing with this shit. And still dealing with it alone. She was like the only person on an island surrounded by a sea of tar - dark and deep and ready to drag her down. And who did she have to help her deal with it? Honestly, who? Jade? Jade hated her most of the time, and only put up with her because she could be entertaining. Vera? Her roommates were sweet, really, but they knew her superficially. They wouldn't understand the tides of emotion she endured, the ever-constant turmoil at the back of her mind. Did she have any friends who truly knew her? Who knew every side of her? How many of her friends had even seen her cry? She had fake friends, all her friends were fake, only in it for the good times, only interested when she was entertaining them-

She wanted to scream at herself for bringing that up. That wasn't why she was here - or, at least, she didn't think that was why she was here - she didn't know, she just knew she needed help.

She wanted to cover up those ever-present feelings of inadequacy and doubt, that constant feeling that she was alone, and would be alone forever, and almost considered bringing up-

But even the idea of thinking about it caused a surge of painful fear and denial in her gut. Why was this so difficult? She wanted to bury it, to cover it, forget about it, never have to think of it again, but that wasn't possible. She needed to know that it wasn't her fault. There was no way she could've stopped it sooner - it wasn't that she hadn't, it was that she wasn't able to, it wasn't her fault. But, god - the guilt, the regret, the shame and anger and blame made her want to rip herself apart.

Noa gave a jerked nod as he clarified the month, but stiffened as he mentioned 'what happened'. She hesitated, but the words came, almost suspiciously, or warningly, clearly attempting to skirt the issue. "No... that was... a while ago." Her thoughts on the issue threatened to burst out of the box she'd spent the last year - almost two years - stuffing them into. And it hurt. Everything hurt, she shouldn't have expected this to be any better.

“Would it help if I guessed?”

Her head shot up, eyes flashing with - what, betrayal? A biting anger that stemmed from the utter wrongness of his suggestion. "No." Noa's voice was steely and adamant. "I'm just - I don't want to think about it." She crossed her arms inside of her sleeves, holding each of her own wrists beneath the shield of the fabric, and her nails dug into her skin in frustration. It was a good distraction. It made her feel like she was being productive, getting her anger out somehow. And it kept that box of memories closed.

She didn't want to think about it, she really didn't. So she had to throw something else at him, something easier to talk about, something that directed her anger at someone other than herself.

"I met this girl a few weeks ago. Elyse. She's a prostitute." She said it so bluntly, part of her hoping to elicit some sort of shock, and another part glaring at the first part for using the broken girl as a prop in some twisted stunt for the sake of amusement.

It was such a relief to veer onto another track of thinking, Noa relaxed just the slightest bit. She knew it would come up again - she knew it had to, she had to find some way of getting past it, not just ignoring it - but for now she was distracted and he was distracted and her mind turned to one of the many things that was frustrating her in her life.

"I really don't think so." She couldn't help the slight fear and helplessness in her voice, and she bit her lip. She let go a bit of her mental defense, remembering the night she'd met Elyse. The girl had seemed so scared and scarred and so stuck, and Noa had felt so angry at everything. It wasn't fair, that this girl felt trapped in this situation. And it wasn't fair that she wouldn't accept Noa's help. And all Noa wanted to do was help. But she didn't want to lose the girl's trust, didn't want to betray her by going to law enforcement, because who knew what kind of trouble that would cause.

The memory played in her head, a little fuzzy at times, skipping ahead sometimes, skimming through some parts, becoming more focused on others, like replaying a film, and she didn't mind projecting it to Dr. Neville. Because it wasn't about her, it was about Elyse.

"Would you like some coffee? You look like you need one..." -- "...Shitty shitty night." -- "People are awful, you know?" -- "You have to learn that you're on your own I guess." -- "I try to find the good... ...I don't know...it's stupid." -- "I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable." -- "Don't feel obligated to chat just 'cause I'm paying you." -- "No...it's uhh, it's nice actually. Having someone to speak to that is..."

Their meeting was hazy, clouded by Noa's tiredness that night, skipping over their words, but then it all sharpened as the John arrived.

...the tinkle of the bell and the heavy, booze-scented wind that rolled in... It would be best to just ignore him, not wanting to interfere with whatever drama was playing out in this man's head, for fear of becoming part of it. ...the girl's frozen look, full of fear... As she heard the small whimper escape the waitress' lips, her hackles went up... he was obviously dangerous to this girl, and Noa didn't like it one bit. But she didn't know what she could do to help. She needed to help.

"G'mornin waitress-s, I'd like som'thin ta drink-k." -- "I...I uhh...y-yes okay...I'll check for water..." -- The whimper in her voice made Noa's heart ache. ....Fuck it. She'd come in here hopeless, and found someone who was still fighting. The least she could do was help her fight. She slipped off of her stool to face the man, a slight, pained smile forcing it's way onto her lips, fixing her eyes on the drunk, even as she spoke to the girl. "You do that, I'll join you in a moment." The plan in her head was clear, but doing it was making her skin crawl. All she had to do was keep his attention long enough for the girl to get out of sight. She was just hoping that whatever violence this man had done, he wouldn't turn on Noa.

"Ahh...aren't youuuuuu a p-pretty thing! ...What h-happened to...that other girl-l?" -- Something in the back of Noa's mind was screaming at her that this was a bad bad bad idea, that she should've never come here in the first place, that she was in over her head, but another part reminded her solemnly how much she wished someone had said something to-

There was a jump cut in the memory, and a split second later it was up again.

"She's just gone to get water - I should go join-" The girl returned. What? Why? -- "Thanks missss... W-wait...don't you *hick* have a-any beer?" -- "Umm...n-no sir..." -- "W-what? No beer? That's jussst fuckin rubbishhh...eh? W-wait, look at me...you, s-stop staring at the ground-d- ...I...I know you...y-you're that whore. Yes! You're t-that little slut w-with the tight cunt-t..!" -- Not only was this man sexually abusive, but he was just plain indecent - no, that word wasn't strong enough for scum like him. Who did that?! Who walked into someone's workplace - drunk, no less - and started calling them a whore?! Her anger was making her shake, and her hands trembled with the desire to claw this man to bits, her lips raising in an unconscious growl, though it was barely audible. -- "I...I n-no...that's not me..." -- Noa heard the high tone of a lie a louder than she heard truth, and she grimaced even more. It was because the waitress believed she was all of those things that Noa's face darkened. ...this poor girl thought of herself in this man's terms. And that made her even more angry.

But what could she do? If she attacked this man - as she truly truly wanted to - she could face a number of charges, not to mention retaliation, but the girl obviously wasn't about to fight back for herself. -- "Why areeee you h-here *hick*? Shouldn't you...shouldn't you be sucking on some c-cock down the road?" -- Noa reminded herself what she'd promised to do if anyone crossed her boundaries. She wasn't afraid to do it. She slipped one shaking hand into her pocket, grabbing a hold of her cellphone and flipping it open, pressing 9-1-1. Her finger hovered over the 'send' button, phone by her side as she spoke in a harsh semblance of politeness, "Excuse me, I think you need to take a few steps back."

"W-well...excuse me! She's the ch-cheap whore who begged me...begged me to choose her... What are *hick* you huh? Her w-whore friend-d?" -- The more the man spoke, the more Noa wanted to punch him. But before the man could continue, heavy footsteps echoed from behind the kitchen wall, and the chef hobbled around the corner, a large cleaver in his hand. "You. Talk about my customers like that again and I'll cut out your tongue. Out. Now!" -- "...urgh...fuck, f-fuck you! And your *hick* whores! I'll be v-visiting you soon you little slu -" -- "OUT!" -- The terrified waitress jumped with surprise, and her 'customer' left, spitting on the floor as he did so.

And after that, the memory became a little foggy again, skimming over the conversation, but focusing on what Noa had been feeling.

"Would you be willing to take her home?" -- "...she doesn't need to worry about me..." -- The agreement, despite the waitress' insistence. -- "That guy is a dick." She couldn't even find the words, she was so filled with resentment. She tried to calm herself down. She turned back to the waitress, wanting to say so much, but not wanting to add to her stress. "I'm Noa..." -- Her meekness both concerned and annoyed Noa. This girl needed to learn to stand up for herself, to push back, to be her own advocate. It was obvious that many of this girl's choices had been made out of necessity rather than desire, and the thought tugged at her throat, wanting to prompt a thoroughly frustrated crying session, but she forced it away. -- "...Elyse ...I'm sorry if you don't want to take me..."

How could she even think that? After all Noa had done, why would she stop trying to help this girl now? Did Elyse have no faith in her? Well, perhaps she didn't. Not much faith in humanity in general. -- "I don't live far from here..." -- "...not a problem..." Guilt was nibbling at her conscience; upper-middle class guilt, that she had so much more than this girl did. -- They went to the car. -- All she wanted to do right now was get this girl help. Whatever it took. But she wanted to be an ally. She didn't want to force this girl into anything she didn't want to do - it was clear that that happened in the rest of her life. It was all just so unfair, and the injustice of it, the injustice of life itself, made her want to scream.

She'd been so overwhelmed that night, her memory took on an odd filter, cut in with Noa's inner growls of frustration.

She wanted so badly to talk to this girl, to learn her story, to learn how she could help, but she didn't want Elyse to feel attacked, trapped in a car. She didn't want to be that crazy person, holding the girl hostage. -- "....I want to help." -- Her own self-directed anger at the lameness of that statement. -- "I don't want you to feel obligated to tell me anything you aren't comfortable with, but- ...No one should be able to treat you like that. ...You set boundaries, and it's his job to respect them - to respect you. ...You need to report this guy. Do you have anyone who can help you do that?"

The girl crumpled into herself, quiet sobs breaking the air as she desperately tried to cover her face. "No..." -- Her tears sent a shock of pain through Noa, who blinked away tears herself, focusing on her anger instead of the empathetic helplessness she felt for Elyse. She felt her throat burning, begging her to just break down, and found it very hard to speak. She had to clear her throat three times before she was sure her voice wouldn't crack. In an attempt to steer away from the emotional, she focused on the logistics. "How do you find clients? Is there anyone screening them for you? Or are you using the internet, or some sort of escort service?" -- She felt awful. It probably wasn't something the girl ever wanted to discuss, and yet Noa was asking her to. But how else could she help? She wanted to do something. -- "...it's...it's a brothel. They come in...and my...boss takes the money and th-they choose who they want."

She didn't know much about the business of brothels, but she knew for sure that whoever was running Elyse's was doing something wrong. In her point of view, sex work was often a public service, but there were those who took advantage of that service, who didn't need or deserve it, and shamed sex workers for their generosity. -- The taste of blood filled her mouth as she bit her tongue angrily. "You can't let clients like him come back. Sexual abuse is sexual abuse. You should be able to tell your boss that he crossed a line, and he should be denied service. In any other profession, that kind of behavior would have someone blacklisted, sex work shouldn't be any different." Her words were bitter, angry at a flawed system.

If sex work weren't illegal, these sorts of things wouldn't be able to slide. If sex workers feared law enforcement, they would never feel comfortable reporting abuse, rape, and other incidents to the police. The system and the stigma gave clients an upper hand that they didn't deserve. In a perfect world, clients would be vetted and approved, and would be held responsible if they crossed a boundary. In some places, it worked like that. But apparently Elyse's brothel wasn't one of those places. -- "You know only a little about what goes on..." -- That stung. She wanted to. She so badly wanted to know, but how was she supposed to find out? This girl wasn't telling her. And she didn't want to drag Elyse through hell just to get some answers that would be agony to pry out. This feeling of helplessness killed Noa. It just reminded her that life wasn't fair, and the injustice of it was so goddamn painful. -- "You should never feel forced into sex work. It should always be your choice. Your body; your choice."

And now the memory began to fade, almost entirely blurred, practically all emotions and sound.

"...If I give you some websites to look at..." -- "Okay..." -- It was a lie. Now she felt worse, because she'd forced herself on the girl. She wished she could make amends. But the girl was obviously scarred by her experiences, and had put up walls to keep from thinking about it, and Noa didn't stand a chance of breaking in. And worst of all, she knew the feeling of those walls. They were like shards of granite jaggedly stabbed into the heart and mind, and now she was putting Elyse through the pain as she attempted to tiptoe around them. -- But she couldn't make this about her. That was selfish and vain, and didn't she have any compassion for the girl beside her? And now the self-loathing, the blame, crept up on her and -- "I'm sorry."

That was it, that was all she'd play back. Her mind went blank, and she let it stay that way for a moment, hollow except for the slight touch of worry that nipped at the edges of her consciousness. Worry that she'd shared too much, given too much away, and worry that she'd done the wrong thing back then.

It was easier to talk now, now that she'd worked into things. And she certainly wasn't going to be telling him everything - or, at the very least, not right away. But she already felt the words spilling out of her painfully dry mouth, prompted by the memories of that night. She was frustrated, still.

"I just - it's not fair." Speaking would've been easy - well, more like rambling than clear concise speech - but her throat was dry and sore and tight with Noa's overwhelming feelin of helplessness. But she didn't want to ask for a glass of water, she didn't want to pause, because she didn't want to lose her train of though or go silent once more. "It's not fair that this can happen and there's no way to help. All I want to do is help, but I can't. There's just too much."

It wasn't clear if Noa was referring to Elyse or the world in general - big things often overtook her. She made big plans, and was thus thwarted by bigger obstacles. Her eyes burned now, threatening the tears that had begun to form, so she kept her gaze firmly set on the bottom left hand corner of the desk, glaring at it as though her power might suddenly change and she would burn right through it.

Her mind was skipping from track to track now, spiraling on towards her more personal problems, skipping between topics in a muddled round of rapid-fire thoughts and words. "It's like every time I want to help someone, I can't. Or they won't let me." Why won't they let me, what am I doing wrong? Why don't they like me? "And if I try to help it all goes wrong." If I do anything, someone else will suffer for it - why do I have to be the one hurting people? "Nothing ever works-" she began to cough even as the thoughts bit at her; The world is a piece of shit, and I'm stuck on it, and I can't get off and I can't get out-

Her voice had been raising in pitch, straining more and more, and she felt herself crumbling even as the words unraveled from her lips, that worry and hate and inadequacy and the paralyzingly fear taking hold of her as her own mental blockades were wrenched down as though something inside was clawing at them. And this wasn't new. It wasn't even rare at this point, it had happened almost frequently for the past month, maybe month and a half - this destructive spiral that made Noa feel as though she truly were insane. The tears were definitely present now, and that vicious side of her immediately accused herself of wanting pity, of putting on a show, because it wasn't that she wanted to help, she just wanted to be the person people loved because she helped - just another ploy for attention, and she was doing it again, and- and-

She was sobbing. She couldn't stop sobbing. And even as she did, the same feedback loop was playing in her head, racing through all of it, like a swarm of bees constantly stinging and stinging again- Weak, you're so weak - you should've just stopped caring about people, you shouldn't care what people think - people are shallow - no one likes you - no one knows you - there's no such thing as saviors - stop wishing and do something for once - why can't you just help yourself - how can you possibly think you can give advice - worthless - weak - it's your fault - you think you're so much better - it's your fault - you are your own nemesis - you are tearing yourself apart -

She never knew where the thoughts came from, she wasn't always sure what they were talking about, they frequently just harped on things she had no control over, blaming herself for them. And they never stopped. Once the dam was opened they never stopped. She was sobbing, shaking, arms crossed over her stomach, clutching her ribs as though she might pull them apart, doubled over. She would try to hold her breath, which only made her shake more, her lungs attempting to hyperventilate while she refused to let them, and then the breath came in a gasp that was almost a wail, some part of her wishing it would work - but whether she was wishing for calm or for death, at these times she wasn't sure. On most days she would admit to it, that in some deep part of herself she wished she didn't exist. Not that she would die, just that she'd never been born. And her mind reminded her of that. Alternating between accusing and lamenting, picking out the darkest points in her and drawing them to the surface.

Why can't I be happy and normal and blank - I'm wasting people's time, wasting space - so you're suicidal now? What kind of shit are you trying to pull - you just want attention - I don't want to be here - you think you'll find that fairy tale ending but that doesn't exist, no one will swoop in to catch you - you are falling and it doesn't end - you can't make it stop just by trying to end it - you couldn't go through with it - you've never gone through with it - I just don't want to be here - I don't want this - I didn't want this - I just want it to stop-

Her hands scrabbled blindly to find each other again, crossing, grabbing her wrists, and again her nails dug in, harder this time, pressing between tendons to give her that shock of pain that would just cut through the bullshit. It wasn't that she wanted to hurt herself. She never drew blood, never left bruises. But it was a distraction, something that drew her attention back to the surface, back to her body instead of her mind. And it worked. She became far more aware of herself, able to hear again, able to feel the painful burning in her throat and lungs, and now the skin of her wrists. And able to feel the flood of shame that she'd let herself succumb to her own thoughts, in front of the man who she had always wanted to impress, had always wanted validation. And instead she was here. And she'd broken.