"I keep thinking and thinking," Suzanne mused aloud. Her still body sank in the brown suede chair in a graceless position that lacked posture. Her deep set lids seemed heavy, as when she spoke, her eyes flickered about like a fish out of water. She caressed the edges of a nearby book with her fingertips slowly. Running her pointer finger along one of the broken flaps: back and forth, back and forth; Her body language indicating a deep disturbance. "I keep thinking about bees," her timid voice spoke softly.

      "Bees?" The man beside her asked, brows raised in a puzzled manner.

     "Yes, bees. They fascinate me, you know, bees do." Her face suddenly began to contort, like a dead branch twisting off a tree. Biting down on her lower lip in such anguish, she began to bleed. For several moments she sat silent and still, as though someone had pressed a mute switch. Finally, she spoke in a muttered tone, "Yes, yes, yes. I remember now."

      With a kind, but false sense of intrigue that poured like sticky maple syrup, the man encouraged her, "What do you remember Suzanne?"

      "Vaguely, I recall an incident that happened to me as a little girl. My father stepped on a bee once. Stung him on his ugly, fat toe. He was so angry. Daddy kept on cursing and cursing, his plump body shaking; his face as red as a tomato. I didn't understand that, you know. The poor little bumblebee died after Daddy stepped on it. All bumblebees do. And I told him so. I screamed and cried, 'Daddy, daddy! You killed that poor little creature.' But he told me to run inside the house and help Mama make dinner because that's what good little girls do. I was a complete mess afterwards. I ran inside the house. But I didn't help my mama make dinner."
     Her tired eyes focused only for a moment as they began to fill with tears. Her bloody lower lip trembled as she grasped the arm of the chair and held on for dear life. "You don't think that was bad do you? Please don't tell me that you think I'm bad."

     His eyes became expressionless, his reply curt and without a trace of life, "Tell me about Parker. We discussed him in your last session."

    The vulnerability that had possessed her only seconds ago died out, like a flaming candle in a storm. A change overcame Suzanne, a violent crash that lit her sallow skin an unpleasant shade of scarlet. Her legs began to tremor in white hot rage."You think I'm a bad girl don't you?!" She growled these words with malice, howling like a cat in heat.

     She hurled the book she had just been passively stroking, throwing it across the room. Thudding against the wall with a thunder-like bang, pages flew around the room, resembling a flock of birds. For a woman so thin and fragile, she wielded an impressive amount of physical strength. She then took refuge underneath a pillow, hiding her head, and closing out the rest of the world. She continued to sob and scream, like a small child throwing a tantrum. "I hate you, I hate you! I don't want to talk about Parker! I don't want to talk about anything, nothing at all! I am not bad. I am not bad. I am not bad." She repeated the phrase over and over again. She was a broken record and a broken woman, still clutching the pillow over her head.

      Without blinking an eye, the man examined Suzanne coolly. His raking gaze became cloudy and indecipherable, expression like a murky gray pond. His voice was calm, but soft and smooth."Suzanne, I understand your frustration level is high right now and you're having difficulty adjusting to certain changes...." He trailed off, staring at the lump behind the pillow. Her cries began to quiet now, fading to exhausted whimpers. She peered out at him, her wild eyes demanding a reaction to the neurotic behavior.

     "Suzanne, I don't think you're a bad person," he started again tiredly. "However, as I have told you before, violence is not a healthy expression of anger. Tell me, what are you feeling below that anger? Why don't you want to talk about Parker?"

    "He's mean," she muttered in a pouty, childlike fashion.

    "What did he do that was mean?" The man asked.

      As she tearfully parted with the pillow, her voice became quiet again, "He said he loved me and then he abandoned me. He abandoned me, and I never wish to speak with him again!"

      He paused for a moment. He then offered her a smile. "Suzanne, you're very brave for discussing this topic. I know how difficult things have been for you lately. Don't worry, you never have to see that man again," he spoke soothingly, and handed her a box of tissues.

      She blew her red nose into one of the tissues and sniveled. "He said that we weren't right for each other from the start. He said that I was better off without him, but I'm not!" She looked up at him with deep despair in her eyes, "Why did he leave me? Why?"

     The man did not meet her gaze. He instead turned his sights to the dull beige carpeting of  the small room. "I can't answer that Suzanne."

        A queer longing for his attention took center stage in the threshold of her heart, and she recoiled at his disconnect. Nonetheless, she took a deep breath, and continued, "You know, he said I was like a dark, turbulent sea. Crushingly aggressive one moment, and desperately vulnerable the next." A nostalgic ache suddenly entered her spirit. Her unkempt brows furrowed as she began to frown. "But he loved me. Daddy never loved me. Mama never loved me. Parker was the only one who ever loved me."
She shut her eyes, and smiled in profound sadness, "Now I fear that I just might float away."

         The man stood up from his chair and rebuffed her revealing speech, "We're all out of time for today, Suzanne. Your next appointment is tomorrow at four o'clock. I'll see you then." He opened the door to his office dismissively, gesturing towards the exit.

           Suzanne fluttered her eyes open in surprise, "Oh.. Well, um, thank you Dr. Stevens." As she struggled out of her chair, she looked at him with wide, naive eyes. "Dr. Stevens.... You'll never leave me right?" She asked this question with indecisive hesitation, as though she didn't want to know the answer.

          As poor an actor as he was a therapist, Dr. Stevens faked a smile. "Of course not Suzanne. See you tomorrow!" Without another word, he slammed the door in her face. As he turned to sit back down, he could hear the unsettling sound of troubled footsteps along the corridor. In spite of himself, he intently listened to the noise, feeling the intensity of each sharp click until the ballad of Suzanne's heartbreak became nothing more than an inaudible memory.

          It was 6 o'clock that following evening. The room that had been filled with the unbearable noise of misery only a few hours ago, was now chillingly silent.  Dr. Stevens sat contentedly alone on his brown suede chair, fiercely scribbling on his notepad regarding his least favorite patient:

The subject, Suzanne Leonard, remains preoccupied with false realities. A sufferer of borderline personality disorder and victim of sexual assault by Parker Hamilton, her nurse, she seems unaware of her lifelong  residency in St. Peter's Psychiatric Hospital. The patient is self-obsessed, neurotic, and has difficulty with impulse control. Committed at the age of twelve following attempted patricide, it is reasonable to speculate that Suzanne is at the very least, a child trapped inside of an adult's body.

           Suddenly lost in thought, the doctor leaped out of his seat when he saw the sinking red sun. It was time to go home. As he eagerly made his way out the door of his insufferable office, Dr. Stevens paused for a moment and began to think of what Suzanne had said of bees. Her childlike voice filled his head: "I didn't understand that, you know. The poor little bumblebee died after Daddy stepped on it. All bumblebees do."

           He pondered the significance of Suzanne's babbling thoughts. Thinking of the trembling  wisp of strung together words, he attempted to decipher as to why this particular rationalization struck him. However, he thought of her for only a fleeting instant. He looked down at his watch and remembered with a sense of dread that his wife had asked him to be home an hour ago with supper. His musings of Suzanne had completely ebbed away at this point, dissipating into thin air, like a shadow in the night. Hat and coat in hand, he quickly exited his office. As he walked towards his car, his large black shoes trampled upon a buzzing bee with a devastating crunch. He didn't look back.