Red Ribbons Read Online Free Page A

pressure to be anywhere else, to do anything other than the daily routine, which is so embedded in your mind that you can catch yourself doing things without remembering how you got to the place in which you are doing them.
    At the mirror, I tilted my head as if the woman in the glass would become more recognisable. It wasn’t just the shabby clothes or the childish hairstyle, it was her face. For it was in this that my truth was hidden, buried beneath skin, behind eyes and burrowed into the wrinkled stress lines that cover my brow. My shoulders leaned inwards, stooping my back as if every part of me was worn down. I took a second to stand up straight, fixing my clothes as best I could. I had never done that before, and again I asked myself why I felt so differently today. I even opened my eyes wide, staring, daring me to see the person I remembered from so long before. But all I saw was a ragged person, in matching ragged clothes.
    I think all this as I stand at the door waiting for the good doctor to answer my knock. I knock again, harder. The sound of his footsteps tells me my peace will now be broken.
    ‘Ellie, please come in.’
    His cheerful voice says this like he’s an old friend, an acquaintance from the past, from a happy time. But I don’t know him, I only know of him. He is the new doctor, the one who is reviewing my file. This I understand, because this much, at least, they have told me.
    I sit on the patient side of the desk. I don’t mind being the patient; the chair is comfortable enough. I have sat in it many times before. I am happy to say nothing, might as well enjoy it while I can. He is sure to intrude soon, sure to ask his questions and try to get a response– that is what they do, that is what they all do. But I don’t have a response, I have nothing. In nothing I feel safe, for now.
    The doctor is tall and graceful in his movements. I notice this as he walks across the room, but I can tell this even when he is seated. The elegant way his arms move as he turns over the case notes, the slow, delicate indentation of forehead lines as he concentrates. When I walked in, he held the door open for me, as if I was some kind of lady. He has an air of gentle confidence, which must help him to control proceedings. I wonder if he is this way out in the real world. Does his disposition change when he is not dealing with lunatics like me? There is already a wooden plaque on the desk with his name on it: ‘Dr Samuel Ebbs’. It is followed by a string of letters. I have learned that the number of letters adds to their importance, but importance to whom? Certainly not to me. To me, he is of no importance; to me, he is simply here.
    To the side of the case notes lies a jotter and he writes in it from time to time, even before we start to talk properly. His head is bent and his eyes move constantly from the case notes to his jotter, looking up briefly to smile every now and then. I notice the beginning of baldness, just a slight thinning out in the centre of the crown. His hair is black and his suit expensive, neat. The skin on his face and hands tanned, as if painted by a different climate. He has a sharp nose, but it suits him, gives him an air of intelligence. The wedding band on his finger tells me he is married. His enthusiastic scribbling confirms to me that he is new.
    Raising his head, he lays the pen down on the desk without making a sound. These are all indicators that he is now ready to move our proceedings forward.
    ‘Well, Ellie, thank you for seeing me today.’
    Stupid statement – like I have a choice. I say nothing. He looks at me, my silence causing an upward movement of his right eyebrow.
    ‘You’ve been here a long time?’ He knows this from my file. ‘I would like to help you, Ellie, if I can.’
    He waits. So do I.
    ‘Perhaps we could spend some time together over the next while. I am here to listen and of course to help you any way I can.’
    He pauses then, like I’m going to