Excavating the Self

Vera

The heavy brass door clicks shut, sealing me inside the silence of the suite. Fifteen minutes. I remain frozen in front of the gilded mirror, my fingers gripping the cool edge of the vanity. The woman staring back at me is wearing armor spun from cream silk and black wool, but underneath it, my pulse hammers a frantic, terrified rhythm against my ribs. I do not need therapy, my mind insists,