Soft, light blue walls are the first thing I notice about the sobre holding room: the one accent of color that shamefully blends together with the cloudy gray chairs, simplistic Ikea-esque white tables, and black-and-white photos. The photos are of zoomed in  objects as an artistic viewpoint on life that truly looks like lines and the occasional dot. The designers probably assumed that light, simple decor would radiate relaxation and calm those waiting. As if. You would have to go through the things us ‘waiters’ were experiencing to understand our reactions. Even then, each and every one of us have different reactions and pasts. If you really wanted to calm us down, you would not require us to wait. You would not require us to sit in a room full of people, subconsciously judging each other.
“Ms. Ambrose, Dr.Crainol will see you now,” a middle age woman announces in a monotone voice from behind her desk.
  My breath hitches. Clumsily, I stuff all of my belongings into my purse: first edition Kindle, iPhone 7s, and a notebook full of snippets of conversations, story ideas, and books to read. Everything I grab quivers uncontrollably despite my best attempts to steady them. As time ticks on, the heat in the room rises at staggering increments. I find my hand tugging on my top. My toes curl. My feet turn towards the exit: ones feet gave away their true emotions and intent.
“Ms. Ambrose?” a woman's crisp voice trills out.
I spin around. Her voice is enticing and comforting. The designers should have allowed this woman to talk to those waiting. My feet now point directly at the speaker, my attention directed towards her as well. My line of sight rises from the floor to the speakers eyes. The eyes easily reveal one’s emotions: unless mentally trained otherwise. Her eyes are a light blue that correctly radiate relaxation and calms those who look into them compared to the lackluster walls. They have a sheen, an icy appeal, that only the most remote island coasts could attain. Her eyes are completed by a simple face that exudes honesty and an understanding smile that took away all of your worries. Bags under her eyes and the wrinkles at the crooks of her smile betray the fact that she has been weighed down with secrets and the depressing reality of life.
“Sara Ambrose?” the woman harps with a clear patience.
“Yes! Sorry! I’ve never been here so I didn’t know what was going on and...” I cut myself off for I was just pointlessly rambling.
“This place doesn’t seem very inviting on the first visit. Truly, between you and I, it’s never been
inviting,” she winks. “Holly Crainol,” she stuck her hand out, implying that she wants to shake my hand.
First impressions are everything right? “Nice to meet you,” I shake her hand, focusing on a freckle under her left cheek.
“Follow me,” she trumpets after giving a slight nod to the desk receptionist.
I have not even the faintest clue as to what the hallway looked like: I track Dr. Crainol’s movements instead. Tracking someone’s movements reduces my anxiety. Despite my attempts, my toes curl, back tightens, and hands ball into constantly changing fists. The walk to her room was all a blurry haze. She holds the door open, ushers me inside. The transition from the holding room and the blur of the hallway to her room is an entire change. It is as if we left the institution altogether and entered an entirely new building. These walls are lilac with a bright sheen that, unlike the holding room walls, radiate a sense of reassurance. Cloth gray chairs, unique metal glass topped desk, plush carpeting, multi-colored throw pillows, and two enlarged photographs: a single red balloon in a bright blue sky and a husky puppy with heterochromia. Dr. Crainol sits down in one of the arm chairs; legs stretch out with a clipboard of papers on the side table next to her. 
“Take a seat wherever.” Dr. Crainol gestures to some of the many chairs. “You can even sit on the floor. Stand. Whatever is comfortable.”
My line of sight falls on the chair with the most throw pillows. Toes straighten, hands relax on the armrests, shoulders drop. I steady my breathing with my heart beat. This institution has no windows. There is no where left to look besides the room. This room is reserved and reclusive compared to the rest of the world. My eyes leave my feet and lock with Dr. Crainol’s icy blue patient gaze.
“It is to my understanding that you booked this appointment,” she announces casting a glance
at her clipboard. “As our policy states, what is said here will remain here, ‘What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas’ right? Of course this is only Michigan….anyway, your secrets are safe with me unless it is something illegal or if I fear it harms you or those around you.” I bob my head curtly. “This may be hard for you but I start off the first session with why you're here.” Her gaze holds mine and I open my mouth without doubt. After a short lapse in time, I respond. “I’ve thought about death.”

“Sixth grade. 1000 Ways to Die. That’s where it began.” I claim without batting an eye.
“Continue…” Dr. Crainol sits up straighter and brings her knees forward, rests her clipboard on them, pen tightly grasped in her left hand, eyes lock on mine.
As to how 1000 Ways to Die appeared on my television is unknown, but it was mostly likely a result of my constant channel surfing. The show itself was not very enticing or humorous, just gruesome. The show portrayed reenactments of foolish deaths. Hauntingly, every death had been real, names of the deceased, age, and location was revealed. Each death took up to five minutes of the half
hour show. I faintly recall one of the reenactments I witnessed. A childish twelve year old ghost of me entered my memories. A version of the boys’ then long hairstyle with dull, greasy hair the color of chocolate that no one wanted. Ill-fitting boot-cut jeans that looked more like bell bottoms and the worn out name brand hand-me-down t-shirt from my cousin. Legs brought up to flat chest, blanket draped across body, right thumb constantly, impatiently, clicking the channel button. There was some party; a precursor to some football game or some concert; at another sixth graders house. But at mine there had been a black-and-white slide on the television from some unknown channel, warning the audience to not try these things at home. ‘You will die!’ I had never seen anything like it. The remote landed to the right of me with a muffled thud. A woman’s name flashed on screen with her age and location. A catchy title appeared, a clever play on words. Then the reenactment commenced, although I only recall the ending.
Someone broke into the woman’s house and tied her up to a chair, including a rope in her mouth, a
scene right out of a horror movie. Then she began to profusely vomit. Her body slumped in the chair. Choked to death on her own vomit as a medical examiner concluded, spewing medical terms here and there. And the show continued. Six deaths per episode. Hundreds of episodes. Hundreds of deaths.
“It all started there, you see?” I look up, the memory filing itself away into my memory. “Watching all those horrific deaths. And they never stopped….” a rush of the deaths course through my mind. Forcefully shunning the memories, I continue: “Hell, you can drown in, what is it, three inches of water? Even babies can roll over in their sleep and suffocate,” it happens all the time, but I had not understood this when I was that foolish version of myself. “One of my language arts teacher’s son died when he simply tripped down his basement stairs, cracking his head on the concrete floor.”
“How does this affect you today?” Dr. Crainol’s brows furrow together, pencil rolling in hand.
“Death occurs everyday. Anytime. Anywhere. Anyone. There’s no way of knowing when your time will come. Old age, cancer, car accident. And everyone’s been close. We’ve all seen cars swerve, drunken people being down right stupid, hell, even watched the news!” My thoughts crash into each other. “And then...then I have found myself wonder If I were to jump off...say the stairs at the school...what would happen? Surely no one would be able to stop me, predict my movements.” A tiny twisted body on top of a pool of red flashes through my mind. “Fatal. Or at least severe. But screams? Would someone shout my name? And after, would I be remembered? Would anyone care?” My eyes find hers, beg, plead, for answers. None come. I breathe in heavily: close my eyes, relax my body, allow all thoughts and memories to crash then drift off like ghosts. “Of course, I have never been brave enough to attempt anything. I’m anxious just holding a knife while cooking.” I was not suicidal; death just seems to
constantly be in the back of my mind. “That’s why I’m here.”

After what seems to be thousands of sessions with Holly I have found some peace. I struggled to leave my past behind me: my friends who were not really friends, my fear of death, expectations made from others, my school, my family. The move to California proved good for me. No one knew me at first. A new life. A new breath. Now, as I purchase Holly Crainol’s New York Times bestseller, I flip to the last page. “Sara moved away, all the way across the country. Left behind everything that previously defined her. Reborn into the world. And I was too. We are born again everyday. What you render with that rebirth, solely on you. I never got to thank you Sara, so, sincerely, Holly.”