In a dimly lit room, adorned with faded wallpaper that has a pattern vaguely similar to seersucker, an array of mismatched chairs and small tables between them, Hilary Lauderjames sits surrounded by several people of varying ages. Their faces hold a combination of compassion and attentiveness, like voyeurs peering into the intimate nooks and crannies of her life. She squirms, nervously adjusting her posture in a worn, mauve armchair, struggling to summon the courage to speak.
Hilary would much rather talk with someone in a private setting, but being a barista at the Lucky Bean Bungalow doesn't come with those kinds of health benefits. Actually, they don't have benefits at all. After the tragedy she endured and the two weeks she's been away, Hilary assumed that her manager Chadley would have gotten her some better professional help, but he insisted on the state-funded group therapy. But with the trauma still fresh in her mind, being cheap just wouldn't cut it.
*👩🦳*
Although she has come to this place every Wednesday for almost a month now, the group therapist, Dr. Thrussell, still gives her the jitters. Due to a deep-seated fear of large teeth and wide smiles that she's had since she was seven, Hilary often has a bundle of knots in her stomach when she beholds Dr. Thrussell's Willem Dafoe-like visage. Despite his appearance though, he's a kind and patient man who has gone above and beyond to help Hilary through the post-traumatic stress ailing her.
With a thin and seemingly expensive silver tablet in his hand, the doctor leans forward, his warm, hazel eyes fixed on Hilary. He taps on the screen and types a few things, unleashing a cacophonous mix of haptic feedback and keyboard clicks that urge Hilary to softly grind her teeth from the annoyance. "Okay, Hilary, you've been coming here for quite some time, but you barely say a word. Why is that?"
Hilary hesitates, tightening her grip on the chair's armrest as she digs her chipped, emerald nails into the upholstery. "Um, I just prefer to, uh, listen. That's all."
"Hmm, I see," Dr. Thrussell taps on the screen of his tablet again. The noise makes Hilary's nose flare. "Well, that's understandable, but this is a safe space. We're here with open hearts and minds, ready to listen to, as well as to support you. With that being said, it's about time that you tell us what happened a month ago. I guarantee that you'll feel better once you do."
Hilary takes a deep breath, attempting to break free of the reluctance binding her. She is incensed by the doctor's insistence on opening up, but is also aware that it's now or never to rid herself of this horror. Although therapy caters to these situations, she sees a familiar face within the circle and wonders if expounding upon the incident will trigger him. After all, he was once a regular patron of the Lucky Bean, but he hasn't returned since that fateful night and she's been obsessing over his absence. Why didn't he return like everyone else?
After much hesitation, Hilary finally speaks. Her voice quivering as she begins her tale.
"Well, it all started on a Friday evening at the Lucky Bean Bungalow. It, uh, had been a pretty regular night thus far. I was working the counter, serving up lattes and making sure that the usual crowd of D&D players had everything they needed, when the door suddenly burst open." Hilary's hands tremble something awful as she proceeds to recount the shocking moment. "To my surprise, there stood a elderly woman with shoulder-length gray hair. She had to have been no taller than four feet, but she was wielding a shotgun that seemed larger than she was."
Feeling parched, Hilary pauses to reach for a small cup of water on the table next to her. She is shaking too much to drink it, however, so she puts the cup down and spills some water as she does. Dr. Thrussell notices this, but waves away the notion to remark on it even though he loathes messes being made.
