I huddled awkwardly under the umbrella, knocking into Jeff occasionally as he took the few short steps with me towards the large awning that jutted out from the hotel. It was navy and gold, giving the immediate impression of sophistication and elegance. Truthfully, I would have preferred to make the mad dash in the rain by myself, but instead I found myself thanking Jeff with my practiced smile before turning away and hurrying into the hotel itself.
"Miss Rand," the concierge smiled up at me from behind the large marble and gold plated reception desk.
I gave him a small smile as I hurried past him, aware that I was dropping rain water in the lobby.
"Your mother has requested that you be ready by no later than four pm."
He delivered the statement politely, but irregardless of the delivery, anxiety skittered through my veins, threatening to consume me.
"Thank you," I mumbled, keeping my eyes fixed on the ground before me as I walked away, treading carefully, watching where I placed each foot less I misstep.
For as long as I could remember, I had experienced anxiety and panic attacks. My mother had dragged me from one doctor's room to the next looking for a cure or simply some way to fix her broken child. Instead, she was informed by one of New York's most highly regarded psychologists that I was prone to bouts of melancholy and I would simply outgrow it. And yet, here we were, years later with the same experience. I hadn't outgrown it, I'd just become better at hiding my outbursts.
It made sense that I was melancholic by nature, I was born on a Wednesday after all. There was truth to all omens and superstitions, no matter how much we wished otherwise.
Thankfully, I managed to avoid any further encounters with other people, riding the elevator in solitude.
My room was silent, not even the static raising its head at my energy. I peeled off my blush coat, laying it over the back of the armchair and strategically began to strip my body of all my wet clothing. I didn't have a lot of time to ready myself for this tea and attending looking any less than perfect would be deemed entirely unacceptable.
My nude bra and panty set only sought to highlight the outline of my ribs as I stared at my semi-naked self in the mirror.
She has a ballerina's build, it's such a pity.
The memory of my old dance instructor's voice taunted me as he stood there stoically and told my mother that her daughter had two proverbial left feet. Add that to the list of my perceived failures.
Refusing to dwell on my melancholic state, I pushed myself towards the interleading ensuite and started the shower. My coarse salt scrub - which my mother would have been horrified to know I'd mixed myself - sat in a transparent tub and was more salt than anything else. I grabbed it, itching to cleanse myself from any residual energy that may have rubbed against me or simply attached itself to me. You could never be too safe, especially in cities that boasted such history.
The water was warm, scalding away my insecurities, reminding me of my truth. I connected with water on a deep, emotional level, seeing it for the life-source that it truly was. I scrubbed all those negative, doubtful, spiteful thoughts, and memories, the salt burning in some places of my skin as I rubbed it over every surface I had. I visualised all those emotions swirling down the expensive drain as the rivlets of water washed away the now slowly-dissolving salt from my body.
Not all drains were made equal, I supposed.