A smile creeps across her face as she looks up at me—courtesy, after all, expected.
“Aah, Azura? Like the color?” she inquires, lifting an eyebrow. I roll my eyes and nod.
Sadly, yes. I reply to myself, fiddling with the wristband for reassurance.
My mother gave me that name, hoping I’d embody the cool calm of an azure sky. Instead, I turned out more like a fierce wildfire—unpredictable and intense. My father joked it was all thanks to her endless craving for spicy Cheetos during pregnancy. My father was blind to see through the smiles that lingered on my mother as he served him food glistening with grease and death.
I am a bundle of smoldering embers, ready to burst into flames at any moment. My mood shifts as quickly as the steam rising from a cup of cherry tea—my father’s go-to drink after devouring heaps of junk food my mother killed him with. No more tea in the grave.
My mind is wandering again. I pull the wristband and let it snap.
“So, Azura,” she tilts her head inquisitively, pulling me out of my inner monologue, the only place I feel peace, “what is it about your name that bothers you?”
I let out a silent groan, wishing she could read my mind instead of forcing me to repeat my constant argument with myself.
“It just doesn’t feel me,” I say through gritted teeth, snapping the band on my wrist again—a constant reminder to rein in my emotions. The name drives me nuts, it nags, it burns, it suffocates; It reminds me of my mother.
“Hmm, have you ever considered changing it? Choosing a name that reflects who you truly are? Something that can give you comfort even, perhaps.” she suggests, tapping her notebook.
“Wait, hold on – we can change our name?” I ask in disbelief. “Is that even allowed?”
“Well, legally you can,” she reassures me upon seeing the shock on my face. “Many people do it as they grow older. For instance, Vin Diesel’s real name is Mark Sinclair. Doesn’t quite sound as tough, does it?”
I ignore the chuckle as new knowledge dawns, a surge of excitement and possibility washes over me. It’s my birthday today; I’m officially an adult, free to decide my path – and now a name?
“You’re smiling,” she observes. “You have never done that before.”
“I am?” I reply, touching my lips and marvelling at the unfamiliar yet pleasant sensation spreading over my face. “I am.”
“Hmm, I think we’ve just had a breakthrough.” She scribbles a note in her notebook before continuing, “So, what would you like to be called?”
“Ruby,” I state confidently, feeling a newfound sense of control and assurance. “My Grandma used to call me that. I liked it. I like it.”
“A beautiful choice,” she approves with a nod.
“It’s ironic,” I explain, “I’ve always struggled with controlling my anger, yet when I hear this name, instead of sparking rage, it brings…calm.” I’m surprised by the clarity of this realization.
The therapist offers a knowing smile. “You see, names such as these aren’t just about colors. They carry deep meanings and associations. It Can be a taste or a memory. You can’t take names at surface value.”
Curious, I grab my phone from the coffee table and quickly search for ‘scarlet’ on Google. My heart skips a beat when I read what I feel: passion, love, and strength.
“You do know your stuff,” I say genuinely—a rare compliment, as I don’t give easily.
“I’m glad you think so,” she replies, closing her notebook with a satisfied expression. “And with that, Azura, our session is over. I’ll see you next Wednesday at the same time.”
“Azura won’t be coming back,” I smiled, stepping out of the therapist’s office with a new name and a refreshed sense of freedom.