I lied," I say still looking at his lips, he opens his eyes and gazes over at me.
"Uh oh," he whispers, not breaking eye contact. I am suddenly aware of his lingering stare. He looks at me everywhere, every inch, there was no hiding from it. His ga...
THEY SAY YOU CAN TELL A LOT ABOUT A PERSON BASED ON HOW THEY DRESS. I wonder does the oversized hoodie I wear everyday since my fathers passing show my grief? Does my ripped jeans symbolize the rips and tears of my heart? does my worn and beat up vans show that I have completely given up on my well-being as a person? I'm sure my outward appearance only revealed negatives, and what they might reveal was more than likely
accurate. A girl drowning, struggling to keep her head above water.
"You know you can tell me anything?" Her voice cuts into my overbearing thoughts like lightning. I take my eyes off of my feet briefly to offer her a nod, her eyes are so warm and welcoming, her voice understanding, but I say nothing still.
Even if I wanted to speak, I couldn't. I could not put my grief into words. There's not one word in the english language that could describe how I felt.
It was my third therapy session with Dr. V. She hadn't gotten much from me, I was stubborn, but not intentionally, it wasn't Dr. V's fault. It wasn't anyone's fault really, well— if you ask me it was Anthony Bracken's fault.
Anthony Bracken's, the drunk driver who t boned my father killing him instantly on impact. My father, my best friend, gone.
Gone. Gone. Gone.
I shut down again.
Dr. V says something, but i'm not listening in the slightest. I stare out the window just behind her auburn head to avoid crumbling to the floor in tears, something I did more often than i'd like to admit.
The sky was a bleak gray white and it was sleeting. The weather was gross and depressing, which was fitting for January. Which was fitting for how I felt.
"Eleanora?" Dr. V calls, bringing my attention back towards her.
I flinch at the sound of my full name, only my mother calls me Eleanora, and I call my mother Jackie.
As much as I try to push the feeling away, as much as I try to push the disgusting thought out of my brain, it always comes back, like a yo-yo, like a bad embarrassing rash you can't get rid of.
I wish it had been her.
What makes it even worse is the fact that my mother probably thinks the same exact thing. Me instead of him.
"Nora," I correct her, opening my mouth for what seemed like the first time in years. These days I realized I didn't have much to say, words were hard. Words were expressive, words revealed emotion. These days I preferred to stay quiet, it was easier.
She nods, smiling. "Nora," she begins. "How are you feeling?"
Exhausted, angry, hollow, a million adjectives course through my head, yet they still weren't strong enough or big enough to express my deep sorrow. "Fine," I mumble out offering a kirt smile.
Therapy is the exact opposite of what I wanted, but Jackie insisted. She did not like the way I was handling my grief and i'll never admit this, but she had a point. I spent the earlier months of my fathers passing, high, skipping classes, spazzing out on any and everyone and destroying everything that I once loved in my old life.
But Jackie had no right to judge me, she spent her days acting like nothing happened at all, she suppresses like a robot. She doesn't like things she can't control, and I don't like being controlled. Life's funny that way.
Dr. V looks at the watch on her wrist with a sigh, and to my delight the excruciatingly long hour is up.
"Nora, we're not gonna get anywhere if you don't talk to me, it's literally what i get paid to do."
I nod, getting up grabbing my backpack, I could not get out of there any faster. "Hold on," she says, reaching into her desk, I hold in a sigh as she pulls out a simple black notebook.
"I want you to write down anything and everything, if you're feeling hungry, if you saw a cute dog walking down the street, tired, whatever you want to write down," she begins. "It is fully up to you if you want to share your writing with me for discussions."
I take it, offering a mumbled thanks and good bye before leaving. As I make my way down the hall, I examine the notebook, I let out a laugh and contemplate chucking it in the trash. I decided better of it and push the button of the elevator, still grasping the notebook.
The elevator dings open and before I can step in, a very tall boy shoulder checks me, knocking the notebook out my hand with a thump.
"What the fuck," I hiss to the back of his head, picking up the stupid notebook.
He glances back at me briefly, like I am beneath him. I see a purpling dark bruise on his eye and notice a busted lip, he returns my scowl with a scowl of his own. I can see why his face is all beat up. The boy was an asshole.
"Watch where you're going," He says lowly, strolling away, with long limbs.
"Fuck you," I call, throwing the notebook at him without thinking. It hits his head with a hard thump and I clasp my hand over my mouth, realizing what I just did.
Before he can turn around, I press the elevator door, and it opens with a ding. He turns around, with a hand on the back of his head. He says something, but I can't make it out as the doors close, leaving the angry boy on the other side.
What a douche, I thought to myself as I rode the elevator down to the first floor of the office building, leaning against the cool metal wall.
When the elevator door opens I all, but run out the building, met with a disgustingly cold winter evening.
The sky was a murky white gray, and a wet snow rain combo fell from the sky. The cars in the busy city streets, sloshed and slushed through black ice.
I groaned, walking over to my bike. I shivered, twisting my combo into the lock, hands freezing from the cold metal. My heart still racing a bit from the encounter. I didn't mean to throw the notebook, but lately I've been a ticking time bomb, the smallest of things set me off. Which is probably why Jackie thought therapy was a good idea.
But fuck Jackie, I didn't care what she thought. I didn't care what anyone thought. The only person who's opinion I cared about was six feet under. So I figured I'd do what I want for a change. And I wanted to chuck the book at his head, so I did.
