Catch Me (Synacky)

Chapter Twenty-Nine: Brian

So much happened at once.

Zacky was screaming, and his mom was apologizing, trying to get him to stop. Aids were rushing in and then she was explaining to them and then one of the aids left with Zacky’s mom. I just stood trying to process it all as the other aid crouched down next to Zacky and started talking to him softly.

“I’ll do it.” I said, and the aid looked up at me.

“I don’t think so, Brian. Patients are not here to treat other patients.”

“Look.” I said, scooping up Zacky’s pet that had dropped to the floor when he started doing that weird rocking-screaming thing. Gently, I placed a hand on his back. “Zee… hey, you dropped your pet.” He wasn’t listening to me, and I knew it. But if I spoke long enough, maybe he’d come around. “Remember when we went out there? When we left the institution? Wasn’t so long ago, was it?” another pause. He went from screaming to groaning. “And-And that was the most wonderful experience I’ve had so far. Just walking with you through the city, it meant more to me than you’ll ever know, Zee.”

Slowly, he stopped moving. “You mean more to me than anything in the whole world.” I whispered. “Screw your mom, she doesn’t know what she’s missing out on. Although, I can’t say I’m angry about it. I want you to be happy, but I also want you to stay here with me. I love y-“ A quick look at the aid made me backtrack. “I love having a best friend here who helps me feel less alone.”

Zacky pulled his hands away from his face. He looked at me, eyes red and puffy, tears staining his cheeks. He reached out for his pet, and I handed it to him. But instead of taking the pet, he took my hand in both of his.

“I-I don’t have many numbers of pi memorized.” He whispered, “Only 263.”

“That’s fine.” I said, “Today I’ll help you memorize more after supper.”

“I have a meeting with Dr. Brooks at 6:31.”

“After that then.” I pressed Zacky’s pet into Zacky’s hand. “Don’t worry about it.”

“I…” his fingers were moving, forming chords quickly and his pet fell to the floor. “I want a guitar.”

“One day I will buy you the nicest guitar you can find.”

Zacky closed his eyes tight, “A Gitane DG-320 John Jorgensen. Or-Or a Gibson Flying V custom, maybe 1974, if you could find one.” He opened his eyes and looked at me. “I hope one day you do.”

“I promise I will.” I smiled. “But you’ll have to wait until we get out of here.”

Zacky’s smile was brief, lasting merely a heartbeat. “I think I can manage that.”

~*~

Zacky did not speak for the rest of the day. He went to his meeting with Dr. Brooks, and I sat through group therapy, biding my time for it to be over.

Just in case you don’t know why Zacky and I hate group therapy so much, I’ll share today’s experience.

Our group leader, the ever sappy, ever cheery aid Jane, would pick a theme and then call attendance. When she called your name, you’d have to say your favorite thing that was in the theme. Like today, it was “season” so everyone said their favorite season when Jane said their name. I said autumn.

Then she asks everyone to rate their day from 1-10, one being the worst. No matter what the rating, you have to say why you chose that number. Then we’d talk a little bit about issues that some kids might have had (by “we” I don’t mean that I spoke at all), and usually Jane will have prepared some ice breaker game, especially if there’s a new patient. Today, there was a new kid, so he had to introduce himself and say what his disorder was. His name was Jason? Jackson? Something like that, and he had been diagnosed with general anxiety disorder, which I wasn’t surprised by. Most of the kids here were either depressed, or had some form of anxiety.

So we did this human knot thing where everyone took hands with someone not next to you, and you have to untangle yourselves without letting go. It was alright. I know Zacky would have panicked, so it was a good thing he wasn’t here.

After we had completed that, we got back in our seats and were supposed to discuss the game we had played. I guess we were meant to talk about working together, but most people just dwelled on the mysterious wetness on Maxwell’s hands.

What can you expect? It’s a mental institution; people are going to be weird.

Then she does this daily wrap up thing, and everyone has to say something nice to the person across from them (probably the worst part about therapy, no doubt). Sometimes it’s hard to tell who’s exactly across from you, since we sit in a circle. I told the kid across from me that he had a cool shirt. It had a spaceship on it or something like that, I didn’t know.

After that, Jane asked for closing thoughts, which is always just two minutes of awkward silence because no one ever wants to speak up. Today, one of the antisocial kids piped up, “Since that Zachary kid ain’t here, I gotta ask. How often does the fag piss himself?”

I sprung from my chair, ready to lunge for the kid. “What the fuck did you say?” I hissed, and Jane shouted, “Sit down, Brian!”

Blood rushed in my ears. “I oughta throttle you, punk.” I growled at the boy, who smirked in return, taunting me.

“What’re you gonna do about it, Brian? You gotta protect your little whore.”

“Adam, you say one more word and you’ll be spending some time in isolation.” Jane said in her deathly calm way. “I do not tolerate that language. We are only positive in therapy.”

But she did talk about Zacky. “I want you all to know that Zachary is a very sweet boy. He’s the only autistic child at the institution, do you know what that means?”

“Yeah, he’s afraid of fucking everything.”

“He screams for no reason like the schizos.”

“One time, he froze up for no reason and wouldn’t move no matter what we did to him.”

“He carries around that lame stuffed dog like a little baby.”

Jane glared at the boy who had sworn. “Language.” she sighed. “Zachary doesn’t understand emotions quite like we do. Sometimes, it’s hard for him to understand when a lot is being said at once. It is very important that you treat him kindly. I want to see lots of smiles tomorrow night at therapy, alright? Often times with autistic children, they can’t tell the difference between banter and bullying. Don’t harass him, okay? He’s only been here a few months, and he’s had a rough go of it so far.”

Then she reached that soft, angry tone. “If I find out one of you has bullied Zachary, or any other child here, you will have to answer to me. Is that understood?”

The kids nodded, and then we were allowed some free time before bed.

And that, in a nutshell, is what group therapy is like.