After his parents' sudden death, Chester Covington leaves everything behind and moves in with his aunt.
But nobody knows what is going on behind the facadé of a traumatized boy who has watched his parents die that he puts up ever single day of his...
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"I know you don't like it, Chester. But after what happened and after that break down of yours, I think it's the best option for you to go to therapy," my aunt explains to me in a calm voice while rubbing circles onto the back of my hand.
However, her touch feels like it's hurting me rather than soothing me. And with every word that leaves her mouth and with every knot that forms in my stomach, the urge to swat hear hand away grows.
"I don't need it, Nicole," I reply quietly, trying to keep my voice from cracking. I hate therapy. The one time I actually went there, the number of scars on my wrist only multiplied. The therapist did nothing to help me, the words he had said just made me feel even more insecure, even more abnormal. He told me how wrong it was what I was doing and that I should stop. But it resulted in the opposite.
Therapists don't help you, they just try to stop you from committing suicide so they get their paychecks.
"You do. You've been through a lot, and you should talk about it," she continues, giving me no time to catch my breath as my chest tightens further. "Please, Chester."
"No," I whisper and rip my hand away from hers before I stand up so quickly that the chair I sat on falls to the ground with a thud, and run upstairs.
Betrayal.
That's what I feel. Betrayal and fear. She promised to not make me go to a therapist, and now? Just because I broke down? I'm getting better.
Or am I?
I slam the door to my bedroom shut and let out a chocked sob. Don't they understand that I don't need fixing? I only need someone to catch me and don't let go. Not someone who wants to 'heal' me. I don't need healing. I only need someone to care for me, to love me.
I let myself fall onto my bed with a sigh, gaining a screeching noise as my bed protests, and throw my blanket over me before I curl myself into that pitiful ball that I always curl myself into when I feel helpless. I do this sometimes; I just throw my blanket over my body, hoping for it to swallow me whole, and just stare into the darkness that it provides until my thoughts become too much to bear with, and I have to force myself to do something to try and pull my attention away from those thoughts because otherwise I would lose myself to them.
Usually, I last at least half an hour, but this time, it doesn't even take five minutes until my thoughts nibble on my self-esteem with teeth so sharp that I kick the blanket off me and grab my phone instead. Turning it on, I notice the symbol of WhatsApp glowing brightly on the dark background, indicating that I had an unread message.
My eyebrows furrow as I click on it and wait for the messenger to reveal the message to me. As soon as the app is opened, I notice that the number is an unknown one.
Hey. - 5:21PM
After staring at the word intently for a couple of minutes, I find myself tapping on my screen, texting a reply as my curiosity gets the best of me.
