✓ | flow ( eddie munson )

eight. mrs kelly

TW: mentions of multiple types of abuse

veda henderson

   Tick

   Tick

   Tick

   The sound of Mrs Kellys ever slow office clock was the only thing keeping me company as we both sat, staring at each other. I've only been to see her one other time considering I don't come to school often, in fact, I was kept down a year because I missed almost a whole school year when I lived with my Dad. I'll be surprised if I even graduate this year. 

   "How have things been living with your Mum and brother?" She asks, surveying me as if I were an experiment and she was waiting for me to react exactly how she hypothesised. If I was, I had no idea how I was meant to react.

   "Good," I reply, crossing my arms over my chest in a self-soothing manner. It felt so cold in here despite my forehead having a slight layer of sweat on it. Fucking withdrawal symptoms. I've been too stubborn to go to Eddie for anything after what happened a week ago.

   7 days sober. 

   Longest I've been in a while.

   "Do you talk to them about your night terrors?" She asked gently, her soft voice sent a sort of tingle throughout my body whenever she spoke, it was calming. Maybe that's why she's apparently good at her job.

   I scoff, smiling to myself and looking to the window behind her. "Mum doesn't like talking about the incident. She definitely wouldn't want me telling Dustin about all the gruesome details,"

   "The Incident being your father's suicide?" She confirmed. I nodded, attempting to swallow the bitter taste that the forbidden word always left in my mouth. Hearing the word was like swallowing led, and I was trying not to poison myself anymore. "What was that like for you, Veda?"

   "Pretty shit," I laugh bitterly, keeping my eyes focused on the window outside and the view of the woods it gave me. I sink lower into the chair, pulling my left foot up to sit on the space of the chair in front of my butt, feeling the warmth of my hoodie engulf me. "Not many people can relate to watching your father blow his brains out all over your bedroom. Not many people to talk to about it,"

   "Is that what you want? To find someone to relate to you?" She questioned, locking her fingers together and placing them neatly on her desk. Besides her frizzy black hair, not a single thing was out of place, even the seemingly out-of-place strands looked like they were perfectly chosen.

   I shrug, shaking my head slightly and finally drawing my eyes away from the clearing in the woods, meeting her eyes. "Kind of a weird thing to hope someone else has gone through," 

   She nodded, clearing her throat as she slowly moved some papers on her desk to a different spot. Once that was done, she turned back to me with a sorrowful look, "Do you ever talk about the abuse?"