Our Foundations from Decay

Gerards POV 3

I observed the peculiar boy in front of me. How did he sustain his injuries? I wondered. He looked like he wanted to be there less than I did— I don't blame the guy. But hey, we were all there for a reason. Broken, like the old, used toys that collect dust in your basement. What's his story?

My train of thoughts were interrupted when the lady called me into the therapy room, and I hastily got out of my seat and made my way in there.

I was greeted by an unnecessary amount of plants— even for me, who is a total plant mom. More of those corny posters hung on the lightly blue shaded walls.
The lady guided me to my seat and took out her notebook and pen. "So, what brings you into therapy? What struggles are you facing?" She asks right off the bat.
Me, obviously not being able to speak, just sort of sat there and shrugged my shoulders, sniffling awkwardly.

A strange smell lingered in the room. It was an artificial aroma of an incense, bordering a hippy vibe, which seemed to have the intent of calming people, but I didn't know how to feel about it.

"Are we shy, now?" She asks, making an assumption. I don't like it when people assume things about me— I believe that half the assumptions we make on first impressions are wrong, why not just get to know the person instead of automatically believing that your assumption is right? I mean, we all make assumptions, me included, but don't stick with it as if it's the truth, you know? It just ticks me off a bit, though I generally aim to be someone who's easygoing.

"Your dad told me that you guys experienced the 9/11. It must've been tough on you, I'm sorry." Of course, it was tough. Some therapist, huh.

"You know, traumatic events like these can affect people so much so that they can lose the basic abilities to do things like, perhaps, talk?" Finally, an assumption she's right about.
I nod to indicate that I understand and that I think that's what's happening to me.
"Some ways to help could be to start writing down your feelings and thoughts after you could try reading them to yourself. Once in your head, then once out loud. It doesn't happen straight away, but it's a good way to get your ability to speak back. Just takes practice."
I bow my head as a 'thank you' for the tip.

The rest of therapy was boring— she got me to write down what I've been experiencing, and she read through it, giving me advice and what-not. But I wasn't listening to her ramble half the time, I was too busy wondering about the boy out there, the one with the injuries who looked bored out of his mind.

Therapy was finally over, and I was relieved to be walking out that door. I started going over all the things she told me during that session: "Do things that'll help keep your mind off some of the stress— do something that'll inspire you, like starting a project." She mentioned. That's it! I thought as I experienced an epiphany. But I was so wrapped up in my own head that I didn't realise the boy right in front of me.

I crashed straight into none other than the peculiar boy, sending us both into a messy pile on the ground. I bonked my head into his chest and got up as quickly as I could, hiding the shade of embarrassment on my face. I rubbed my head where it hurt with one hand and helped the guy up with my other. "Are you okay?" He asked me. Shoot kid, are you? I thought. He was the one with the cast, after all. I waved my hands frantically side-to-side to reassure that I was fine. I took time to look at him; really look at him. He seemed oddly familiar, but not like I knew him from somewhere, like he knew me. Hazel, determined eyes— he had a flame behind them. It's what kept him driving. It's how he functioned. His soul fuelled the everlasting fire behind his eyes, which seemed to actually make his eyes look as if they were glowing bright. He had emotion, strong, fierce ones, building up inside of him. His problem is that he doesn't know how to deal with it— how to let it out. He just lets his emotions and anger build up but doesn't know how to release them. That's his problem. And there I go again, being a hypocrite for making these assumptions. But I'm different, I know when I'm on to something. I noticed how his dark black hair swirled messily at the ends, somehow framing his face and bringing out his strong features, so naturally, as if he wasn't even trying— which he probably wasn't.

Just as I was leaving, the guy stopped me.
"Wait," he spoke abruptly.
I turned in confusion
"... What's your name?"  He asked, with hesitation.
I panicked since I couldn't talk, but with the pen in my hand that the therapist gave me to write things down, I signed my name on his cast and waved him goodbye.

I was in the car driving home with Mikey sitting next to me. "So, who's that guy you were talking to, huh?" He said suggestively.
I rolled my eyes and scribbled down on the note pad given to me by the therapist. 
And what about his cute younger sister? I saw you making eyes at her (;
He read it, turned pink, and then turned away from me and looked out the car window, not speaking as he was now soaking in his embarrassment. I chuckled softly— at least I could somewhat make noise.
That's when I had a strange feeling, what was I thinking about before? I couldn't place my finger on it. A swirl of thoughts consumed my head, but I retraced my steps and managed to finally remember. Oh, right! I realised. I should start a band! I can play piano, and I could try singing, or, once I get my voice back. Anyway, I need to do something with my life other than just rot away in my bed all day, letting this cancerous event consume me. I've tried many things; drawing, playing piano, writing, this is what's missing— I needed to test my talents, push my limits. I should start a band.