It Would've Been You

V

𝐌𝐘 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐏𝐈𝐒𝐓 𝐖𝐀𝐋𝐊𝐒 toward the couch with a water bottle in each hand. She hands me one before sitting. I should be in the library apologizing to Sydney for being a terrible friend for the past week, but I'm stuck in this cold office on a Friday afternoon, pouring my heart out to a stranger who gets paid to hear my problems.

"When was the last time you slept properly, Morgan?"

"Tuesday, I think." I take a sip of the water.

"We both know that's not good," She pushes her round-framed glasses higher on her nose, tapping her pen on her little notepad. "Have you relapsed?"

I shake my head. I've been clean for over a week, which is shocking given the current state of my life. What I won't tell her is that instead of physically hurting myself, I've been using prescription drugs in doses that are triple the amount I'm supposed to be taking.

She smiles at me, ticking a box on the page.

I can sense what's coming next, the sentence I've dreaded from the moment I sat here.

"Now, let's talk about your mother."

I never expected her to be a sensitive topic, but here I am, trying to think of a way to avoid the question.

"How are you coping?"

I'm sure she can answer that on her own. Dark circles around my eyes, shutting out the only people who say they care about me, using the wrong coping methods, I'm a mess.

"As good as anyone would." I scoff.

She sighs, closing the book and placing it on the coffee table between us. I'm not ready to speak about my mother right now. Just the thought of her makes me nauseous.

"She loves you, Morgan."

"So why not take me and Ava with her?" I lash out unexpectedly. She doesn't reply, and I don't expect her to. How could you even justify this situation?

I wonder how life would've been if my dad wasn't addicted to alcohol. Would I be normal? Would we spend our summers at beach resorts and not in and out of rehab shelters? But this is all I've ever known. Excuses and arguments are the conversations in our household. As harsh as it sounds, that is just who we are.

Avery and I were always close. We didn't have a choice. Friends weren't allowed to come over. We never celebrated our birthdays with anyone other than our parents.

We only had each other. It was like we were isolated from the world.

She takes my hand in hers, and I tense up at the feeling. Her eyebrows furrow, observing my reaction. Growing up with parents who always fought kept me on edge. I never knew when their arguments would turn physical. Loud noises send my mind spiraling back to traumatic events, and any sudden physical contact is enough to make me flinch.

It's like walking on eggshells, the anticipation of them cracking beneath you.

The first time I ever saw my dad attack my mom was the night he came back from rehab. We thought he was better. He was laughing with us the entire car ride. My mom put me and Avery to bed, and I thought, for once, that this was the start of a healthier us.

I remember waking up to the sound of glass breaking and my mom screaming at my father not to wake the kids. I snuck downstairs, and from around the corner, I saw him standing with a shard in his hand, pressing my mother against the kitchen counter.

I wanted to call out to her, but it was as if I had lost my voice. I was weak. Useless.

The constant shouting and belittling ruined my mental health until I couldn't bear it anymore. I needed to find a way to numb the pain. Take it away completely.