𝐋𝐢𝐚𝐫, 𝐋𝐢𝐚𝐫 | 𝐉𝐉 𝐌𝐚𝐲𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐤

33. don't call your therapist cunty. (pt.2.)

T H I R T Y - T H R E E
don't call your therapist cunty.

The warm sun pours through the windows, and the soothing feeling against my cheeks makes me sleepy again. I only woke up a few hours ago, but I could already go for a nap.

The drive is relatively silent, music plays but I can hardly hear it with the window down and my face propped just outside.

My ear is in a lot of pain squashed against the window frame, but the rest of my face is enjoying the warmth.

I can't help but think of Sarah and John B. Where they are; if they're safe; are they hungry; have they slept? My mind keeps wanting to go to the situation where they're dead, I tend to think of the worst-case scenarios. No matter how many times my therapists would ask me how likely those situations would be true, and that I should base my worry off of that, it never made a difference.

If my Mum is three minutes late, she's clearly dead. If JJ doesn't wake up with one shake of the shoulder, he obviously died in his sleep. If my arm goes numb, it's going to fall off. One headache? Insurable brain cancer.

I don't think I'd cope, having Sarah and John B's lives dangled in front of my face, then snatched away again.

Sometimes—most of the time—I hate the way my brain works. The way it won't just act appropriately to situations makes me feel like some kind of freak. It chooses the wrong things to panic about, and trying to get it to change a knee-jerk reaction is an Olympic sport. I get so frustrated when I want to run instead of work on a relationship.

I'd like to think I'm getting better, but then again, JJ and I had an all-out insult tennis match less than two weeks ago.

I don't just have issues with learning to trust people, I also have problems letting people go. A therapist once said it's because I don't let people in it makes me want to cling on to the people I do let it. I'm not too fond of that explanation so it's obviously wrong.

The entire drive I don't say a word, I just ignore the pain in my ear and enjoy the wind and warmth.

Once we park outside the Limbrey estate we throw caution to the wind, we're already hours late, so we may as well all show up. We're a four-for-one deal.

Even though the wound of Kie and Pope's stance is still very fresh—the type of fresh where it makes my heart ache and my coping mechanisms of reminding myself that I deserve good relationships fly out the window—I am worried about him. He's still my friend, whether he agrees with that or not. The man is incredibly non-threatening and while I don't trust him with my deepest darkest secrets, I trust him quite enough.

Pope picks up the brass knocker and slams it against the door three times; I really do mean slam it. I'm shocked the wood doesn't splinter. I think he may have been trying to put a hole in the door. Standing a step in front of the rest of us he glances back. "You think that was too much?" He questions, looking a little uncertain.

"It echoed around the neighbourhood. They definitely heard," JJ confirms.

Next to me, Kie fidgets. She's picking at her nails—a nervous habit she's had for years. Sometimes her hands are picked at so badly that they're raw.

We wait a few seconds. "Fuck it," I mumble and step forward, going to grab the knocker. At the same second the door swings open and I come inches away from clocking the man in the face. "Oh– hi. Nice to meet you," I greet. JJ sticks a finger through my belt loop and tugs me back, something I'm actually appreciative of. I seem to be frozen.

"You're a weirdo," JJ mumbles with a smile.

The man immediately makes me uneasy. He's so scruffy, in stark contrast to the immaculate garden and—from the slither I see—the equally tidy house. The creases in his face are set deep, caused by a lifetime of scowling.