Consume Me Whole

Labels and Fault Lines

The waiting room smelled like disinfectant and stale coffee, and the magazines on the table were outdated by at least two years. Yet again, Monty sat slouched in a plastic chair, arms crossed over his chest, jaw clenched so tight it ached. Estela sat beside him, her knee bouncing nervously. Their mother was back at the apartment, probably thinking this was the first step toward everything being okay. Monty hated how wrong she was.

When the door to the office opened, a man in his forties with soft brown eyes and an easy smile appeared. "Montgomery?"

Monty stood reluctantly, shoving his hands into his hoodie pockets. He gave Estela a look, silently telling her to stay put. She gave him a small, worried smile in return-always the peacemaker. It made his stomach twist with guilt.

The therapist, Dr. Brooks, stepped aside to let Monty in. His office was small but neat, filled with bookshelves, framed diplomas, and a low, leather couch. A potted plant sat by the window, catching the morning sun. It all felt so calm, so structured. It made Monty itch with something he couldn't quite describe.

"Have a seat," Dr. Brooks said, gesturing to the couch.

Monty dropped into it, spreading his legs wide, arms still crossed. Dr. Brooks took the armchair across from him, crossing his own legs in a way that was too relaxed for Monty's liking.

"So," Dr. Brooks began, voice gentle but not condescending. "You don't want to be here."

Monty huffed. "Glad we're on the same page."

Dr. Brooks smiled slightly. "Fair enough. But I hope we can use this time to figure out what's been going on with you. Not to judge, but to understand."

Monty rolled his eyes, shifting uncomfortably. "Yeah, whatever. I've got anger issues. You're gonna tell me to take deep breaths or some shit, right?"

Dr. Brooks leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "I think it's more than just 'anger issues,' Montgomery. I'd like to talk to you about something called Intermittent Explosive Disorder."

Monty stiffened. "The hell is that?"

"It's a condition that can cause sudden, intense outbursts of anger. It's not about being a bad person-it's about how your brain processes certain emotions. People with IED sometimes react with extreme anger to things others might not find so upsetting. It's like your brain has trouble hitting the brakes once the rage kicks in."

Monty's hands balled into fists in his lap. "So, what? You're saying I'm fuckin' broken or some shit?"

"No." Dr. Brooks's voice was steady. "I'm saying there's a reason why it feels like your anger controls you sometimes. And if we figure out what that reason is, we can work on giving you back that control."

Monty scoffed, but the words hit somewhere deep inside him. Is this why I hurt people? The thought gnawed at him, sharp and bitter. He hated it-hated that there might be something inside him that made him dangerous, that made him like his father. And something he hated even more was that other people could see it, too.

Dr. Brooks watched him carefully, giving him time to sit with the discomfort. "This isn't a label to define you, Montgomery. It's a tool to understand what's happening. And it doesn't mean you're beyond help."

Monty clenched his jaw, forcing the words out. "What if I don't want help?"

Dr. Brooks's gaze didn't waver. "Then we'll work on that too."

Winston was waiting for him outside the building when the session ended, leaning against the wall with his hands in his jacket pockets. Monty saw him before Winston noticed, and for a second, he thought about turning around and walking the other way.

But he didn't.

Winston smiled when he spotted Monty, but the expression faltered when he saw the storm brewing behind Monty's eyes. "Hey. How'd it go?"

"Don't ask." Monty brushed past him, walking fast, hoping Winston would take the hint and leave him alone. He didn't.

"Monty, wait-"

Monty spun around, his voice sharp and biting. "What? What do you want from me?"

Winston stopped a few feet away, hands raised like he was trying to show he came in peace. "I'm just checking on you. That's all."

"Well, stop," Monty snapped. "I don't need you hovering."

Winston's expression darkened, the kindness in his eyes hardening into something firmer. "I'm not hovering. I'm staying. There's a difference."

Monty let out a bitter laugh, but there was no humor in it. "Yeah, well, maybe I don't want you to stay."

"Too bad," Winston shot back, voice sharp. "I'm not going anywhere."

The words hit Monty like a punch to the chest. He was used to people leaving-his mother, his father, everyone he'd ever tried to get close to. He wasn't used to someone staying, not when he was like this. Ugly, angry, unraveling at the seams.

"Why?" Monty demanded, his voice cracking despite himself. "Why the hell do you care?"

Winston stepped closer, his voice soft but unyielding. "Because I love you. And I know you think you're too much, but you're not. You don't scare me."

Monty felt the breath leave his lungs like a punch to the gut. He didn't know what to do with that-didn't know how to hold it without breaking it.

"Stop pushing me away, Monty," Winston whispered. "I'm not your dad. I'm not leaving."

Monty's throat felt tight, the weight of Winston's words pressing down on him like a heavy blanket. He wanted to yell, to scream, to throw something-anything to break the tension building inside him. But instead, he just stood there, his fists clenched at his sides, breathing hard.

Winston reached out, and for a moment, Monty thought about pulling away. But he didn't.

Winston's hand rested on his arm, warm and steady. "You're allowed to be angry," he said quietly. "But I'm still here."

Monty swallowed hard, his chest heaving with emotions he didn't know how to name. He didn't have the words to say what he was feeling, didn't know how to thank Winston for not running away.

So he just nodded, the movement small and stiff, but enough.

Winston smiled, his grip on Monty's arm tightening just slightly. "Come on. Let's get out of here."

Monty let Winston lead him away, the tension still simmering under his skin but not quite as unbearable as before. For the first time in a long while, the storm inside him didn't feel like it was going to swallow him whole.

Not with Winston by his side.