Axel

55

A X E L

My mouth is dry, my lips chappy and sore as my hand shakes when i rest it on my thigh.

The sound the old air conditioning creates gives me a headache.

I count to ten, and then again.

I count from ten backwards, and then again.

My hand curls into a fist.

"Is everything okay, Axel?" The voice that speaks comes from in front of me, and i adjust myself in the uncomfortable chair that squeaks at the slightest movement.

I divert my gaze from my fist, and look up at the middle aged man in front of me. His glasses sit lowly on his long nose, his legs crossed as he adjusts his blazer and taps the notebook with his pen.

I nod, and he pushes his glasses further up his nose before eyeing me and jotting down some words.

He clears his throat when he's finished, he smiles at me before gesturing to the man sitting a few chairs away from him.

"Jeremy here, was kindly sharing his journey of battling an addiction. Would you like to share yours?"

I glance at Jeremy, and he refuses to meet my eye, his leg bouncing in fear.

Christ, get me out of here.

"No." I blankly reply, and Dr Charles only sighs before carefully removing his glasses and placing them on his lap.

"In order for group therapy to work, we must all engage in the activity. You're the only one left to share something with the rest of us."

Dr Charles is fed up of me, i think.

I thought getting up at the crack of dawn was the worst part of being in here, but i think listening to these sob stories every day might be worse.

To some, i can relate to a certain extent. Yet there's a significant difference between me and every person in this room.

They want to live.

They are in here fighting for themselves, whether by force or willingly they are in here for themselves.

I don't have a desire to live, but i do have a desire to live for her.

So instead, i fight the urge to tell Dr Charles to mind his business and opt for engaging in this weird orgy.

For her.

For sobriety.

"Where do you want me to start?" My voice is raspy, and my stomach aches as it begs for food.

My therapist says i need to eat, i can't have a bite of food before it's coming back up again.

Withdrawal is biting me in the ass.

"How about we start with where it began?" He crosses his arms and leans back, waiting for me to start.

My eyes scan the room, a group of eyes staring back at me in curiosity.

My knuckles turn white.

I count to ten, and then again.

I count from ten backwards, and then again.

"About two years ago, at a party."