OPEN WOUNDS | N.H

| Chapter One |

"Niall, do you have anything to say?" Dr. Termichael, my therapist asked knocking my joggled brain out of its deep thoughts.

I looked up, and felt 6 mens eyes on me. The same 6 men that have been in these therapy sessions for over a year now, ranting, crying, and moping about their problems and how their alcoholic veins ruined their lives.

If only they knew what if felt like to not only ruin your own life, but another persons as well. Maybe then they would understand the pain and suffering I have to go through every day of my fucking life.

Maybe then they would all shut the fuck up.

"Well?" she inquired, raising an eyebrow hopefully.

The men all gathered in a circle sitting in these cheap black fold up chairs continued to stare at me, and stiff silence undertook the room.

I slowly shook my head from side to side, as I always did.

She sighed, adjusting the black square glasses on her aristocratic nose, moving a piece of blonde hair from her aging face. She turned her attention down to the clipboard writing down notes under the columns of all our names.

I could see all 6 mens names from the past week, some of them had notes on what they talked about here and there, some on every single day, and then there was mine. Blank. Like all the other weeks and months before.

She looked up with a tight smile, moving her glasses on top of her head. "That's all for today. Good job, I will see you all tomorrow afternoon." she declared, dismissing the circle of men.

I lazily rose from my seat stuffing my hands in my jeans pockets, following the crowd of men, ready to leave this suffocating room but her voice stopped me.

"Not so fast Mr. Horan." she said with a stern tone. I shut my eyes for a moment, I just wanted to get the fuck out of here already. I have been cooped up in here for 2 hours listening to men cry and whine about all their issues isn't that enough torture for me?

I slowly turned to face her, with my hands still stuffed inside my pockets.

She still sat up straight, with her clipboard in her lap, pointing to the chair across from her with her black pen. "Take a seat." she gestured.

I bit the inside of my cheek, annoyed. I slowly walked over to the chair, and sat down in the chair I was just in today, yesterday, the day before that, the week before that, the month, and the year. I'm surprised they hadn't plastered my name on it yet.

I slouched, sitting back, waiting for her to give me a speech about 'talking' about my feelings, and that 'you won't make any progress if I don't try' fuck that shit.

The last thing I want to do is talk about my fucking feelings and the memory that haunts me every single night before I go to sleep.

"Niall." She started with a heaved sigh, taking her glasses off in her wrinkled hand, placing them on the clipboard in front of her. She looked at me, with her keen grey eyes stinging my blue ones, "We can't keep doing this." She said with a shake of her head. Her eyes showed dissapointment, and sadness, maybe even pity. "We can't have you in this facility getting all this treatment, and having the double A meetings; whether its group sessions or councler ones if you're not talking. You're not giving us anything. You're not letting us help you, Niall."

I rolled my eyes, "Ever occur to you that I don't want your help?" I bit back.

She gave me a look, "Don't want it you say?" her face softened, leaning forward on her knees. "Don't you want those nightmares to go away Niall? Don't you want to let out all that bottled up anger, sadness and guilt that you have held in for 17 months? Don't you want to finally let it all go?"