The Lost Ones

Chapter 3

Chapter 3- (Theo).

When I was fifteen years old, my dad hired a therapist for me to talk to because he was too cowardly to talk to me himself. I was acting out, my therapist would say with a permanent judgemental look on her face.

I didn't really need one back then, and I had only gotten one because the principal of my former school suggested it to my dad. I got into fights a lot. I broke a kid's nose one day and the principal told my dad I had anger issues and I should see a therapist for it.

I never really liked my therapist, she thought I was acting out because my parents got divorced and she never believed me when I told her I didn't care about that. My parents were better of separated.  I didn't intend to act out or anything, people generally pissed me off and I was an angry kid.

But then I met Kayla. She was all the therapy I needed, with her dark brown hair and the prettiest smile you could ever see. 

I guess the saddest of all leave the least of clues.

"Do you know why you're here Theo?" The new therapist, Dr. Quinn says. New or old, they are still the same to me anyways.

I nod and look at my hands. They are big hands.

"So I guess you already know your mom told me everything," he says. Of course she did.

I nod again. I don't really feel like talking.

"How are you feeling?" He asks. This time, I don't hold it in. I scoff. This guy sounds inexperienced, I look up and stare at him. He's young, probably in his twenties and this is probably his first job.

I don't answer, I find other things much more interesting. Like the fish on the desk next to me, swimming, not caring about anything because it can't care about anything. I wish I could be like that, I'd give anything not to feel.

I guess that's why I think therapy is a bad idea. It's going to reopen old wounds that are trying to heal. Talking just makes it worse, I don't want to talk to anyone especially one that is getting paid just to listen to me. It reminds me that no one cares about me, and they'd rather hire a stranger to listen to me than to do it themselves.

It hurts a bit.

"We aren't going to make any progress if you don't talk," He says. "I'm just trying to help you."

I don't need any help.

"Can you tell me about Kayla?" He asks. I clench my fist. It's amazing how her name still has a powerful effect on me.

"She's dead," I say, my voice straining a little.

"How does that make you feel?" He asks. I almost roll my eyes, he's so unoriginal.

"It's a sad situation. It's normal to feel grief for a dead friend."

"But she was more than a friend, wasn't she?" He asks.

"No, she was just a friend," I lie.

"Your mom says-" he starts.

I cut him off. "My mom also didn't know me till my dad sent me to live with her."

"She also says you blame yourself for her death," He comments. I stare at him blankly, my mind racing.

"That's because it was my fault," I say.

"I'm sure it wasn't-" he starts.

"Let me phrase it this way; if I wasn't there at that moment, Kayla would have survived," I say.

"Tell me exactly what happened," he says.

"I can't talk about it," I say. "You can tell my mom I'm not talking— whatever, I don't care."

"Talking about it is the only way you can get better," he says. "You have to talk about it to someone, even if it's not me."

"I can't talk about it to anyone, I have no one. My parents don't understand, and no offense but you're getting paid to talk to me, you don't really care."

"I care about all my patients," he says.

"Of course you do."

"Have you ever tried talking about it to someone and they didn't understand?" He questions.

"Yes," I start. "I told my best-friend— Eric, once."

"How'd it go?"

"Well for starters, he called me a lying freak and told me he wished I was dead," I say.

Thinking about it now makes me remember the pain. Eric was my best-friend for years, and his words hurt me that I feel a pang in my chest thinking about it.

He opens his mouth to say more crappy stuff like, 'I'm here for you', 'you're not alone' but I'm getting tired of hearing bullshit continuously so I cut him off.

"Isn't therapy supposed to make me feel better?" I ask. "I'm not feeling any better."

"You have to let it all out for the healing process to start," he says. I scoff loudly this time. He writes in his notebook, probably something like— 'patient is showing signs of aggression'

"Let what out? The fact that my fucking girlfriend killed herself? The fact that everyone blames me, my parents, my friends, even me?"

He starts writing rapidly now, trying to get what I'm saying. It's incredibly annoying.

"You said she was just a friend," he notes. What is he even writing? It's probably something like patient is more fucked up than me.

"I fucking lied okay? You can write it in that stupid book of yours, I don't care, I'm done!" I yell.

"We still have an hour left, Theo," he says.

I need something to calm myself if I'm still going to stay here for another hour. With that thought, I bring out a cigarette from my pocket. It's risky, I know. But I'm fucking addicted. My mom doesn't know, which is dumb of her since sometimes, I smoke a pack a day.

"Do you mind if I smoke here?" I ask, already lighting up the stick.

"Yes," he says bluntly.

"I'm still gonna smoke anyways, don't tell my mom. You can't tell her if you even wanted to right? Doctor patient confidentiality?"

"I can tell her if I want, you're still underage," he states. "Please keep it away."

"It helps to calm my nerves," I say. "I'm addicted because nothing else makes me calm down."

"Since when have you started smoking?" He asks.

"I started last year, but I hardly ever smoked then, I've been smoking consecutively for about six months now," I say. "Right after she died."

"Do you think you smoke because you can't find another outlet for your pain?" He asks.

I shrug, taking another drag. "Maybe."

"I want you to stop," he says. "It would be much healthier for you, not only physically but also psychologically."

"I'll try," I say, knowing I'm not even going to try at all.