Just Friends. (A falling in love with my best friend story)

Chapter 1: I don't.

Genna's POV:

        "So, miss Genevieve, how do you feel?" Mrs. Lenar asked.  It's Genna.

 I squirmed as I sat on the freezing cold metal fold-up chair, wishing my wrists weren't tied to the sides by handkercheifs, nor my ankles tied to the legs of the chair by handkercheifs as well.

        "I don't." I said, wriggling my arms a bit to get rid of the numbness in my hands. Her eyes narrowed and her lips pursed as she looked at me in confusion. I hated this look. Weren't therapists supposed to know everything about the human mind? So why do they get confused when we answer questions like that, which we've been asked every single stinking time we go into the room? It confuses me more than my answer confuses her.

        "I don't quite understand what you mean. What do you mean you don't?" She asks.

        "I don't feel." I said.

        "Don't feel what?" She asks, her eyes widening in interest. I felt like an experiment. That's what therapists did. They experimented on our minds for their interest, claiming it helps and improves us.

        "Anything." I answered.

This was my fifth session with Mrs. Lenar so far. This was the first time I actually told her what I was thinking though. I figured it'd be easier just to go along with it. The handkercheifs were new though. After last time, when she had asked me why my mom was dead, I got so angry talking about the situation that I threw the chair at some glass, breaking it and diving for a shard.

        "Well, unfortunatley your hour is up, since you've been silent for the first forty-five minutes of it. I shall see you tomorrow Genevieve." She said. It's GENNA!

She nodded at the man waiting outside behind the door and he walked in, with his normal, kind smile on his face. He came over and untied my wrists first, careful not to look at them, then my ankles. I sat there, rubbing the sore skin for a few minutes before getting up and exiting the room.

That man was my father. Though I didn't see him like that any more. I stopped seeing him like that ever since I found out he was the one who slammed me into the jail cell I call rehab. Even when I got out, he still treated me like a prisoner. I was to be under his survaillance at all times, and when I went to the bathroom he had to have a conversation with me from outside the door. I would go to bed early and wake up early under his control too.

        "Why don't we go get a burger or something?" He asked lightly. The idea disgusted me, since I didn't eat meat. Besides that, food lost it's taste for me. Each time I ate something it was as if I was eating cardboard. Dry and tasteless.

Dad excused himself from being a jail warden when I started therapy sessions. I still felt like some high security psychopath though. In some ways and on some days; I probably was one.

        "Gen. Car." His voice brought me out of my fog and I realized we were standing in the parking lot, right next to his car. I climbed in the backseat and strapped myself in. He looked a little hurt that I didn't sit up front with him any more, but too bad.

I could never forgive him for putting me in rehab. That place was torture.

It didn't help at all. All it did was make me worse. 

        "Parker's coming back in two days, isn't that exciting! You'll have some of your normal life back with him!" He said. I nodded.

Parker was probably the first thing I actually looked forward too in a long time. He used to be one of the many rays of sunshine in my life, and now he seemed to be the only one left.

***

I sat across from my dad inside the sports bar/restaurant combination place as he sipped his alcoholic drink and I ignored my sprite. Since....the incident, he's been drinking alcohol. I haven't seen him drunk yet so it was never alot, but for some odd reason that made me start to be more comfortable around him again. That showed that I wasn't the only one affected.

The waitress brought us our food and I looked down at the burger in my basket. Was it so hard to figure out I was a vegatarian?

I picked the meat off my burger and held it by the tips of my two fingers as if it were a used tissue, and put it on the edge of my tray. Unfortunately the rest of the sandwich had the grease from the meat rubbed off on it so I just pushed the whole thing aside and picked at my french fries. Dad was watching me from behind his sunglasses, which he rarely took off.

It was to hide the emotion.

        "Not hungry?" He asked kindly. I shot him a glare as if to say No shit Sherlock, you're feeding me meat. He took a bigger gulp of his drink.

Two days couldn't come soon enough.

Maybe then I'd start to feel better.

Heh, not.