Between You and I

Chapter Twenty- Eight

May 19, 2012: 147 Hours After

Saturdays. Saturdays are great. The wonderful day between awfully horrid 'work days' and oh- my- God- tomorrow's- a- work- day day. If you ask me on any other occasion, I would say that I am all for Saturdays.

Though, you have to admit, today isn't the day for walking around your house naked when everyone's gone- just cause you can- when you have to go to a psychiatrist. By psychiatrist, I mean a person who sits in a room and claims to be listening to your every word for kill- me- now prices.

What a jerk.

"Dan! We're running late!" The mother who believes I'm going off the edge yells once again as I spit out a mouth full of toothpaste into the sink. Fine, I admit, I am going a little crazy, but only a little. I can handle this. Honestly, I don't need any 'help' from a 'certified person'.

"I heard you the first time!" I yell back before gurgling water to rinse my mouth. A psychiatrist. Out of all the things my parents could have done, they send me to a psychiatrist. Thanks guys. I appreciate the thought of you worrying about me, but I can handle my own messes.

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The walls were blue in the waiting room. Actually, most of everything was blue. The vases, the floors, the glass... All just different variations of the colour. I asked the lady at the desk when I walked in why this is, and she just said that it 'seemed to calm patients'. Patients. I hate that word. Makes me feel like I belong in a mental ward.

To make things better, my mom just left me here. I'm not kidding, she just dropped me like a hot potato in front of the building and told me to tell the front desk lady my name. Whether or not you think that's a little off. I think that if a mom signs their kid up for fix- my- mind sessions, they should at least see to it that their kid makes it into the room first.

"Daniel Ridgewell, Mr. Quinn will see you now." The lady at the front desk looks up at me for a brief moment as she talks- her dirty blonde hair pulled back from her middle aged face- before going back to tapping away at her computer. I get up and make my way to the door with the plaque 'Mr. Alexander Quinn' neatly drilled into the wood. I hope my mother didn't pay him already, because if he thinks I'm going to talk, he's got another thing coming.

Seeing Mr. Quinn for the first time: I can't believe he's a doctor. His hair's dark and shaggy, hanging over his eyes that don't seem older than thirty- five. A tattoo peeks out of his long sleeved polo, and one pecks at his collarbone. He looks like one of those guys you'd find rocking out with either an electric guitar or a bass on a stage in front of millions of screaming people.

"Daniel, right?" The voice that came out of his mouth was low, but not so low that you had to strain to hear. It's one of those voices that you would imagine belonging to a swearing, badass dude who keeps calm all the time.

"Well, you're not wrong," I say, taking in his office as I walk over to the one couch in the middle of the room. The room is blue, just like the waiting room, but some of the decor that hung around would be splashes of something else. Bright orange here, firey red there, and maybe a dash of purple if you stare forward.

I catch Mr. Quinn smirking at my reply while shuffling a couple of papers.

"Looks like I'm warming up to you already." You're not supposed to 'warm up' with your patients. Are you? I don't think so. That's not what doctors do. They just smile and pretend to be friendly before they stick a needle in you. He stands up, picks up a chair, and calmly walks towards me.