Breathe (Louis Tomlinson)

Chapter One

Warning: contains talk of suicide and other things like that. read at your own risk :)

ARDEN'S POV:

I gripped the transparent orange bottle, shaking uncontrollably. I gulped as I began twisting the white top off, trying to fight the tears.

*Four weeks later*

"Have a good day at school, honey! Call me if you need anything!" my mom called from the car, smiling widely.

"Okay," I answered back, my voice flat. I walked to the front doors of the school, trying to push the terrible memories that this place brought back to the back of my mind.

I walked into the main office, just as my mom had instructed me to.

"Arden! Welcome back," the receptionist, Mrs. DeBoer, greeted a little too happily for my taste.

"Yup," I said, shrugging off my backpack and unzipping the pouch that contained my snack.

"You look pretty today," she said. I could tell that she was just trying to be nice. Middle-aged people probably don't really like the band t-shirt and combat boots style. But that's okay; I like disapproval from adults.

"Thanks," I answer. I held up my granola bar and took a bite from it as she watched me eat. I personally think that this is stupid and pointless; I don't have to eat if I don't want to. But according to the doctors, it's important that I eat lots of healthy foods and rest.

"Alright, now go on to your second hour class. I'll bet Mrs. Xanderwood misses you!" she said. I almost rolled my eyes, but I didn't.

"All right, bye," I said, walking out of the office and throwing away the wrapper before she could respond. I found my locker and grabbed the necessary materials and walked to the first class that I'd been to in four months.

My right hand gripped the cold metal door handle of room 203 and opened it, my heart pounding in my chest. It opened with a click as I pulled on it. I walked into the classroom only to find my classmates all sitting at desks, staring at me. It wasn't the usual thing where you walk into class and everyone glances at you and goes back to what they're doing. No, this is a full-on stare.

They know what happened.

They know what I did.

"Hello, Miss Carey. You can take a seat. We're just discussing the books we're currently reading." Mrs. DeBoer told me. Nodding, I kept my head down and walked to my seat. I could feel everyone's gazes on me as I walked.

Throughout the rest of the day, I had to deal with stares and cautious friends that try too hard to act like nothing ever happened.

I was relieved when I was called down to the office halfway during my last class. I packed up all of the homework I had to make up for and slung my backpack over my shoulder.

"Ready?" my mom asked when I met her standing in the office.

"Yeah. Where are we going?" I asked.

We walked to the car and got in, immediately turning on the air conditioning. Winter was fast approaching. "Therapy. I think you'll really like your therapist. We went to high school together and she's very nice."

"Oh," I replied. "Will I get to miss math every day for this?"

"Nope, sorry. This is just the day of the week that she is busy. The rest you will be going after school," she informed me, causing me to frown. Nothing good was to become of this.

____________________________________________

When we arrived, I was a bit relieved. Judging by the sophisticated decoration and quiet lobby, I could tell that this wasn't some child therapy place. This was for real. I've needed a bit more "real" in my life.

"Hello, I'm here for an appointment with Tanya Tomlinson, patient's name is Arden Carey." My mom said. The receptionist, whose name (judging by her nametag) appeared to be Melissa, was rather pudgy and had blonde hair, which was obviously dyed, piercing green eyes, and bright pink lipstick.

"Yes, just please sit in one of the chairs and wait for her to come and get you." She answered in a raspy voice- smoker no doubt. I took a seat in a random chair and untangled my ear buds, anxious to escape into my music-filled fantasy. I plugged them in and turned on All Time Low, closing my eyes and allowing the music to wash over me like a tidal wave of comfort. In my opinion, five CD's and a couple band t-shirts would be more effective than therapy but lately my opinions haven't mattered to anyone but me.

My mom tapped my shoulder, signaling for me that it was time for my session to start.

Oh joy.