Before the Rain

Twelve: The Reason for Suicide Season

Dr. Scott was scheduled to come over the following day of Adam's rather obscured and definitely unconventional proposal. I was dreading his presence entirely, after somehow managing to avoid previous scheduled sessions. Today however, would be ineluctable.

❧

I stood near the only window in my room, staring off into the pale blue sky. It happened to be extremely bright this afternoon, and for that I am putting myself on a very generous house arrest.

The sun usually charred my skin anyways, being in my quite morbid state of translucent, so I stayed inside.

I could tell Dr. Scott had already pulled up onto my parents' concrete driveway, the immediate rush of adrenaline and anxiety coursing through myself.

I hated this, and I definitely hated him.

All he seemed to be interested in was my lack of sanity, as most therapists are, and perhaps the inner workings of my brain entirely. He was not so much as focused on my conscious at all, which I guess does not necessarily need to be considered, but still. I was determined now more than ever in my confidence of death, and he was merely concerned with the possibility of something that was prevalent more than four years ago.

He wasn't wrong to be concerned with Quinn though; I would've been as well. However, he was entirely wrong about the excitement and self discovery of recovery. That was fucking unnerving, the promises of fulfillment and the return to normalcy. It was entirely bullshit; everything is to an extent. I honestly cannot believe anyone of this sort of configuration can trust any kind of psychologist at this point. Everything with them is an endless illusion until you're too distracted to realize you're not going to pick up the fucking pieces in the end. Sometimes people just stay broken, why can't anyone accept that?

I am precipitously interrupted by non-other than the doctor himself, "Calvin? It's great to see you."

He lingers in the doorway, clearly uncomfortable with our encounters. His facade of mannerisms lingered as well, again, it was quite obvious that he did not want to deal with whatever I was to him.

Or at least he was a bit reluctant.

I nod in his direction and make my way over to the edge of my bed. The mattress now recently exchanged for a mustard yellow one, the complementary plum rug placed underneath the both of us. This was my mother's assumed way of "starting over" or whatever. I didn't mind the change, the yellow reminded me of the leaves.

He invites himself in after my subtle suggestion, "So how've you been? I haven't seen you in a couple days. Anything new?"

Dr. Scott had a terrible habit of following a question with an open-ended statement of his own perspective, something I'd recently perceived as a trait of arrogance.

"Not really," I tell him, my voice unsure and abrasive.

He snaps open his terrible briefcase in front of myself and sifts through various papers and citations, "Nothing happened at all? Hard to believe."

I exhale sharply, "Sorry."

He frowns mock-empathically, "Well that's too bad. I was hoping you'd somehow magically recover in those last couple of days. Unfortunately that's not how life works."