Skinny Hips // Ashton Irwin

Prologue

I started working part-time in a local mental health group that took place in a youth center near my house purely for cash that I needed and didn't have. What I never meant to happen was to become emotionally invested in the group and the teenagers that attended it.

The youngest kid that attended the group was Alex Fleming, who was thirteen and tried to kill himself six times in the last year. He never spoke much.

The oldest was Annie Cathaway who was seventeen and never spoke at all; I had no idea why she was there, but damn, was she beautiful. For the entire two and a half months I had worked there she never spoke a word, until it had been officially her one year anniversary of being ill--she was told it was time she spoke up instead of paying to sit there and listen to other people's tragedies. 

My job, if the person was comfortable, was to be comforting. I sat next to kids when they cried and offered them bottles of water and asked them if they'd like to leave the room for a bit. People only ever accepted the water; and I got payed, so I didn't complain.

The kids sat in a circle in some really uncomfortable, grey chairs. There was about ten of them, and Tina and I sat with them.

Tina was the group instructor, and a pain in the neck. I never understood why any of these kids came here and listened to her talk about how she's there for you, and that everything will be okay soon. It was bullshit; these kids were sick and a lot of them weren't going to be put on some anti-depressants and be cured. Some of them were sick for life, and no amount of pills was going to completely fix them.

I, on the other hand, didn't pretend to remotely like being there. Each and everyone of them knew I hated sitting in those chairs and listening to their sob stories; it was depressing for everyone involved. I didn't try and convince these kids they're going to be okay soon, and there's rainbows after rain. 

When I got the chance to speak to them, I was real, though I really didn't give a crap.

It was after 10 whole weeks of working there and asking her to dinner that the girl who always wore trashy sweaters and hoodies and baggy sweat pants finally decided to speak up, and I was struck to say the least. By her words, and by her leggings.