Lock the Doors - Mattdock

Chapter One - I'm Not Going to Therapy

Pathetic.

That was the only thought going through my head at the moment, as the worn bottoms of my shoes slapped against the muddy ground.

I was short of breath, but I kept going until I reached my destination. When I got there, I sat down on a fallen tree from a storm some years ago, panting and trying to catch my breath.

As my breathing and heart rate was returning to normal, I heard footsteps.

"Go away, Lloyd," I told him without even having to look at him. He's the only one that comes here after me.

He's the only person who seemed to care about me after I spiraled into a pit of depression and suicidal thoughts.

My parents were always those happy, carefree people. So when I began distancing from them and acting different, they avoided me like I was a plague, because they just don't understand what's it's like to not want to try. To not want to get out of bed at 6:00 every morning. To not want to feel pain from nothing in particular. To not even want to fucking think because it causes unwanted thoughts in the process.

Lloyd'll let me rant to him, and he won't judge me. At least, I don't think he does. And I let Lloyd rant to me, because he voluntarily listens to my bullshit, and he bottles everything up until it's bursting at the seams to get out, like me.

"I'm not going anywhere. My favorite Converse are now covered in mud, so you owe me. Talk."

I sighed. "It was just some kids who saw me after school, nothi—"

"Who? What did they say?" he demanded.

"I don't know their names. But they were a bunch of preppy kids calling me insults. Nothing new," I reassured him.

He sighed. "Nick, you need to tell someone about this. Maybe a therap—"

"No."

"Please?"

"I'm not going to therapy."

"Why?"

"Because I'm a stubborn asshole."

"Well, I can agree with the stubbornness," he groaned. "But you really should talk to someone. Cherish goes to therapy (A/N: Lloyd's girlfriend IRL), and she told me that they help. Hey, we could even—"

"I'm not her," I told him.

"I know you're not her. But what I was going to say was that you could come with Cherish to one of her therapy sessions, to see if you change your mind," he smiled.

"Her mom paid for her to talk to someone, not another person. And we barely even know each other. Anyway, I can't even go to therapy, because it's expensive and I don't want to bother anyone. I don't want to talk to people who are being paid to listen to a white boy rant about his 'problems,' when he lives in a fucking first-world country. And who would pay for it? Our parents haven't even met each other, and I don't know if they'll pay for half each or what," I tried to explain.

"I know, Nick, but this is unhealthy! I don't want you to have any problems in the future because you're all closed up. It's just unhealthy."

"I never said it wasn't," I replied.