Paparazzi || Luke Hemmings

Chapter 9:Sleeping issues

I've always been a bad sleeper, terrible even.

Here I was lying on my bed, for which seemed hours now.

I was tired after Noah had left this afternoon, tired, and emotionally drained from the party the previous night.

I just couldn't believe how Luke had lied to me like that.

I know he was drunk when he'd told me they'd broken up, but still.

He'd even lead me along.

He had given me his number, kissed my cheek, slept in the same bed with me for gods sake!

You don't just do all that with someone if you already have a girlfriend.

You just fucking don't.

I frustratingly pull at my hair, slamming my head against my pillow, willing myself to just fall asleep already.

For as long as I can remember, at night time when I was a kid, I'd toss and turn not being able to shut down, it seemed ever.

When I was around nine years old or so, my dad had taken me to a therapist, my insomnia had gotten so bad.

I remember being terribly worried, not knowing what the lady with chocolate brown hair and thick oval glasses would make me do.

My nine year old soul didn't understand why she'd keep asking me all these questions.

All these questions I didn't want to answer. Especially the ones about my mom.

Those were the worse kind.

The whole drive over to the therapist's office, my dad would reassure me that I'd be fine, she's only there to help me.

Then when we'd get to the office, I'd cry and whine for him not to leave me there alone.

Not to leave me alone with her.

She'd make me call her Mrs. T.

She never gave me her full last name, always insisting to just call her by that first initial.

That first T.

Soon after my father had left and driven away, she'd pull me into her private little office.

The office was surprisingly large.

It had tall ceilings, accompanied with ceiling fans that were always blowing round and round.

A spinny leather chair in which she always sat her wide figure down in, across from me.

And then a smaller table, where she'd always sit me down.

The first time I had to see her was okay, actually, but only for the first part.

She'd sat me down, placing a box of markers and a coloring pad in front of me.

"Draw your family." She'd told me in a stern voice.

So I did.

I drew nine year old me, brown braids complete with my loose teethed grin, accompanied by my favorite flowery yellow dress.

Next was my dad.

My daddy, tall with his dark brown hair and stubble, always wearing his Indianapolis Racing T-shirt.