One
Breathe. I couldn't breath. The room was so stuffy, the windows weren't cracked, and hot sunlight burned the back of my neck through a window. Don't they have AC? These fucking people have everything to diagnose me, but no AC. Figures.
Intermittent explosive disorder, or IED. That was my diagnosis. In English, that means I have anger issues. As if I didn't know that already, but I suppose they have all the right in the world to "analyze" me.
"If you don't take your medication, you will keep experiencing these thoughts, Mr. Styles," I asked the doctor to call me Harry. I asked him about 35 god damn times. What doesn't he get about that? "Mr.--"
"Yeah, I fucking-- I got it. Take my meds once every morning with an 8 oz glass of water. I got it," I clenched my jaw so tightly I thought it would break. He's just testing me, pushing the buttons he knew set me off. It made me feel naked, like my privacy was invaded. He had the upper hand, and I couldn't stand being submissive. This asshole knew that, too.
"I know things have been difficult lately," he started, but I wasn't going to let him finish.
"The schedule says I'm here til 1:45. If you would kindly turn your attention to the clock instead of me for just a moment, you'd see we're 3 minutes overdue." I began standing up, and he politely did the same.
"This is our last visit. You're free after today. Heading off to America, is that correct?" He knew everything about me, of course. Gemma always kept him updated. I stiffly nodded, and kept walking forward. "Harry," That made me stop and turn. Finally.
"Good luck in your journey. We will be sending the prescription to the closet pharmaceutical you have over there." My anger told me to flip him off, but I knew better.
"Thanks," my tone was flat, unwelcoming, and a little rude, but Dr. Prett didn't give a shit. It was enough for him to smile, and I would do anything to get the hell out of there. If it meant a stupid, empty thanks, he'd get it.
I got to my apartment, hoping for silence, but I knew right when I saw Gemma's car, silence was the last thing I was getting. I hadn't even closed the door behind me when she started.
"So I got most of it packed-- your books I mean, but I know there are more. Your sheets are cleaned, folded, and already to go. I know you don't like when I go into your room, but I did anyway and started in your closet. It was just so unorganized I had to move on. Then I went to your kitchen--"
"You know I hate when you go through my stuff," I was annoyed and she knew it, but she didn't care.
"Relax. I didn't find anything juicy anyways. Apparently, my brother is just as boring as I am," her hair was tied up, sweat beading her forehead. I always meant to get an AC in my television room, but it was too late now. I was moving in 2 days.
"You're wrong," I sighed, sitting on the couch. "I have anger issues, so I'm not as boring."
"No, I guess not. Just more of an asshole." She sat beside me. I knew this mess around us made her on edge, but I was glad she took a break. She hadn't taken one of those for a while.
I chuckled in response, looking over at her. Gemma was staring at her stomach with a look on her face that was hard to decipher. It looked as though she was between crying and smiling, but I knew there was a deeper emotion in there somewhere.
Unlike me, Gemma wasn't used to keeping her feelings and emotions bottled inside her. She had no reason to, she told me once. I just scoffed, not admitting to her how strong she was. Our childhood wasn't pretty, and while it scarred me, Gem didn't let it affect her. I would never admit to anyone how much I looked up to my younger sister for that. But now, things were different. She was more on guard of her heart, of how she felt. It was as if she was slowly becoming me, but I knew Gemma. She would never allow herself to be as deep as me in the "my life sucks" game, no matter how much she deserved to. Anyone looking from the outside would laugh at us. The Style's children -- Their father, Dez Styles, a very wealthy businessman and a well known name with his beautiful and supportive wife, Anne. If anything, they'd feel bad for our parents. They had a juvenile 20 year old son and now, a knocked up 19 year old daughter. But they don't know anything about our family.
"You know, you don't need to keep it," I sounded as heartless as I could, but even I couldn't be emotionless in front of my sister. Not like this.
"I know I'm not forced to keep it," she leaned her head on the cushion behind her. "But I feel obligated to. This is my job-- at least to me it is."
"Well you're naive," I tried hard to keep my voice down. Whenever we had these conversations, she'd storm out, and while usually it took a small I'm sorry, I knew I would be leaving in just a few days. Every moment counted. She glared at me with a look that said Don't pretend like you understand and I sighed in defeat. She was right on that one, I had no idea. "I can stay-"
"No, absolutely not. I won't even let the thought marinate in your head. You're going to America, you're living with Aunt May, and you're finishing school. There is nothing left here for you, Harry."
"There's you-" I could speak a full sentence without her butting in.
"The only thing I want from you is to leave here. Please. It will be great for you. These roads, they are filled with your ghosts. These walls are echoes of horrible times, just like this town. Please. The only thing I need you to do is be free. Find yourself somewhere that doesn't have your name inked into it already." My silence was her answer enough. I could have fought back, but there was no point. My summer job was over, I didn't have one for the rest of the year, and I would have no way to pay for the apartment.
"Now," Gemma stood up, turning to face me. "I say divide an' conquer. You take upstairs and I finish down here?"
"Or you just do it all?" She didn't wait for an answer before she started packing things in boxes again. For a few moments I was lost in my own mind, until her voice brought me back.
"Do you want me to pack this?" I read her eyes before I even looked to see what she was talking about. I already knew what was in her hands, yet I looked anyway. There were 2 journal's, leather and used. Both were closed, their strings around them tied tightly. On top of that was something she must have placed with them-- an old CD of mine she must have found in my room of me playing. I let the anger wash away before I let it drown me.
"Leave them," were the only two words I said, making my way to the fridge. She stood, defeated, but we both knew it was a long shot.
