Therapy (Jalex)

Session 3

Patient: Alexander William Gaskarth

Notes: depressed, anxious, hallucinations of his brother

-Dr. Bassam Barakat

-

Here comes the rain again,

Falling from the stars,

Drenched in my pain again,

Becoming who we are.

As my memory rests

But never forgets what I lost,

Wake me up when September ends.

If this was still August, I would've sung. But Tom had died, and I felt like if I sang this song, the one I dedicated to him, I would break. So instead, I just thought the lyrics. A sense of relaxation overcame me. My fingers quivered over the guitar strings. Maybe Dr. Barakat was right. Maybe music would help me get better. That is what I wanted, right? To move on, leave Tom's death behind me.

I wanted to forget. Forget that any of this ever happened. But how do you forget something you're constantly reminded of? His pictures hung on the walls of the house, and whenever I did manage to become distracted, I excitedly checked my inbox to see if Tom updated me on his life.

On the life he ended.

The all-familiar pain in my chest started again. It spread upwards, my lip trembled, and suddenly, I was crying again. A tear rolled down my gaunt cheek. Another, three, four. The droplets cascaded off my thin face and dropped onto the wood of the guitar. I buried my face in my hands and my body caved over the instrument. Sobs racked my shoulders, and I bawled straight into the guitar, since I had no one else. My frail frame draped over the acoustic, and my twig arms wrapped around myself.

Tom was all I had before. When he left, I was devastated. When he died, I was broken. Even now, I was still trying to gain back the weight I lost after he passed away. I was still spindly and I looked anorexic. Partially because I kind of was for days.

As I sobbed, Tom's sharp voice cracked into my consciousness, breaking through the wall between fiction and reality. I hiccuped at the presence of my dead brother.

"Alex!" he barked, flashing me the stern, yet playful face I grew up with. "Don't be such a girl." The familiar British accent washed over me, and I cried even more.

"Man up!" he yowled. The very sight of him sent shudders down my back and tears down my face. But at his words, I straightened up, wanting to please him.

"Y-Yes, Tom," I whimpered at a figment of my imagination, back handing any falling tears and sniffing. "I'm sorry."

He grunted. "You're better than that, Alex," he said, shaking his head. "Live a full life. Don't forget where you belong."

"Will... Will you visit me more?" I glanced down at my hands, twiddling them. Silence. I looked up, expecting an answer, but Tom was gone. "Tom? Tom! Tom!" He didn't come back. I sighed, willing myself not to cry, and set my guitar back into the dusty corner of my room. Eventually, I would pick it back up, but not now. I couldn't.

"Alex?" My mother burst through my room door. "What's going on here?"

"Nothing, Mom," I said. She frowned.

"I heard you calling... your brother's name." She paused, as if saying his name was too painful to utter. "Are you alright?"

"Yes," I replied, shrugging. Mom eyed me warily before leaving. She probably thought I was crazy. I wouldn't blame her. I didn't know where my marbles lay myself. As of now, they were probably six feet under the ground with Tom.

I was alone, again.

My life has always been lonely. In England, I had friends, sure, but I was the third wheel. The outcast. Then, I moved to America, and I had to start over. For that first year, I ate in the bathroom. I spent recess under the slide, watching the other kids play tag and Pokémon. I made a few friends after that first year, but they liked girls and video games and sports. I had very little interest in the girls and I preferred music. My friends would always hang out together, and only sometimes I would tag along. Even then, they acted like I wasn't even there.

I had one girlfriend. Her name was Lisa. Last year, actually. I don't know why I dated her, I really don't. We were friends, and one day her friends told me she liked me. I thought she was pretty, so I asked her out. She said yes. But I knew nothing about how to act with girls. I lost interest and broke up with her after kissing her at the coffee shop. There weren't any sparks. She was a good friend of mine, but after I broke up with her, we drifted. Then Tom died, and I started homeschooling. And I was utterly alone again. I haven't talked to anyone my age in a while.

Except for that boy, Jack.

He was... different. But yet so typical.

He acted like life never happened. He didn't have the hardened edge most people had from tragedies that occurred to them. He was so full of life, so cheerful, so positive. I haven't seen someone so pure since my kindergarten days. He still had the sparkle in his eye, still had the air in his chatter. He radiated naivety and innocence. Could he really be that happy with life? It seemed like it.

But if I knew anything, I knew something dark lay underneath. There was no way someone who lived that long still thought life was a joyride.