Therapy (Jalex)

Session 6

Patient: Alexander William Gaskarth

Notes: very depressed, worse than before

-Dr. Bassam Barakat

-

"I'm so numb," I murmured, my fingers tracing my fading scars on my hips. "Everything has fallen apart."

The only reply I got was the whisper of the curtains moving with the air from the AC. The late summer sun penetrated my translucent curtains, casting a pale, eerie glow to my room. I sat in the folds of my comforter, thinking and speaking to no one in particular.

"But I don't understand what I did to deserve this," I sighed, picking at one of the fresher scars. It gave way, opening up a new wound. "I was never..."

I couldn't even finish the sentence before my heart started to break again. It felt like my chest was tearing in two, like everything I've ever known was being blown away in the wind. I couldn't stand it. Something had to be done. Everything I used to be was fading, disappearing. I was fading, disappearing. Soon, I would be drowned in everything, and that was something I didn't want to happen. I had been thrown in a deepening hole, and soon it would be impossible to pull myself out.

"But I can't feel anything good," I whispered to myself. My parents were out, thankfully. If they heard me talk to myself, I would be sent to the mental ward. "I don't know anymore."

I couldn't find a single thing that could make me feel better; I could only find distractions.

Maybe that was what I needed after all?

I knew nothing could ever entirely heal this wound, and I didn't know how to make it better, so maybe a distraction was the right way to go. I managed to shrug myself out of my bed and I crept downstairs, even though no one was home. It still felt like a crime. My slender fingers opened the cabinet in the dining room to reveal my father's collection of alcohol. I knew nothing about alcohol, besides the fact that Tom was addicted to it. I hesitated. Alcohol was one of the reasons that caused his death. Surely it wasn't a good idea to follow in his footsteps?

But I need this right now, I justified to myself. Or I think I might just have my own blood in my own hands.

My hands locked around a rather large bottle of vodka. The door to the cabinet slammed shut, and I ran upstairs with the stolen bottle. The door to my room locked behind me, and I cracked open the bottle with a bottle opener from Tom's room. It opened with a satisfying pop! and I eyed the drink warily.

"Distract me," I breathed before tipping the bottle towards my mouth.

The taste startled me, but I downed a large gulp anyways. It burned my insides like fire, and my adrenaline started to rush into my blood. I shuddered before sending more of the liquid down my throat. I swallowed mouthfuls of the vodka, and little by little my senses started to blur. The bitterness stained my tongue, and I gasped for air, placing the bottle onto my nightstand. My heart hurt, but I wasn't paying attention. The whole world was dizzying me, and I lay down, chuckling at my own expense.

"See, Tom," I muttered. "I can do it too."

I lay there, drunk, for a while before deciding to get some fresh air. Although I was tipsy, I did have enough sense to hide the vodka bottle. My parents would kill me.

I headed out the door, stumbling and tripping over my own feet. I walked about two blocks before totally breaking down. I staggered down an alleyway before my foot caught on a metal grate and I skidded on the hard pavement, my skin tearing on contact. I half laughed, half yelled in pain. My senses were barely working, so I ignored the injury and picked myself up. By now, the sun was setting and Towson was darkening. My knee gushed blood, and I swayed as I walked, knocking against walls and trees.

"Alex?!" I half turned to see a figure silhouetted against the light. "Oh my God, are you okay?" The figure rushed towards me, and I saw the face. It was Hilary. She was wearing a tight pink camisole with a plunging neckline, as usual, black booty shorts, and red heels.

"Come on, let's get you patched up." She took my hand and led me to her house. She gripped my wrist tightly, and we arrived at the doorstep of a small suburban Maryland home.

"Sit," she commanded me, pushing me into a kitchen chair when we got inside. I giggled before collapsing onto the wooden chair, splaying my limbs out.

"I'll need to clean your scrapes, so this might sting a little," she admitted, getting a bottle, a cotton ball, and a bandage from a cabinet. I nodded, not really knowing what was going on, and then she poured cold liquid onto my knee. I squealed in pain, flailing, but she held me down. Hilary dabbed at my knee a little before sticking them bandaid on.

"There we go, Lex," she murmured, her hand creeping up from my knee. My drunk mind couldn't interpret anything in this state but one word: fuck.

It didn't matter if I liked her, it didn't matter if I hated her. Maybe she could make me feel better.

"Follow me to my room?" she purred quietly, throwing her arms around my neck.

"Y-Yeah," I groaned, not able to process anything else.

"Good."