Therapy (Jalex)

Session 9

Patient: Alexander William Gaskarth

Notes: opening up a little more, but still pretty guarded and sensitive

-Dr. Bassam Barakat

-

I plopped back on my bed. As soon as I did, a wave of my old feelings rushed at me. The hatred, the depression, the whirlpool of faithlessness. My stomach became Tartarus, and the old numbness set in, clogging my arteries. I cocked my head, confused.

It's like when I hang out with Jack, I forget how I'm supposed to be feeling, I thought. But when I'm without him, I feel sad again. Why?

What did Jack have that made me feel different?

My eyes swept across the room and trained on my old guitar in the corner, abandoned but still shining in the faint sunlight. On impulse, I picked it up and started playing Wake Me Up When September Ends. Maybe I could sing now, for some reason. Maybe I could do it, because I met Jack. Maybe I could, because he took me away from my feelings.

"Summ-" I stopped cold. I couldn't do it. I couldn't make myself do it. Too many memories were associated with Wake Me Up When September Ends. Tom loved that song, and he was the one who taught me it on guitar. It would be blaring from his room all the time. And it was just too appropriate that he passed away in September.

Jack had changed nothing.

"I wish I could write you a song that you would love," I pined. "I wish I could sing it to you. You had a great voice, Tom."

"Remember when you used to sing me to sleep?" I asked the ceiling. "When I was little, and we were back in Britain? Those were my favorite memories, Tom. My favorite."

I didn't even notice the tears streaking down my face as I spoke to my imagination. "I... I wish you could sing me to sleep again, like when I was little."

"I wish... that I could tell you everything I feel right now, but I can't." I inhaled sharply, curling up over the guitar to cry. "I-I wish I had a song for this, because I can't think of one that we would both like."

"Then write one." I jumped up, startled. I was face to face with the hallucination of my brother again. He looked the same as he did the last time I saw him, and he still had that permanent glint in his eye. My brother was back.

"Tom?" I gasped, my voice breaking at the end. "Where have you been?"

"Six feet under, clearly," he stated bluntly, causing me to frown. He cleared his throat. "But the point is, write one. Write a song about everything you feel that we would both like. You know what music I like, right?"

"Yeah," I murmured, smiling a little. "We like the same kind of music."

"So write your song. Whenever you play it, I'll be listening."

"Promise?" I whimpered, glancing down at the six strings of my guitar, trying to form a chord pattern in my head. No answer. I looked up, and the hallucination was gone. A dark feeling settled in, like lead was filling up my heart.

"Tom..." I sighed, looking up at the ceiling again. "This song will be for you."