Therapy - A Larry Stylinson AU

1. Group Therapy

Louis's PoV

            I shot up out of bed, sweat dripping from my forehead in beads, hair drenched as I woke up from my nightmare. I didn’t scream in my sleep, as I had trained myself not to long ago, but I did scream in my nightmare. I wish I’d have stayed asleep though, even if I didn’t have the best dream. It was better than waking up.

            Waking up to my life was like waking up to…to a nightmare itself. I won’t explain why. When you read this, you’ll say, ‘your life is pretty good, Louis. Don’t complain; other people have it worse’.

            Don’t expect me to argue. I know other people have it worse; however, saying ‘don’t be sad; other people have it worse’ is like saying ‘don’t be happy; other people have it better.’

            As I was saying, I don’t want to hear that I shouldn’t complain. I don’t want to know how bad other people’s lives are. I don’t want your sympathy either. What I want is to be able to reverse time and simply remove my birth. It’s better for everyone that I had not been born at all. I don’t want to die; I know my mother would blame herself endlessly. I just don’t want to live, either.

            You know that feeling where you just don’t…know what to do anymore? You just kinda feel…alone. That’s exactly what I feel. I can’t tell you why; it would hurt too much. Instead, I will do what I always do every day; hide it.

           

            I sat up, ignoring my body’s protests and screams to lie back down. I have to get up. I don’t have to go to school, as it is the middle of June. I have to go somewhere much worse than school: group therapy. Group therapy is, to put it simply, hell, only without the pleasure of being able to do whatever you want.

            My daily routine is to get up, get dressed, ignore my mom telling me to eat, run to group therapy, bore myself to death there for two hours, and then run home. Yes, I run everywhere. It’s not because I can’t drive or we don’t have a car. It’s because I love running, it’s a great stress reliever, and I’m fat so I need to get into shape. I’ve run everywhere since I was thirteen when…my life was first ruined.

            Anyway, I got up and got dressed. My outfit was quite average for a 17-year-old depressed boy who is going to group therapy. It was a pair of black, ripped skinny jeans, a black tee, and black and white converse. The tee had ‘Destroy yourself; see who gives a fuck’ written on it. It was my favorite shirt. My mum hated it.

            I skipped down the stairs, trying to sound as if I was cheerful and happy to go to therapy. The truth was that I only masked this attitude for the sake of my mum. She had enough on her plate; she didn’t need more.

            “Hey, Mum,” I said, kissing her cheek. She smiled.

            “Hello, dear, did you get laid by any boys last night?” she asked. Don’t ask. She’s weird like that.

            “Um, no, I didn’t.”

            She offered me a look of sympathy as she scrubbed the pan from breakfast this morning, “That’s a shame. I would love if you made little gay babies.”

            “Mum, I can’t get pregnant; I have a dick,” I explained, cringing at the word pregnant. I don’t know why, but I’ve always hated that word.

           She shrugged indifferently and went back to scrubbing the pan. I shook my head. I will never understand that woman.

            “You have to leave in about 20 minutes so eat breakfast,” Mum ordered. I nodded, even though I knew I wouldn’t eat it. If it made her happy, I’d fake eating.