The Gravity of Us

Chapter 6 (Blake)

The rain beat a vicous song against the window. Drops of water that were once soft and comforting quickly morphed into aggressive bullets. The sky was stained an inky black, painting the illusion of night. Thick clouds swelled with anger. Scratchy whispers floated in the air as the unforgiving winds clawed at the city. Every so often, the storm would release its crescendo; a lightening strike so powerful, the building trembled.

It was violent, frustrated, solemn; the perfect mirror of my own emotions.

I felt like shit. Last night I didn't sleep. My mind was haunted by the events from the previous evening. I couldn't stop seeing her. The look of disappointment on her face when I told her I wasn't sure of my feelings, it was devastating. Her sadness was palpable. I should have done something, but in that moment I had felt helpless.

I never wanted to feel that useless again.

Unlcenching my fist, I tried to tame the storm inside me. But it continued to rage on.

I sighed, and dipped my head behind the black leather couch in order to watch the rain fall. 

"So Blake, how are you doing?"

I groaned.

Dr. Reynolds had been my therapist for years, he knew me better than my parents. His presence was always inviting, but I knew better; it was all a facade. He was a wolf in sheep's clothing, and he wore his costume well. Regardless of my reservations, I confessed my innermost secrets with him. But this time, something in the back of my mind was screaming at me to get out. 

As a kid, I had mad it my mission to successfully read people. I wanted to know who I could trust with my personal issues. It took a lot of practice, but I became damn good at it.

However, nothing could prepare me for Dr. Reynolds. He was the enigma I couldn't decipher. Always wearing a passive face, an unbreakable mask that conveyed absolutely nothing.

It was one of the reasons I didn't trust him. I didn't want to trust anyone whose paycheck got signed by my parents.

But my resistance was futile. On days like this, I really question if he chose the right profession. Dr. Reynold's ability to masquerade as someone who genuinely cared put him on the same level as con artists. He had a way to make you feel safe, as if one were perfectly protected within these four walls.

It was a trap, and I fell for it every time.

"Blake?"

When I looked up, his head was cocked to the side, confusion painted on his face.

"I'm meh," I replied.

"What's 'eh'," he snorted.

"Meh is the perfect balance between doing good and bad. I have a lot on my mind, but I feel indifferent towards it. Therefore, I'm meh."

"So you're doing alright," he grinned.

I rolled my eyes and scowled.

"What's going on?" He said, sounding genuinely concerned.

See what I mean? Manipulation in its entirety.

I didn't even fight this time. I was desperate, and overwhelmed with all different types of emotions.

The silence festered between us. He waited patiently as I struggled to force myself to tell the truth. It was unbearable. All that trauma, all of those emotions, all of those memories, locked within my mental safe. I felt my stomach turn as I began to peel those barriers away. With each one, I became more and more unstable. But I needed to tell someone. I needed someone to just listen.

My throat slowly began to betray me.

"Are you going to tell my parents?"

Dr. Reynolds paused for a minute and sighed.

"That depends. If it relates to you causing self-harm or attempting to fatally injure yourself, then I will be forced to breach patient confidentiality."

Well, I'll just have to rephrase everything...

"I want to die." It came out too fast, the words all jumbled together. However, he understood perfectly.

His pen scratched the paper as he scribbled whatever therapist jot down.

"Why?"

"I'm just so... exhausted," I replied defeated, "I have no future. I go to college because my parents want me to keep up appearances. Speaking of my parents, they're the ones keeping me alive. They're in denial about the fact that I'm not happy anymore; that I'm too young to decide when it's my time. But then again, what the fuck do I know? I've only been dealing with this for 21 years, no fucking biggie, right! They don't even care! All they have time to worry about is the illusion they force feed the public! Grant Masterson, a Colorado senator, and his beautiful wife Naya Masterson, a well-known lawyer."

I felt jittery. There was something about this anger. It tugged at my insides. It felt dangerous and wrong. I kept pacing in hopes of temporarily satifying the sizzling fire my emotions had become. But it was too late, I couldn't extinguish it.

"Oh! And lets not forget their three beautiful children: Blake, Sasha, and Levi. All healthy, and joyful. What a perfect family! Well guess the fuck what! That bullshit is all smoke and mirrors. Behind the scenes, their firstborn is suffering!" I don't know when I started, but I realized I was shouting. The stone walls encased the sound, and it seemed like my voice was coming from every direction.

It was a little better, releasing what I had been silent about for years. The anger was gone. I felt empty, but I didn't feel cured.

I slumped down into my seat.

"I know I'm sick," I said with my forehead in the palm of my hands, "I just wish they would admit it too."

It was obvious my outburst surprised him. Minutes passed and a sincere quietness settled between us. Maybe he was just taking time to process it all, or perhaps he was giving me time to regain my composure. I'll never know

"Blake," he commanded.

I looked up,  feeling more tired than when I first walked in.

"I'm going to prescribe some stronger antidepressants. I'm also going to talk to Dr. Anderson about the side effects of your other medications. In the meantime, I want you to talk to someone other than me, and just vent. Let go of everything and just talk to them, alright?"

I shook my head obediently, but it didn't matter. There was no going back now.

"I will see you again in two weeks."

"Alright, see ya doc."

And with that, I walked out.