Our Pact

Chapter 1: "Therapized"

How are you doing so far?" She asked impatiently with a kind tone.

"What do you think?" I managed to grumble back. "It's the anniversary of her-" I stopped myself. I knew if I said the word, it would force me to add another tally to the paper I've been carrying around. The first tally was at 12 sharp. I stayed up, like some drunks on New Years Eve or a kid waiting happily for his birthday to come in exactly a minute. Then, I added another as I cried myself to sleep, knowing that I would come to this office first thing in the morning. Waking up 2 hours later, eyes filled with crust. But that problem was solved very soon. Tally number 3. Facebook memorial posted at 7:23 AM. Tally number 4.

You might think it's dumb. Tallying up the number of times I cry the day me and random people who just so happen to see a post about her while scrolling remember her. I'd see things like, "instead of mourning this poor girl's death, we need to celebrate her life!", or even "Rest in peace 😔 taken from us too soon."

Us. One of the 3 words I hate. Along with funeral and life support. "Taken from us" She was taken from me, she knew none of the people posting about her. And pictures of her smiling or doing some hard work at a homeless shelter with some random emojis next to it is just a poor reminder that I won't wake up to 374 unread messages about her panicking over what she should wear to her interview. I should've responded. Because, not 2 and a half hours later, it happened. No last words, no calling her and telling her to calm down while holding in my laugh. None. Just a news story, driving through traffic as fast as I could, rushing to the emergency room, "Family only" "I'm her husband" (a lie. Well, sort of.) and seeing her sitting there struggling to breathe while what I saw was hundreds of tubes stuck inside of her carelessly as the beeping of the monitor slowed to a long and loud pitch, slightly covering the muffled sobs, and rushing nurses and doctors.

"It's been 3 years." She spoke softly. "You need to move on."

She's been so kind to me. I didn't want my firing rage to unfold on her. And I didn't want her to see my frustrated and wet face. Yup. I forgot. I took out my pen and drew a crooked line on the paper as it filled with a salty sea of my tears. As I was wiping my eyes, I saw the permanent marker on the pen. It's been wiped away through the years, but I still remember what it said. "To my sun and stars". I exhaled annoyingly as I realized, tally number 36 on its way. It was a Game of Thrones reference. Our favorite show. It was what Danerys Targaryen replied with to her lover, Khal Drogo when he called her "moon of my life." It was also what she said to him, right before suffocating him, knowing his condition of being a vegetable was not living. She made me the pen on my first day of class as a good luck token. Now, I sit here mourning her death with it.
   And if you've been paying attention, tally number 37 has been added, since I just spoke the forbidden word. Death

"Alex. Did you hear me?"

I looked up to her with tears streaming down my face and my ears bright red. And don't worry, the tears are still from tally number 37, from when I said—. Sorry. Had to stop myself again.
"You know Dina hated therapists?" I mumble. "She thought they were no help and too self-acclaimed. And I gotta say...right now, I'm agreeing with her. "

"Alex. Don't do something you'll reg-" I cut her off. Sorry, I forgot to mention, there were four words I hated. Regret.

"I'm leaving." But before I could grab my stuff, my bravery mixed with my frustration caused me to yank the pen out of my pocket, clicking its dark color into existence and drawing a sputtered and deformed line.

"38." I told her. "Tally number 38."

I heard a long sigh and a thud of a note pad thrown on the floor as I walked out of her office. She'll tell me what I'm doing isn't healthy, I need to move on. But she doesn't understand the hurt I do. She's not fit to therapize me. (I know that's not a word but leave me alone).

I held my hand up high as the wind dried up the tears on my cheeks hardening them into shells. The bright yellow blur came to a screeching halt with its rattling screws and bolts and interval sputters.

"7305 Orchid Lane" I told the driver in a hurry.

I've never thought of how the words just flow out of my mouth. Without saying a word, the driver handed me a box of tissues. I thanked him for it and tended to my wet face. I can't believe I just walked out on my therapist. For once since the accident, I did something right.

A few minutes into the ride, I started breathing anxiously. I cursed myself for being so careless. My wallet. Looking from my empty pocket to the "$5.67" increasing quickly made me start hyperventilating. A migraine formed slowly as the cold air from the crack of the window blew onto my face. I reached for the handle as I improvised my plan to esca--

"Stop." I looked to the driver with the look of confusion splattered across my face. How could he have said that? Could it just be a nasal voice? His eyes were focused on the road as I quickly came to the realization that it wasn't the driver, radio, or another passenger. It was her.