Fragile

"She's dead because of you," my father slurred, his words slicing through the thick air of my bedroom as he braced himself against the doorway. 

It was the first time he had spoken those words aloud, the first time I couldn't deny the searing hatred burning in his eyes. I had thought that those looks were just the by-product of losing my mother and nothing more. However, now, I know differently. My father didn't hate God for taking away my mother; he hated God for keeping me alive in her place instead.

"You're drunk," I replied, the word 'again' hanging unspoken between us, heavy with its truth. Yet, it wasn't his drunkenness that tore at me—it was the realization that his shattered state was my doing.

"When is Sam supposed to be back?" he suddenly asked, catching me off guard. I glanced at the clock, its digital numbers glaring red in the dim room.

"Not for another hour... Why?" I asked cautiously, uncertainty knotting my stomach.

His smile was sudden, but it wasn't the warm grin of the father who once lifted me onto his shoulders. This smile was brittle, a facade barely masking deeper pain—a smile I would later understand as a harbinger of my darkest moments.

A smile that would haunt me long after the echoes of his words had faded.

Chapter One

I snorted derisively, tossing the self-help book I had been reading back onto the therapist's desk. It landed with a thud, a fitting end to its useless advice. Dr. Wilson raised an eyebrow at my reaction, unfazed by my evident disdain.

"So I take it that group therapy wasn't a success?" he prodded, his tone neutral but expectant.

I rolled my eyes, leaning back in the chair with exaggerated nonchalance. "Let's just say it was about as helpful as that book," I muttered, gesturing dismissively at the offending volume. "But I'm sure you already knew I'd hate it."

"Group therapy can be less structured than one-on-one sessions," he offered calmly, ignoring my attempt at sarcasm. His eyes were sharp, assessing as if trying to unravel the layers of my resistance.

"Dean, you have control issues," he continued, and I scoffed at the diagnosis.

"That's a bold assumption from a guy who's known me for all of four sessions," I retorted, crossing my arms defiantly.

"All four sessions that you were late for," he pointed out, his voice tinged with a hint of admonishment. He moved to retrieve a journal from his desk, and I eyed him warily.

"You got 'control issues' from tardiness?" I asked incredulously, a smirk playing on my lips.

"You're the one who picked the schedule," he replied dryly, flipping through the journal. "Now, unless you want me to recommend another group therapist, I suggest you sit down," he suggested firmly, gesturing towards the chair opposite his desk.

I rolled my eyes dramatically but complied, slumping into the worn leather with exaggerated reluctance. It creaked under my weight as if it too were protesting against my being here. Dr. Wilson settled back into his own chair, fingers tapping thoughtfully on the armrest.

He consulted his notes. "Let's revisit Sam," he suggested gently, his pen poised over the journal.

I sighed heavily, my reluctance evident. "Can we not?"

"He seems to be a significant part of why you're here," Dr. Wilson probed delicately.  

"He is the only reason why I'm here," I huffed, annoyance in my words.