Until I Met You

2

I can't believe I have to go through more than a therapy session three days a week. Having to go through all this is simply torturing. This is the second or third session The therapist says the same speech every time we start and goes on until an hour has passed. If I was not told the reason I was allowed to continue living with my family members was that they thought therapy would help me, I would have left my three daily therapy sessions seven years ago.

This is ridiculous. The therapist has tried for more than five years to make me have a casual conversation with her but has only succeeded with one sentence, so I don't see why she doesn't give up already. She should know by now that I will not express to her my thoughts and feelings. That is what I must keep to myself and never tell anyone. They would simply call me crazy or psychopath.

No one else in my family truly knows when I harm myself or need someone to talk to. Talking to others and showing weakness is for weak people. I have to keep my emotions from showing and harming myself is the best way. No one sees the scars the cutting leaves and I'm grateful that my sleeves cover my entire arm.

Sometimes suicide sounds like a good option. I would escape from the bullies, therapy sessions, and my pestering family. I could kill myself but I need to continue finding a reason to live. My father's last words for me to never stop being happy and enjoying life. It has been ten years since he died and I miss him more than anyone else. I was there when they killed him. I saw the bullets go through his heart and watched as he fell to the ground, lifeless.

As I am deep in my thoughts, the therapist writes on her pen and I know she is about to finish her speech. Focusing on her words, I manage to catch the last words she says before writing once more on her pen. Good thing this ends in a few minutes.

" I'm just saying, ______________, that maybe you should start making friends. That is something that always helps people with depression."

" . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . "

" You've been coming to therapy since your father died, yet you barely speak with me, even ten years after of me being your therapist."

" . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ."

Looking at the ground, she sighs and shakes her head. I would have guessed she was used to this by now. Seven years of this and I would have hope she would be used to my rejection of talking much to her. Therapy can not help you move on and get over your father's death. Especially is you were beside him and saw how he fell on the ground and died a few minutes later.

" Fine, let's do the normal activities then. The sketching pad and the pencils are by your side so just go ahead and draw your emotions."

" .  .  . Okay . . . "

" Good. Sketch me something that represents how your day at school was today."

I grab the pencil carefully and look at the blank sheet of paper. I start letting the memories flow and soon have another usual drawing of a knife covered in blood. I show it to my therapist and hear a sigh coming from her. Another sound I am used to hearing and hate.

" You are one of the few people who hasn't tried suicide yet. I'm sure God will send an angel to bring you back to life. You have a life ahead of you and you only need the motivation to try to move on beyond the sadness."

The therapist shakes her head but I could care less. I told my mother I did not wish to continue therapy but she wouldn't listen to me.

" May I ask a question again, ___________?"

I shrug my shoulders and wait for her to ask her questions. I bet it is the same one she asks every time I come. I would answer but the answer she was looking for is not a good one.

" Why did you get depressed after . . . . well, after your father passed away? You have your mother and brothers and sister. They also miss him, you know. You can have their love and let that love start to heal you. Your father would want you to be happy."

" . . . . . . . . . . No . . . . . . . . . . ."

" I know you don't trust me yet but I'm trying my best to help you. I could use magic or a spell, but the first move to get over this sadness is being willing to move on. No one can help you if you aren't willing to help yourself first. "

" I know."

I turn to her and see her surprised yet happy expression. It must have been a surprise that I spoke more than the same two words.

" You said 'I know'?"

Maybe barely speaking is what has gotten me stuck with pills and years of therapy. If I manage to convince them that I am starting to get over the depression, then maybe they will stop thinking I need a lot of help.

Tricking the others has always been easy but why hide your feelings if they are sad? Sometimes it makes them think with a little love it will be alright. I wish they knew how it feels to lose a father and having to witness him being murdered by his best friends. I almost lost my life as well but at least I managed to start my revenge.

I will kill those who were left. I will murder them in front of their families and see how they understand it is painful for a daughter to see her dad die. Two have been killed and now I just need the remaining two. They will pay.

Focusing back to my target, I put on a small smile. As soon as she thinks I am opening up, which she shows by smiling wide and a tear rolling down her cheek, I lie.

" Well, I'm starting to trust you."

Ms. Rato is clearing happy and goes to writing down her notes. After two hours of questions and answers to only a few, she says that will be all for today. I nod and walk out the door. I walk toward the building exit and get inside the car.

I look out the window as we're heading back to the house.  I smile as I remember how easily the stupid therapist fell for my trap. Maybe I can trick my family as well. I mean, I could always trick them into believing that I was slowly getting better. And maybe I'm heartless for lying and playing with the feelings of my loved ones but it's better for them to think I'm healing than to know I'm simply manipulating them.