Laws Of Floating

Chapter One

I HATE FRIDAYS. When I say this to other people, they look at me like I just told them I killed their cat. They say, "How in the world do you hate Fridays? They're the beginning of the weekend!" And then they always do this little dance without fail. I hate Fridays because Fridays...

Are therapy days.

"How are you feeling today, Elizabeth?" Dr. Andrews asks. 

"Good," I say just like always. I'm sitting in the familiar ugly, plaid love seat she decided was a good idea to put in her office for some reason. My eyes aren't on her, but on the many posters that are plastered on the walls behind her, all with "encouraging" quotes. Hang in there, baby! Live, love, laugh! If you don't try, you'll never know. Live life to the fullest. The depressing gray walls clash with the colorful pieces of paper, and I turn away. 

"Is there anything you'd like to say before we get started?" She asks, going through her entire script before the actual sessions starts. 

"Nope." I say as little as possible, hoping the conversation will be as short as possible. I hate my therapy sessions. They just give another reason as to how I'm not like the other kids, and probably never will be. Unless my cancer decides it's done with me. Deep down, I know that won't happen. Everyone else knows it too, but yet, I'm still here talking with a "trained professional" about how I'm going to be OK, and that it's alright to feel depressed about dying but that I should know that I'm a fighter, and I shouldn't worry about that now. 

Except, I'm not depressed about dying. I know I'm gonna die, and sadly I'm kind of ready to. It'll get me away from this hell-hole. I guess it's the fact of the way I'm dying: slowly but surely without anyway to stop it.

Dr. Andrews presses her lips in a thin line. "Well, let's get started with the session then shall we?" She goes through her usual questions. How much have I eaten? Am I getting a good night's rest? Am I getting enough fresh air? 

I answer as I always do. Enough. Lie. Yep. Lie. Totally. Lie. 

"Elizabeth, you know it's ok to not be ok, right?" Dr. Andrews asks gently. She leans forward, her eyes studying me as if she will get an answer from me without me even saying anything. I hate this part. Where they act like I'm this sick girl who doesn't know how to fend for herself.

"Yeah. Your point?" I keep my arms crossed over my sweatshirt.

She sighs. "I just want you to know that this is a free space. You're allowed to say anything here. If you don't want me to tell your parents, I won't. I just want to help you." 

That's what everyone says. They just want to help. But this is a lie. If they did they'd leave me alone. In reality, they just want money for the illusion of helping, when all they're doing is making kids worse.

I bite my lip. "Is this thing almost over?" I spit. 

She sits back in her chair. Her pen is tapping away at her clipboard, itching to write a breakthrough with her unbreakable patient. If I say something, this will spiral into something much more than it needs to be. So I say nothing.

"We still have 15 minutes." I get up without looking at Dr. Andrews and make my way to the coloring books she has. I haven't touched them since I first started coming here 3 years ago, but right now I just start coloring without looking at her to make a point. I'm tired of talking. I want her to know that. I spend the rest of the 15 minutes there. Dr. Andrews didn't press me any further. We left it at that. I grab my bag and walk out of the room. She says bye to me but I don't answer. 

Dad's waiting for me outside in the bug truck. Dad is an exterminator, and loves his truck. The truck features a large beetle on the top, and bugs painted all on the sides. The company name "Brady's Bugs" is painted in bold letters above the collage of creepy-crawlies. Dad's been working for his best friend for 10 years now. They both love bugs for some... strange, strange reason. Pretty ironic considering they kill them.