therapy | m.c

two

therapy? my mother believed that i needed therapy, two years after i killed mali-koa? two, tiring years of grief, and two years of people giving me death filled glares. there was no point in me seeing a counsellor, more than likely a middle aged woman, who would talk too me 'about my feelings.'

i didn't want to tell anyone what i felt inside, there was nothing anyway, just black. a black soul, that controlled my body. i hadn't been too school in nine months, i hated the way people treated me there. just because i killed someone, when in reality, it was by accident, it was a mistake obviously. i didn't mean too kill my girlfriend, and calum now hated my living guts. if i walked anywhere near him, he would beat me up; and i figured it would be like that for the rest of our lives.

therapy is just a little meeting to tell me, to grow up, get over the fact i killed someone, and move on. and that sounds harsh; yeah it really is. even the leaflet just said 'therapy: treatment intended to relieve or heal a disorder.'

however the therapy my mother was sending me too, was almost rehab, if you like. i would spend a day or two a week, sleeping there. they would monitor me, and watch for any other signs e.g depression, eating disorders or things like schzioprenia. which i knew i didn't have, not as of yet anyway.

the sessions were due to start that day, and for the first time i would only be there 2 hours, just to get used to the environment.

"chin up, michael. you need to start making your life better." my mother smiled, as she drove us to the, 'westwood rehabilitation centre.'

we pulled up outside, and everything was so bright. did no-one like the colour black? ugh. the doors were all different, matching colours, the carpets paterned, and odd drawings lining the walls.

i was in a youth rehab centre, as i wasn't 21, yet. so teenagers from ages 13+ would be all over the place. we walked in, a woman showing me to the dorm i would sleep in.

my mother followed me inside, as the receptionist left. i looked around the place, uninterested. there was a small bed, tv, washroom, and some draws.

"you'll be fine michael, see theres a plug socket for your phone charger." she giggled.

"mum, its not funny. i don't wanna be here." i groaned, kicking the end of the bed.

"well tough. you aren't an adult for another year, so that means i make your decisions, now c'mon we're having a tour around this place."

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- beth