Thirteen-years-old, Connor Wolfhard, a considerate and magnanimous teen, trying to cope with the enslaved power of a merciless creature. With the abidance of detest, deep-rooted for his contentious mother, and intricate in an explosive concocted sto...
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C O N N O R
"You can't force me to go there!"
"Connor," Dad said, using his calm tone, once again.
"No, I don't want to go to some stupid therapist," I repeated my words, shaking my head, and sitting down on the bed.
Thibbault entered the room to make everything worse or more like speaking against me. "Trust me, it would help you."
"You, shut up!" I scowled at my eldest brother. For the first time in forever, I have talked to him in such a manner.
I feel uncertain about going to therapy but Dad is not getting anything and it's all fault of my traitor brothers. How mean could they get? They couldn't keep their mouth shut like it was very important to inform Dad how I had again cut my wrist.
I don't want to go and talk to a stranger about my feelings but no one is ready to understand that.
They wanted me to act like 'I would love to chat with a stranger about my innermost personal fears, feelings, and thoughts, and as a result, I find how exactly screwed up I am.'
"I have made an appointment. I have decided that you are going to talk to your therapist about your feelings and thoughts that are really causing you concern." He said sternly.
"Dad, I promise, I'll get better. I'll try to help myself but please don't make me go there."
Yes, I feel a lot out of living but it doesn't mean I need some therapy to help me. I'll desperately try to help myself if they would give me one last chance rather than making me attend therapy.
"I have noticed that you look worried a lot about almost everything. You are having trouble sleeping." He said softly, without the mention of my suicide attempt. "Maybe this is one of the things the therapist can help you with."
"You said, you won't force me!" I said loudly, getting close to tears.
"I'm not forcing you and don't think that crazy people go to therapists. It's about helping you, not being better or worse." He said, wrapping an arm around my shoulder and pulling me closer.
"Remember how you talked to the school counselor and found it helpful?" He asked.
That was before a Christmas break when I had an anxiety attack at school.
"A little bit and I have only told her the reason because firstly, I knew her. She is a nice lady. And secondly, she was being kind enough to me." I answered. He hummed in response, stroking my hair gently.
Would it really help me?
I decided to break the silence and said. "But I won't go if it doesn't make any progress."
"No one would send you then," Thibbault told me with a light chuckle.
Dad stood up and started walking out of the room when he stopped in his tracks and turned around to me. "Get ready. We have 30 minutes left." With that, he left.
