Addicted z.m

Chapter 38

Just wanted to say that 'Breakeven' by the Script is a great song that basically sums up this chapter.

Zayn's POV

I read somewhere that if you wanted to quit smoking cold turkey, three days is all it takes to be rid of the toxic sticks. The article said you just have to get over that three day hump and you're free. The man who wrote it suggested that everyone try this technique for any addiction.

Why I typed in "How to beat an addiction" instead of "How to get over a girl" in the browser, I have no idea. I guess I thought reading other people's struggles with alcoholism and drugs would be more helpful than pretty boys on YouTube telling some sob story about a girl they loved who cheated on them.

"Zayn," my mother's cautious voice spoke from the door. I closed the laptop at the sound of her approaching footsteps. She rubbed her hands on my shoulders. "How do ya feel?" she ask.

"Sore," I answered. "Depressed."

"Have you been doing your PT excercises?" she asked.

I nodded. "Before I hopped in the shower."

"Did you take your medication?" she asked.

"Right after I got out of the shower," I assured.

"Your appointment is in half an hour." I could tell by the tone in her voice that she was trying not to upset me or trigger any mood swings. "You about ready to go?"

I nodded. "I've just got to put my shoes on."

"Okay," she kissed my cheek. "I'll be in the car."

When she closed the door behind her I put my head down on the desk and sighed.

Everyday for the past month I've felt like an elephant is sitting on my chest. This is what I told my psychiatrist once every week when she asked the same opening question.

"How do you feel today?" she'd say with a smile.

This week she didn't ask that this time. Instead she looked at me with a strange kind of curiosity in her eye.

"How long did you know this girl?" she asked randomly after three minutes of silence.

"About six months," I tapped my fingers on the white cushioned chair.

"Well that's not very long," she observed.

"Yeah but we were...different."

She nodded, probably recalling the story I had told her on how we met and our whole relationship from there. I hadn't left out a single detail; not Michael, not about running throughout Europe, the break up, me leaving. I told her everything.

"Did you guys ever...get intimate?" she asked cautiously.

I nodded, trying to find something to do with my hands to distract myself.

"Do you play any instruments?" she randomly asked.

I shook my head.

"Do you have any talents?"

I swallowed down the lump in my throat. "I draw."

She smiled. "I can tell. Every time you come in here there's not a moment when your hands aren't moving. Do you keep a journal?"

I nodded.

"When was the last time you used it?"

"A few weeks before the incident."

"What did you draw?"

"Her..." I remembered the picture vividly. I don't think I could replicate it perfectly, but the scene that I drew... I sometimes find myself dreaming of that morning, just staring at her. That moment was nothing compared to the events of the night before, but that morning...I could never get it out of my head once I started thinking about it.