Unhinged √

16.

In the end we will remember not the words of our enemies but the silence of our friends
- Martin Luther King

       Everything that followed was a huge fuck fest. I was charged with attempted murder amidst other minor charges like driving under the influence. The gun was licensed so at least I wasn't charged for that.

Mrs. Summers, Meghan's mom never really liked me. She was intent on making sure I spent the rest of my miserable life in jail, not even sparing me the slightest detail about how Meghan was doing and I understood her.

Maybe it was the four bleak walls of a cell but eventually, my eyes opened to the fact that I was a disaster on two feet and everybody knew it, everyone could see it.

Ticking bomb. That is what the psychologist they had me see called me. Meghan's mom was dropping all charges, on the condition that I went to rehab for a year.

Getting away was a welcomed idea, even if it was to a mad house filled with people who didn't really care, it was better than jail. The facility was hours out of town, I wasn't even allowed to go home before that. I was transported straight down from the station.

     Everything was white and grey and once they concluded their tests on me, I was assigned to a therapist, a skinny, wrinkly black lady with bulging eyes and stretchy lips. I didn't like her. For the first week, she'd ask me questions that I just ignored.

"Why'd you drink so much?"
"The toxicology level in your blood is alarming".
I wouldn't have been there if it wasn't.
"What about the drugs? How are you coping with the withdrawal?"
I was going insane.

There were no mirrors in the bathroom, we ate with plastic forks, even the shaving razors were fucking plastic but that didn't stop me. The plastic chair in my room had been changed twice and the scratch marks down my arms were visible.

"I'm doing great". I'd always tell her and she'd sigh.

She never asked me why I had done it, why I'd shot my ex-girlfriend and it angered me. She looked at me with empty eyes that I'd have preferred were filled with hate, that too angered me.

Tyler had been laid to rest without me, probably loathing me too. I failed him, I couldn't avenge him, instead I shot a girl who had done so much for our family. Meghan Summers was family and I had hurt her, that was unforgivable.

     My psychologist gave up on me after two weeks of silence, forcing me into group therapy with sickly old men and weepy teenagers. Hearing their stories was mundanely entertaining. Everyone talked about regrets and hope for a better future.

That was the difference between me and them. I had no hope, no future, just deep-seated regret that didn't let me contribute at these meetings.

Most of the teenagers were friendly and the adults didn't have the judgy look of most parents and while that made me feel comfortable, it wasn't enough to open up to anybody.

    Two months. That is how long I stayed there without getting a visitor, not even a phone call. I had gotten used to being without the drinks and occasional drugs, getting into the act of a recovering addict.

I spent my days playing basketball with some of the other boys and girls, watching TV and reading monotonous books.

When a visitor finally came, I wasn't as enthusiastic as I'd thought I would be and when I saw the smiling face of my sister, I frowned.