AN: Well. I pumped out a new one. This idea has been on my mind lately, so I decided to go for it. It takes place about three months after season seven. I know I have one sort of like this, except this one is very different. This is kind of a short chapter, but its to get the ball rolling…Reviews…well they're nice, now aren't they?
"Have you ever felt you needed to cut down on your drinking?" He asked me, peering over the top of his glasses.
"My rule of life prescribed as an absolutely sacred rite smoking cigars and also the drinking of alcohol before, after and if need be during all meals and in the intervals between them." I said plainly staring at the ceiling.
"Winston Churchill…again. Will I ever hear from you, Logan?"
I continued my game of a staring match with the ceiling.
"Have people annoyed you by criticizing your drinking?"
"Well, no one's ever dubbed me and Oliver Reed."
"So, you aren't overly criticized for your drinking?"
He pried, and I was winning the staring match.
"Have you ever felt guilty about your drinking?"
"A woman drove me to drink, and I never had the courtesy to thank her."
"So…W.C. Fields. I'm taking these quotes as how you feel Logan."
Neither of us was blinking, the ceiling put up a fair fight.
"Have you ever felt you needed a drink first thing in the morning. An eye-opener to steady your nerves or to get rid of a hangover?"
"The only cure for a real hangover is death."
"And there's Robert Benchley. Now that we have the quotes of iconic drinkers…why don't you tell me about that last quote? What does that mean to you?"
I stayed in my position. The only thing keeping me from lashing out was my contest with the ceiling. If he had wanted me to say anything, he should have known better than to CAGE me. Cut down, annoy, guilt, eye-opener. I knew this tactic backwards and forwards. My own mother had once tried this on me, with fewer results than my therapist.
I had learned when it came to therapists, and paid by the hour sessions, quoting dead people was a real crowd pleaser.
"Your father pays for these sessions, Logan."
Don't break your stare.
"I'm sure he'd like you to make progress."
Don't say it.
"I hope you know he cares."
Shit. He crossed the line.
"Frankly, my father doesn't give two shits about me, Dr. Reed."
Great, I had caved. I had opened Pandora's box.
"And why is that, Logan?"
Stare. Just keep staring.
"You've already let it slip about your father, what's stopping you now?"
Don't break.
He sighed, setting his notepad and pen down. "I believe what little progress we made, is all we will for today." I rose from the leather couch and walked out the door, bidding neither the ceiling, nor my therapist goodbye.
I drove, the short distance back to my father's house. I think the only reason I was allowed to take the car was because of the short drive.
I entered the foyer, placed the keys in the same dish, on the same table I had for three months now. I hung my coat on the same nub on the same coat rack. I once again shuffled down the same silent hallway, to the same dark room. I fell on the same unmade bed, and fell into the same depressing sleep.
"Logan, honey…" I jumped at the hand on my shoulder. It was just her, I thought sadly.
"I'm not hungry." I turned the other cheek, and pushed my head into the pillow, avoiding her.
"I wish you would eat…"
I wish I could eat.
"Your dad really is worried about you."
Like I hadn't heard that everyday since the beginning.
"So that's why he pulls twice the workload now."
She rubbed my arm, in an almost motherly way. "You know that he throws himself into his work when he's upset."
"If he were really concerned and worried, like you say, he wouldn't have started any of this to begin with."
"He had to. You were throwing- "
"Throwing my life away? I get that from him, I don't need that from you, mother."
"We're just worried about you, Logan." She smoothed my ruffled hair down and kissed it. She only acted like this when I was sick.
As she closed the door I returned to my original position. Lying on my back, staring at the ceiling.
I just kept thinking had I gone to California I would never be in this situation. If I hadn't spent the days after graduation becoming a drunken mess, I wouldn't be here. If Colin didn't have to pick me up from the floor, I wouldn't be here. If I hadn't been prescribed Alprazolam with my father's coaxing I wouldn't be here.
My mind was so full of "what ifs" right now I couldn't bring myself to think about the "right nows". I couldn't think about how my mother had socially exiled herself, developing depression much like my own. I couldn't think about my father not coming home until three, no longer taking Sundays off, because he was worried and "threw" himself into his work. I couldn't think about a family full of people wondering what prompted me to do what I did, wondering if it was on purpose. When in fact, it was a mistake.
But the one thing I couldn't bear to think about was the life I had left behind the past couple of months. And the person.