Story now beta'd by TalkJerseyToMe
A/N: Short chaptered story. Only so I can update more frequently. As I said previously...other story is on hold for now. I'm only posting this here. When it is done it will be posted to ao3 as a long one shot. This story is a lot more innocent in nature. Enjoy.
Summary: Craig is assigned a therapist in 5th grade. He sees her every other Thursday until he is in his Sophmore year of highschool. On the eve of his birthday, his sessions are cut to once a month and he is told to start attending a support group. There, he bumps into a familiar face. An unlikely friendship forms.
There's a man assigned to me,
And he checks on my stability,
We discuss you every week,
Then I rinse and rinse, repeat
5th grade was the year that Craig had flipped off too many people; had landed himself in detention one too many times. He had become the epitome of a 'troubled child' in South Park. So finally, after being sent to Mr. Mackey's office for the upteenth time that year, his parents were contacted. That wasn't unusual. Mr. Mackey let out a sigh upon his entrance to the office, which was not unusual, either. What was unusual, however, was the sizeable file on his desk. It was also unusual that Craig's father was holding his mother, stroking down her blond hair. She seemed to be in tears, and Craig felt a bit of anxiety bubble in his stomach at the sight.
"Craig, sit down please, m'kay." Mr. Mackey instructed as he motioned to the empty seat next to the ones Craig's parents were huddled in. Craig complied, and his half lidded eyes fell on the older male. Mr. Mackey flipped open the file, seemed to dig around for something specific, and Craig watched him quietly.
"Did I do something wrong?" he inquired. He knew he usually got called in because, admittedly, he did seem to piss people off. Though, in that incident, he had just been randomly called out of class.
Maybe he was finally getting in trouble for what he did the week prior. It was a distant blur in his mind; something about homework and only filling in half of the answers, resulting in a raised middle finger, denial of said raising of the offending digit, and a heavy sigh from his fifth grade teacher.
"Not exactly, m'kay." the older man replied tentatively as if he was trying to pick out the correct words. Craig's mother let out a sniffle, and his father kept an unreadable expression on his face. Craig let his eyes flick to the corner and scan them over before allowing his gaze to rest on Mr. Mackey's tensed form.
"Then why am I here?" he questioned dryly. Mr. Mackey looked to his parents and then back at him.
"Well, it's been decided that you should seek some help outside of my office." he started, eyebrows raised ever so slightly. Craig's expression remained stoic, and he waited for him to continue, unsure of where exactly Mr. Mackey was going with that statement.
"Do you know what he's saying, Craig?" Laura, his mother asked, voice equally as nasal as Craig's. She knew her son far too well, and, as she looked at him, she was already sure of the answer.
"No." he stated blatantly, tone apathetic and level. Mrs. Tucker kept her mouth closed, having previously decided to let the school psychiatrist bring the news to her son. Her husband kept his thoughts reserved as well, remaining silent the entire time. Craig was definitely his offspring, even if they didn't have similar features.
"It's been decided that you should start seeing a therapist," Mr. Mackey rephrased gently. Craig raised his chin, and his lips parted slightly as he looked to his parents, eyes glued to them. His exhaustion was evident in his abyssal, obsidian, and after a moment, his tired gaze fell back on Mr. Mackey.
"Why?" he inquired.
The adults looked to him, and Mr. Mackey stood, making his way over to the display of pamphlets. The elder male hummed an off-key tune as he navigated through the various headings. Finally, he pulled out a packet that was bright in color and lifted it to Craig and his parents before he took a seat. Craig's eyes roamed the title, registering that it was something about troubled youth. Mr. Mackey went into a repetitive explanation about how the staff was worried about his behavior; his apathy, his stone-cold demeanor. Craig listened with his default, blank expression while Laura and Thomas Tucker sat quietly and watched their son take in the information.
As Mr. Mackey's explanation came to a close, he slid the brochure over to Craig, who merely glanced down at it and then back up at Mr. Mackey.
"Is this okay with you, Craig?" he asked, though it was obvious that the youth would not have much of a say in the manner. Craig simply blinked, mouth a straight line.
"Whatever." he said flatly.
Mr. Mackey smiled in satisfaction at Craig and his parents, quickly dismissing them, and shaking the older Tuckers' hands. Craig was sent back to class, and he quietly slipped the door open, returning to his seat.
There wasn't a big outburst of 'ooh's, 'Craig got in trouble,' or questioning. No one even spared him a glance. It was just normal; everything seemed to be completely normal to everyone.
He wondered if he should have put up a fight. Would it have been futile? Somehow, he thought it would have been.
Whatever the case, when he got home his mother sat him down and told him his first appointment would be next Thursday and every other Thursday that passed. Apparently, the decision to put Craig into therapy was one that his parents had been mulling over for quite some time. He repeated the name of the women assigned to him in his mind over and over again: Mrs. Fran. He pondered what she would be like. He would probably dislike her. He seemed to dislike most everyone.
He trudged up to his room after Terrance and Phillip was cut off and dinner had been eaten. Craig closed the door behind him, took the few steps to his bed, and drew back the comforter on it. He crawled in stiffly, a weird tightness in his chest. He had been feeling it all day, the knot threatening to smother him. It was like he couldn't get enough air to sate his lungs, and he had to take gasping breaths to ease whatever it was. Though, he pushed it down without further question.
Craig did not get any sleep that night.
Instead, his gaze remained steady on the ceiling of his room where he made patterns out of the cracks littering it. Inside of him, a quiet storm brewed.
On the outside, he kept up the facade of being calm and collected, and no one could tell the difference. It was honestly a feeling that had lost its novelty; not foreign or new to him at all. However, it seldom occured.