"Joseph?" I heard a knock.

"Yeah, mom?" I set my guitar down on my bed.

"Andy is on the phone." I picked up the phone in my room.

"I got it up here!" at least my mom thought I deserved some privacy.

"Joe? So what do you think?"

"Andy? I don't know about what?" he sounded worried.

"Pete," I should have known. "He went to a shrink, Joe, this is serious! What did he tell you he said?"

"What?" I was surprised.

"Pete. Went. To. Therapy." He said with forced calm making every word clear.

"What? He did not tell me anything about that!" I was annoyed now.

"Oh."

"Oh? That's all I get is 'oh'? Pete is my best friend what did he tell you?" I was on my feet now pacing as far as the cord would allow.

"I don't know, Joe. You should talk to him about it."

"I will. Bye, Andy."

"Bye, Joe, good luck with Pete."

I hung up and dialed the Pete's house.

"Hello?"

"Pete?"

"Umm… hang on." It was his brother. "Pete! Joe is on the phone!"

"Fuck. Hang on! Hey, Joe?"

"DON'T HEY JOE ME, ASSHOLE! I HAVE TO HEAR FROM ANDY YOU WENT TO THERAPY? THAT'S MESSED UP, PETE! EVEN FOR YOU!"

"Joe, sorry! It's just I didn't think to tell all that many people. Andy called to see what's up."

"THAT'S A FUCKED UP ANSWER, PETE! YOU SURE AS HELL KNOW I WANTED TO CALL TO! I'M GROUNDED IN CASE YOU HAVEN'T HEARD! I'M NOT SUPPOSED TO TALK TO YOU FOR ALMOST A MONTH!"

"What? Why?"

"THAT STUNT YOU PULLED? MY MOM FOUND YOUR FUCKING SWEAT SHIRT UNDER MY BED! IT REEKED OF BEER AND WHISKY, JACKASS!"

"Oh. Well if you're not allowed to talk to me I sure as fuck don't want to get you in more trouble."

"PETE… FUCK MAN! YOU KNOW WHAT FUCK YOU!" I slammed the phone down. I knew I had hurt him. Somewhere inside I knew, but didn't care. I went back to my guitar to blow off steam.

I wanted to hit something. Break it, destroy it, watch it burn, maybe watch it bleed. I took a deep breath knowing I sounded like a psycho. Then again maybe I was- I don't know- that doctor hadn't told me what was wrong with me yet.

Calm. Calm. In… out.

"I'm sorry." I knew he had hung up.

"Peter?" my mom asked.

"Yeah, mom?" I wouldn't cry.

"What's wrong?" she looked at me with concern.

"Nothing. I'm fine. What did you want?" I felt my eyes burn. My best friend hated me.

"I was going to tell you to get ready for bed. We're going down to Dr. Steckmen's office early tomorrow."

"Okay. I will." I walked upstairs to the shower.

I let the water run as I looked at myself in the steadily fogging mirror. I thought I was weird looking. I was oddly proportioned, short, big head, too skinny; I had blue hair, which I guess wasn't the way I looked it was the way I made myself look; and my eyeliner was running. The mirror was now totally steamed, so I stepped into the shower. I sighed as the hot water soaked me completely. I couldn't hold back, I felt the tears come.

I woke up early and dressed quickly. I looked in the mirror to make sure no one would tell I had only slept an hour. It had been a tortured hour spent tossing and turning in darkness and shadow. My eyes were red and I had dark circles under my eyes, but no worse than usual.

I tiptoed down stairs and made a PB&J sandwich. I ate quickly wanting to go back in my room before anyone else woke up. I grabbed some juice and almost on habit went to the liquor cabinet for vodka, and had started to pick the lock before I thought about what I was doing. If I had been the only one awake before I would have gotten buzzed then brushed my teeth and went to school before anyone had woken up. I decided it was a bad thing to show up to your therapist's office half drunk when you were sent there for being an underage binge drinker.

I sat in my room dividing my time between playing my bass, reading, and listening to music. I had been awake for about two hours before my dad burst in.

"Don't you knock?" I stopped playing.

"You're up."

"Yes I'm up." I sneered.

"Don't take a tone, Peter."

"Sorry." My fingers still ghosted over the fingerboard.

"You're in trouble." Thank you Captain Obvious.

"I know." I nodded.

"Grounded for two months."

"I wouldn't take any less."

"No phone, records."

"Okay." I stared at my fingers as they held down the strings.

"No guitar." He held his hand out as if he expected me to just hand it over.

"WHAT?" that hit home.

"You heard me give me your guitar. You'll get it back in two months."

"I AM NOT GIVING YOU MY BASS GUITAR!" I corrected him.

"Peter, do not be difficult! Give me the bass guitar." He pulled it from my hand.

"WHY NOT JUST TAKE MY ARM TOO?" I yelled at he walked down the stairs with my beloved bass. I threw a book at the door as it closed. I put my eyeliner on extra heavy; I knew it would piss off my parents.

"Peter, please wipe that stuff off of your face." My mom was finishing her coffee at the table.

"Can I have my fucking bass back?" she just sighed.

"Peter." She shook her head.

I grabbed my shoes and laced them up. "Are we leaving soon?"

"Yes." She grabbed her keys.

"Fine."

The car ride was quiet that is until my mom decided I needed to talk about it.

"What was Joe yelling about on the phone last night?" she asked.

"Me, it's always me." I shrugged playing with the window, rolling it up then down then up again.

"Pick one." I picked down. "Why was he mad?"

"Andy told him I went to a shrink." I hung my head out the window hoping she would take that as a sign I didn't want to talk.

"It was just an analysis to see if might need to go to rehabilitation." She obviously wanted me to say something.

"There is no fucking way I'm going to fucking rehab." I shook my head.

"That is for the doctor to decide. Besides you said you wouldn't go to boot camp."

"I got my ass kicked everyday! I cried and begged to go home!" I yelled. "If rehab is half as bad… I'll… I'll kill myself!" I think somewhere inside she knew I would do it.

"We'll see. So, did your father tell you about your punishment?" don't put her on a teen hotline.

"If by tell you mean barged into my room yelled at me and then ripped my bass away then yes. He told me."

"Peter, you know what you did was wrong." She shook her head. God I hope we get there soon.

"I know."

"Why did you do it then." She sounded worried. I was painfully remained of the fight I had had with Joe.

"If you cared you would have noticed it before this." I sighed.

"What is that supposed to mean?" I shrugged. "I do care, Peter, and so does your father! That's why we're doing this, because we love you and we really do want you to get better!" I turned on the radio.

"Mrs. Wentz, hello. I think we should just get down to business." God I really hated this guy. "Your son suffers from depression and insomnia." Yeah I was depressed no shit, dumbass. I couldn't sleep? Man, give this guy a fucking award.

"Really?" How could she say that? Had she been living in denial?

"Yes he will have to take medication. And there is a possibility of rehab for alcohol abuse and possible drug abuse-"

"I'm not on fucking drugs and I'm sure as hell not going to fucking rehab!" I was on my feet now and my fists were clenched.

"Okay, okay settle down." He held out his hands. "It was a suggestion. If you're sure you are fine without it then we can't make you go." I sat down, albeit reluctantly.

"Is that all?" I asked.

"I would like to schedule a few sessions with you." He said. "But right now I'd like to talk to your mother alone for a minute." I nodded and left. Wondering what he would say to her I put my ear against the door, which caused the receptionist to give me funny looks. It took everything I had not to as her if she thought it was smart to stare at a crazy person.

"Thank you, Dr. Steckmen." The door hit my head.

"Fuck." I grabbed my head.

"Peter? What's wrong?" Mom looked at me.

"Nothing. My head hurts." I rubbed my head before following her out of the office.