Sitting in this chair with its fake leather, probably fake wood, too. I didn't like these stuffy offices, these therapists staring at me from across their desks. I didn't like feeling like I was being forced to talk.
"How are things going, Craig?" he said in his bland voice, slight smile on his face. I bet he didn't care about this, I was just another 50 minutes of work to him. Just a paycheck. This is stupid, this whole therapy thing.
"Good,"
"How's school?" he said, and I sighed. School, home, my dad, Joey. Why did he have to try and dissect my life?
"School's okay," I said, feeling the fake leather of the chair with my palm.
"Just okay? Are you doing okay in your classes?"
I blinked, thinking about science. I really wasn't doing that great in science. It wasn't my subject. I'd rather be in art class or taking pictures. I didn't want to memorize a list of boring facts on something I didn't care about anyway. And there was always the thing about science, the thing like my dad was really good at it. Not being good at science was a way to distance myself from him.
"Yeah, I'm doing fine,"
Quiet. He'd let the silence spin out and I was fine with that. I looked out the window.
"How are things going with your friends?" he said, and I leaned my head on my hand, yawned.
"Good,"
He licked his lips, tapped a pencil on the desktop. I was frustrating him but I couldn't help it. I didn't want to be here. I knew what this was all about. It was Joey and everybody else thinking I was all screwed up because of what my dad did and all of that. So maybe they were right. I felt it a lot of the time, I felt screwed up. I couldn't concentrate on shit like I wanted to, so maybe that was another part of why I sucked in science. That class took a degree of concentration that I just didn't have. But what did they want me to do? Talk about it and talk about it? How would that help?
"What happened that day you ran away from your father's house?" he said, and this question kind of surprised me. Up until now the guy had asked vague, leading questions. They hadn't worked. I guess he was changing tacts. And 'my father's house'? I guess that was one way of differentiating it from Joey's house. But where was my house?
"What happened? What do you mean?" I said, narrowing my eyes at him. I could see the watch he wore, the kind that had the metal stretchy band. Light reflected off the whole thing.
"I mean, what happened that day?"
I closed my eyes for a second. That day kind of sucked. It really sucked. And this was one way to get me to talk. Oh, fuck it. I'd tell him. If he wanted to know so badly I'd tell him. It was getting hard not talking, defending my right to have these things be my own. Everyone wanted a piece of it. Him, Joey, Ashley. So fine. Whatever.
"In the morning I stared in the mirror at the cuts and bruises on my chest and stomach from my dad kicking the shit out of me the night before. I felt so hurt that morning, like I could barely move. And when I saw that in the mirror, it just looked unbelievable. Like, I'm this beaten pathetic kid, you know? Because I usually didn't think of myself like that. I was, well my dad was kinda rich, and I just didn't usually see it so clear. But that morning, the sun shining in the room, all those cuts and bruises were pretty clear,"