A/N: I don't know if I like this chapter very much, but it had to be written for the plot to move on. Before I can move onto the best part of the story. So please, read and enjoy!

I kicked the chair impatiently, sitting in a stuffy pyschologist office that smelled strongly of cigars and mints. "I'll understand. I won't judge you, I deal with cases like yours all the time" were the fucking psychologist's exact words. And I absolutely loved his look when he read the saying on my shirt. "You say psycho like it's a bad thing." Mom thought it was highly insensitive to wear to a therapist's office. Why do you think I chose it?

It's been five days since Moseby told my mom about the cuts on my wrists. I hated it, the tears, the shock, the questions of WHY did I do it?… can't they just leave me alone? At least only mom, Moseby and Cody know. I only have to deal with their sympathetic, frightened stares, and concerned faces when they think I'm looking the other way.

I hate how if I'm in the bathroom for more than two minutes Cody comes and checks on me. Asking if I'm alright, and making sure I'm not slicing open my wrists. Keeping a boy trapped like this is the one thing that will guarantee him into thinking he wished he actually took his life. Confinement, just like some sort of animal.

"So Zachary, have you been on any drugs or drinking?" my loving psychologist asked.

I stared at him blankly. He sighed. "Mr. Martin, I know how hard teenage years are, trying to find how you fit in and such, but you shouldn't turn to the party scene."

I looked at him with a pitying look. "Look, sir" I said mockingly. "You and I both know that you shouldn't be counseling me. You're too used to cases of mentally insane OCD patients that actually want to talk. Because I'm sure you can relate to weak minded clients such as those."

He made a small note on his clipboard on his desk probably about my rudeness, and I started kicking the legs of his chair noisily again. "So how about this, Mr. Expert. Why don't you tell me about your teenage partying experience?"

"I-well- it's not typical in a therapy session… but…-"

I cut him off. "Never been to one of those parties? I'm not surprised. I haven't either. So I'm sure that I just destroyed your only theory of the cause of my depression and substance abuse. But I have done drugs, to answer your question. By myself. No one to influence me. I found thedrug dealermyself, his name is John, I bought the extacy, and I was all happy and got high by myself."

I smiled shrewdly. "You know, you can't legally tell my mom any of this. It isn't life threatening, I made no claims of doing drugs now. And if you tell her, I can sue you for every penny your life is worth because, although I'm still a minor, this session is confidential."

"So Zackary, how do you feel before every time you cut yourself? What leads you to inflict self harm?" Dr. Brown asked uncomfortably.

Unfortunately for him, I noticed his discomfort of the thought of cutting. "Scared of me? Scared of my cuts? Want to see them?" Before the therapist could answer, I rolled up my sleeves and exposed my forearms, countless scars, scabs, and recent cuts exposed. The man looked away, shifting in his seat. It was too easy.

Lucky for me, I now had leverage against my new psychologist.

Dr Brown continued, obviously disturbed. "So, Zackary, when was the first time you cut?"

I wasn't looking at him anymore, but rather intently at my still exposed wrists, picking at a scab without any attempt to hide it. "Oops! I just made it bleed! I wouldn't want to get any of my cursed blood on your chair! –oh, what did you say Dr. Brown?" I smiled innocently. "Oh, around fourteen years old. Now if that's all—" I stood to leave.

"No! That most certainly is not all! Mr. Martin, sit back down now!"

"Oooh! Dr. Brown puts his foot down! That really is sexy; it turns me on a little! I think I'll masturbate to that tonight!" I winked at him. Just to freak him out.

The therapist gulped uncomfortably. "So, you're confused about your sexuality, Zackary?"

I laughed silently inside, this man was clueless. I could tell him that there's this thing called sarcasm, but pretending and screwing with his brain was just so much fun.

"Confused? No, I know where I stand, I'm 100 homosexual. I love business men, usually in their early 50's. But in this case, I find a certain therapist very cute." I smiled seductively at him. "I hear they're excellent in the sack."

I got carried away with my acting, and suddenly burst into (very fake) tears, and in between sobs I managed to gasp out, "and I don't understand why they don't like me back! I would do anything for them! I think I need a hug! Dr. Brown, give me a hug! And maybe a kiss!"

He nervously checked his watch. "Uh- well!" he said cheerfully. "I think our time is up!"

I stopped fake crying immediately and put on a cold smile. I pointed to a picture of a girl on his desk, being sure to expose my cuts to him. "She's hott. Who's she?"

The therapist looked confused. "She's my neice. But I thought—"

I laughed. "Me? Gay? Fuck no, ass sex makes me sick. Man on man? HELL no."

I heard my mom's voice outside the door. "Zacky? Sweetheart? Is the session over?" The next FREAKING time she calls me sweetheart, I'm going to hurt someone. Lucky for her, it'll probably be me I'm hurting. I grinned cynically, thinking of the cuts on my arms.

Dr. Brown began to speak to my mom. "Carrie? Here's some Prozac for Zackary, an anti-depressant, and a number for a teenage therapist." I smiled bigger. I wouldn't have to see this man ever again. I successfully freaked him out enough to give me to another therapist.

My mom thanked him gratefully, as if he was doing her a favor, and finally, we got to leave the psychology building from hell.

"So? How did it go? Did you work out most of your problems?" She embraced me lovingly. But she didn't get it. One half hour session wouldn't enough to get over depression, not in the least, even if I was willing to talk. If I was willing to share my emotions with a complete stranger, which clearly, I didn't. Who would?

My mom and I arrived back at the Tipton, where Mr. Moseby smiled encouragingly at me. When my mom wasn't looking, I smiled back, before angrily flipping him off, and watching the smile slide off his face with apparent shock. As if he's never been flipped off before. Please.

I opened the door to my bedroom once back into the suite, and Cody was standing, holding a basketball and grinning broadly. "Hey Zack! You want to shoot some hoops?" in a voice clearly rehearsed.

"Hey Cody!" I grinned back. "Move out of my way before I shoot you! You get it? Shoot some hoops, shoot you?" said in the same fake enthusiastic voice, mocking him.

"I get it," he said shortly, before turning away to put the basketball back.

I turned around and left the suite. I couldn't take this today. I went down to the lobby, and on my way out of the hotel again (to find John my faithful drug dealer), I bumped into Maddie, tears streaming down her face.

"Oh Zack! I've been looking anywhere for you! I need to talk to you!"

Fuck it Maddie, I thought. I cannot deal with this right now.

A/N: I know, this chapter doesn't have a lot of substance to it, but the last two chapters are jam packed with drama and angst and romance. So please put up with this chapter, it was necessary, because it needs to be realistic and show Zack's mental state.

But if I get enough review fast enough, I'll post a lot sooner than usual, because I wrote up the last two chapters now. I love them.

So PLEASE take a moment to review so I know that this story is appreciated. 

xxxKaren