Peter glanced at the clock. He'd been waiting almost two hours for news about Aunt May. The ward was dull and pale, decorated with only creams and beige. The hard plastic chair was uncomfortable, no matter what way he sat in it.
He looked down the hall. There were nurses whispering urgently, sneaking feverish looks at him. "The poor boy, only 14 years old and suffering through losing everyone he knows." At least, that's what Peter imagined they were saying. When one of them began to walk towards him, he knew he was right. He was alone.
Peter looked around his new room. His unpacked bag lay beside him. He sighed and picked it up, shoving into the closet with his clothes. He had a few hours before leaving. The "new family" he was to live with had decided to send him to therapy.
He moved in with the Grant family. They were nice, he supposed, but they didn't compare to May. They sent him to talk to someone to help him recover. Since then, he'd reverted back to not talking. They were told that he'll talk when he's ready and not to push him about it. Peter grabbed his new shoes. It was time to go.
Peter sat in an armchair that faced his therapist. She was a kind lady with a trusting face. She would talk to Peter. He liked her because she didn't expect him to talk. She would tell him things and he would listen. She would ask him to think of the answers in his head and write them down at home. If he was comfortable enough at the time, he would bring a notepad and scrawl them down there and then. The only part that he didn't like was that she read his answers. She told him that it was helping him. He wasn't so sure.
"Peter, how do you feel?" The session always started with that question. How do you feel? There was no wrong answer apparently. Peter wasn't so sure. How did he feel? Shouldn't it be obvious? How would Miss Therapist feel if she came home from school to find her Aunt, her only living relative, presumed dead in the kitchen? What then? He wanted to scream but the whispers had stolen his voice.
A knock came at his door.
"Peter, I'm dropping Kate off at swimming practice. I'll be back later, okay?" Laura called through the door. She didn't expect an answer and Peter didn't give one.
He rolled over and stared blearily at his clock. 8 AM. He'd been living here for a few months now and his room had a more personal feel. He stumbled into the bathroom to look for his pill bottle. Laura and Thomas had a few foster kids and preferred any medication they were on to be handed out directly. Of course, they trusted their children, but they had to be careful.
Peter's allowance for the day was laid out for him. He swallowed and went to have a shower. His therapist, Dr. Bromwell, had prescribed him with antidepressants. Peter was hoping they would help him. He didn't spend too long in the shower. He overheard Dr. Bromwell tell Laura and Tom that she believed he subconsciously – or maybe consciously – tried to appease them. He wouldn't anger them for fear he would be told to leave. Peter didn't know what to think of that.
...
Beta'd by the lovely Sop12345d
