My Therapist's Son

I’ve always loved the rain. The sound it makes when it falls on the roof, how when I was little I always pretended that the raindrops against my window were racing each other. Sometimes, on endless nights when I would cry myself to sleep, the rain would be there to comfort me and lull me into a deep slumber. 

Rain seems to always come at either the best or worse times. Like once I was up late one night, sobbing from another death of my favorite character in one of my books. At that moment, when I was mourning his death, I heard the familiar sound of the rain beating against my windowpane and I felt somehow at peace again, like the rain was a representation of my tears as the clouds in the sky cried with me. 

My favorite part of a rainstorm is towards the end, when the harshness of the rain and the thunder is gone, and all that’s left is the light rain going drip drip drip against the roof. But on the days that the rain doesn’t comfort me or cry with me or help me sleep, it just makes me feel like I need to pee. 

Unfortunately this is one of those times, and as a soft drizzle turns my already frizzy brown hair even frizzier, I can barely contain my urge to use the bathroom. 

“Bye,” I tell my mom, who’s fixing her lipstick in the little mirror in the car. 

“Good luck with the therapist, remember, room 305.” she says, flipping her artificial blonde hair over her shoulder. 

It’s times like this that I start to doubt whether my mom actually cares about my well being or whatever. It seems like sometimes she actually appreciates the fact that my dad died, so she could get his money and pay for things like her lipstick and now, my therapist. She always says crap like “Oh, Gwen, ever since your dad died you've changed, you’re no longer the happy, bubbly Gwen I’m used to seeing, now all you do is sit on your butt and read all day.”

Well, my mom's a gold-digger, that's for sure. Maybe to her my dad was the reason she could afford her weekly manicures at the salon, but to me my dad was kind of like a friend, someone I could go to with my problems and talk to about anything, we had that kind of father-daughter relationship. But then he died in that small plane crash two years ago, in which everyone survived but him. For the past year my mom’s been complaining about my ‘depression’ or ‘lack of social skills’ so now here I am, about to go meet my new (and expensive) therapist, which my mom thinks will solve all of my problems. 

I honestly don’t really think I have any major problems, other than petty things like the guy that always bullies me at school, my anger issues, and the fact that the next book in my favorite series isn’t coming out until next year. 

I turn on my heel and walk towards the building, trying to smooth out my hair so I look at least somewhat presentable, but to no avail. I cover the stain on my shirt with the strap of the woolen purse my grandma knitted me, so my therapist doesn’t think I’m a slob or anything. As I try to tidy up my appearance, I keep a look out for Room 305, which I can’t really find as I pass through the narrow halls. 

After going to use the bathroom and looking for another couple of minutes, I finally find it, room 305. 

I raise my arm up to knock on the door, the warmth from the heater slipping in through my sleeve. Right as I’m about to finally knock on the door, I pause, my fist stupidly extended in the air. 

You could turn back and leave, you know. I think, and it’s true. I don’t really know how I ever agreed to something like this. Here I am, standing in front of the office of a someone that‘s supposed to help me, not really knowing what I’m going to say or do once I get inside. After a few seconds, I hesitantly knock on the door, half hoping that whoever is inside wont respond. 

“Come in,” a feminine voice says, making me assume my therapist is a woman. I hesitantly turn the doorknob, stepping inside the tiny office. 

“Gwen James?” A woman who’s sitting on a chair with a clipboard in her hand asks me.

“Yeah, that’s me.” I mumble, the woman’s red hair, freckled face, and light eyes seeming strangely familiar. 

“Great, you may sit down.” 

I take a seat in front of her on a comfy looking leather chair. The whole office is tiny but pretty nice, with a desk in the back of the room and two leather chairs on the other side, separated by a little coffee table.