The Bucket List

Chapter 2

Glass shattering, tires screeching, and metal twisting was all I could envision as I rest on a long black chaise lounge waiting for my therapist to stroll through the door and welcome me. The dark leather was slowly peeling away and fading into a deep gray, making me wonder how many people were placed in this chair, forced to discuss their problems. Even if they didn't want to; but I knew there was no way to ignore the void in my heart that agitated and haunted me for the two solid weeks.

The ascending pitter patter of high heels clicking against the cold white tile floor interrupted my futile daydreaming, making me turn my head hastily towards the door prior to the sound of fumbling keys. “Did they lock me in here?” I queried myself.

I then let a remote chuckle flee my soft lips. “Of course, I would try to escape...” I muttered.

The clatter of the gold door knob turning halted me from speaking any further. The brown door consequently opened at a snail's pace; as if I was somebody my therapist was afraid of or disturbed by.

A lady, around my age, came to view in the door way. She had long dirty blonde hair that flowed over her shoulder. Her red covered lips pulled into a gentle smile before she spoke, “Morning, Mr. Styles”

I starred at her, not giving any emotion or remorse. I could tell it was making her feel uneasy by the way she shuffled where she stood, almost like she felt exposed. Her hands, with white acrylic nails, grasped a blue coffee cup in one hand and a clip board in another. The lady had a pale pink shirt that complimented her, combined with tight light blue jeans, and followed by a pair of black heels.

“So, Harry…” she uttered, breaking the silence, which makes me look up from her shoes to her dark eyes, “Let’s just get right to this. Shall we?”

I just offered her a diminutive nod, nothing more. I subsequently scrutinized her as she rested and loosened herself upon a lofty, honeydew colored armchair that made her look small. Her gentle hands placed her coffee cup onto a glass side table and grabbed a black pen before she gazed up at me. “How was your day?” she asked.

I swallowed the spit that was in my mouth before I spoke. Here it is, the part where I am forced to talk about myself and my problems. I never wanted to arrive here this morning, but they said it wasn’t an option. They said I was obligated to come. I really don’t see the point in all this; all of my problems won’t matter in about twelve to fourteen months. You know why? Because I’ll be dead. 7 feet in the ground. That’s why. So why even bother?

“Harry...” she murmured, catching my attention.

“Aren’t you too young to be a therapist?” I interrogated, striving to obtain more time and attempting to further the conversation from being about me; anything besides me. “How old are you?” I posed, furrowing my eyebrows at her.

“I’m twenty-four,” she stated. “How are you feeling?” she spoke out in a more demanding way.

“You look very young for your age. I guess that’s a good thing. You never know…” I rambled, still trying to steer away from the question.

“Harry, how-“ she tried to say but I cut her off.

“You look like you’re nineteen. The bar must ask for your I.D. a lot…”

“Mr. Styles,” she snapped, her foot tapping against the tile while her hands are placed on top of one another, resting on the clipboard. “How are you feeling?”

I then rolled my eyes and looked away from her. I glanced around the room, looking anywhere but at her. My eyes placed themselves on a painting that was situated in front of me. I gawked at it, memorizing it before I let a sigh escape me and decided to capitulate to her interrogation. “How else would a guy feel? How would you feel if you only had up to fourteen months to live?” I bit at her, in more of a harsh tone then I anticipated.