Devils Revenge

~Chapter Thirteen~

There is no such thing as acceptance in grief.

It's an endless cycle of the same emotions and feelings. One day you're feeling better than usual. The next you're angry and hurt.

Acceptance is just there to make you feel better. It's part of the five stages to make you feel as though you have finished grieving, made it through your hard time, accomplished something.

The truth is, it's always going to hurt. You're always going to remember them when you see a picture. You're always going to have that sick feeling on your gut and chest when you think about them. You're always going to have to push down the lump in your throat when their name is mentioned.

And no I've never written this sort of shit in a journal. My dumb fucking therapist gave it to me, saying that it helps with coping. The only reason I'm writing in it now is because it would be a waste of paper. So yeah.

That's what I'm feeling today.

I closed the journal and took a sip of my tea. The lady sitting in front of me smiled a little. I rolled my eyes.

My mother stood in the corner of the room, noise-cancelling headphones on her head.

Well, this is how my day has started. It's now five am and I'm having my second session with the therapist. I already have the urge to kill her.

My mother is standing in the corner, eyeing me out. She said she would observe but never listen as it was an invasion of privacy.

It's not like we were going to talk about anything anyway.

"So Mr Donatello. How are you feeling today?" She questioned. I glared at her.

"Peachy," I replied sarcastically. She sighed.

"Mr Donatello, the point of these sessions is for you to open up, for you to talk. I can't help you if you don't open up," she explained.

"What's your name?" I asked, completely ignoring the whole explanation she gave me.

"Sarah, Sarah Gilmore," she replied.

"Miss Gilmore, if you are not out of my office in the next two seconds, I'm going to put a bullet through your skull," I threatened while taking a sip of my tea. She gulped and quickly got up, running out of the room. My mother threw the headphones to the floor and took long strides towards me.

She slammed her hands down on the table and grabbed the cup of tea from my hand. She threw it at the wall.

"C'È QUALCOSA CHE NON VA IN TE. TI HO CHIESTO DI DARE A QUESTO UNA POSSIBILITA', TI HO CHIESTO DI ESSERE PAZIENTE," she shouted at me. (Something is wrong with you. I asked you to give this a chance, I asked you to be patient.)

I cringed a little at her yelling.

"I'm doing this for you. Not for me but for you," she hissed.

"I don't need a therapist," I replied calmly.

"Okay then. Tell me when was the last time you had a fulls night's sleep, tell me," she said angrily.

"Yesterday," I lied. She laughed at me.

"YOU WERE WITH ME ALL OF YESTERDAY. IM YOUR MOTHER, YOU DON'T GET TO LIE TO ME," she shouted. I took a deep breath.

"Mama, it's my life. I'm an adul-

"I don't care if your two or twenty-five. You'll always be my little boy. I'm your mother, I'm supposed to care for you-" her voice broke at the end of her sentence. Her eyes filled with tears and her nose reddened.