We Met in Anger Management

Prologue

I'm not interior design expert, but let me tell you this, a room in which the mentally unstable will be filtering in and out should never have a tacky ass, homicide undying atmosphere nor should it contain an uptight ignorant white woman who looks like she's been married twice and saw Hitler's rise to power, whose face permanently displays fatigue and disdain.

I should file a complaint, but I don't want to spend any time longer here than necessary. But that complaint is necessary... Fuck it.

"Ms. Malone, if you would so kindly comply, the meeting would be finished," Mrs. Vanderwall said as if she were the queen.

Not in that pantsuit honey.

She pushed her cheap plastic glasses up, staring at the papers in her hand, consent forms.

These weren't athletic consent forms, but I probably wouldn't sign those either. They were for fucking anger management.

I clenched my teeth, "I'm not going to anger management classes. You can check my school records and criminal record- or lack thereof. No acts of violence. I'm as clean and pure as the Virgin Mary."

"Anger management classes don't require a history of violence. The class is to help you manage your anger. We only want to help you." She smiled. It wasn't one of those loving smiles that your grandmother gave you on Christmas. She looked deadly. She looked lethal. She looked fucking ready to pounce.

I shook my head at her, my patience thinning. The patience I had left was thinning. Whom I kidding? I have none left.

"Who's to say I need to 'manage my anger'?" I fired at her, ironically, seething with anger.

"Ms. Malone, you aren't the first and surely not the last to enter my office and refuse anger management classes. I've worked here for many years."

"Yeah, its taken quite the toll on you." I mumbled loud enough for her to hear. I bet she could hear infrared waves with those dumbo ears of hers.

"I've seen these classes work and help people, and at other times do nothing. It's still worth a try and that's all that matters. If that doesn't work, we'll move into the next step." Mrs. Vanderwall explained.

"Next step? What is this next step?" I inquired. Hell no. I've had enough of these tension ridden offices to last me a lifetime.

"Well, we'll talk about that if we get there. If e get there," she emphasized.

I kept my eyes fixated on the clock behind her. My appointment was supposed to end six minutes ago.

"Don't you have another client? Another maniac to make money off of? Or am I your main income source, Liz?" I scowled.

"I'm sure they have no problem extending your appointment, but we're just going to go round and round."

I scoffed. I could do this all day!

"So, Ms. Malone, I've tried persuading you to pick the right choice the entire time, but that has gotten us nowhere. I'd like you to know that by not going to anger management classes, I'm forced to hospitalize you."

"Hospitalize Me?" I shouted in disbelief, "for what? For not taking a stupid class which I don't need to? Not to mention an expensive one at that. My insurance is shit!"

"Ms. Malone, as a minor, you're currently a danger to your family and have made your home unsafe for you and other family members. In order to keep you and them safe, we urge you to attend these classes." She pleaded.

My mouth was wide open. She placed two options, not choices.

"I know you're not too thrilled, but you seem like a great girl, Marley. I think you'll really benefit from these classes."

Wow. I can't believe she just lied to my face. Who am I kidding? It's her job!

'You have a bright future ahead of you.'
'It's not about the money, it's about you.'
'You don't deserve this.'
'This won't last forever.'
'It's okay.'

That's all that they were, lies.

"Hardly." I sneered, but she dismissed it just like she dismissed everything that I had been saying for the past sixty minutes. I picked at my nails. When will this bitch just shut up?

"The group meets Monday through Friday everyday at 4:00 PM. You are required to attend each Monday through Friday session for two weeks. Depending on your progress, we usually shorten the visits to three days a week for another two weeks, then two times a week for two weeks. The schedule after that is arranged solely on your behavior and compliance," Mrs. Vandereall explained.

I looked at the clock again. Fuck. I got places to be and people to see. I don't have time for this.

She tapped her ugly ballpoint pen against her desk, urging me to rip it from her hands and puncture it through her neck. Maybe I do need these classes after all...

I knew I was stuck. I sure as hell wasn't going back to fucking Darling Hills Developmental Treatment Center.

Let's just get this over with.

"Where do I sign up?"
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Prologue over. Before I continue this story I want to state that Marley is NOT supposed to be likable. At all. She's an angry, self centered teen to the extent that her family actually fears her. She's supposed to be a bitch. It'll all be explained in later chapters.