Losing you

C H A P T E R F O U R T E E N

C H A P T E R        F O U R T E E N

Meeting with a councillor wasn't hard apparently—you just had to bullshit your way through it. Dylan had mentioned depression once. Before he'd asked they booked him in.

So now, as he parked his car in one of the many parking spots, he thought about fabricating a story. He could go in and grill the Erin Thompson about her, wasting no time doing anything else. Or, he could make it out that the session was about him and he truly needed therapy.

After the end of all this though, he'd need a shitload of it. He'd yet to get to the point though—the mystery very much still alive. Or, if he was honest, the nightmare.

With a sigh, he shoved the door open, knowing he wouldn't hit anyone because he'd parked so far away. Then, he turned the car off, took the keys out and shoved them in the pocket of his jeans. He threw a haphazard glance at his phone, checking the time. Now, it wasn't a matter of how early he was—it was a matter of how late he could turn up. It was already twenty minutes at this point.

It wasn't like they cared. He wasn't the first to turn up late—and he wouldn't be the last. People who came here were either suicidal or alcohol and drug abusers. Maybe for some it wasn't that serious, but from what he knew, the more fucked up people were priority.

As he stepped onto the asphalt, he shoved his phone into his pocket too. The trip to the building took no time at all, and he was standing at the automatic sliding doors before he knew it.

From the outside, the grey building looked like something out of prison. The inside wasn't much better. The walls were white, the carpet was grey and the chairs that ran across the length of the right wall were black. Dylan went straight to the left, where a long reception desk ran across the length of the wall.

Sitting behind one of the booths was an elderly woman, so frail she looked like she was about to drop dead any second. She looked up as he got closer. She didn't smile. She just snapped, "Name?"

"Dylan Myers." He didn't have to raise his voice to be heard through the glass, since the cut-out was big enough.

She looked to the computer, muttering, "Time?"

"Twelve."

She tapped on the keyboard for a while. While she ignored him, he pulled out his phone, scrolling through Facebook to pass the time. Eventually, when she cleared her throat—like he was at fault for ignoring her—he looked up. "You're late," she said, scowling.

"Traffic," was all Dylan said. He didn't owe her an explanation. When she just narrowed her eyes, he muttered, "Can I go in now?"

She picked up the phone, muttered two words, then she hung up, turning back to him. "Down the hall, to the right, room 20." Afterwards, she just went back to staring at the computer screen.

Dylan took the dismissal for what it was.

He turned, facing the only hallway in the room. Like the reception area, everything was either black, grey or white. There was no breathing room, the space cramped with only him walking through it. No furniture off to the side, no pictures on the wall.

In short, it was a prison.

No wonder Mark was still get high. This place helped nothing. Dylan wanted to start smoking right now, just standing in the hall. It was depressing as shit.