I went back to my therapist a few days after my break down at school. Everyone had known what I'd done and since someone sold the story to the papers, there was no escaping it. Person after person would visit our house, spitting their condolences at us and giving us flowers. My mum would either nod or croak the quietest 'thank you' before slamming the door shut and ordering for the flowers to be put were the other ones were. In the bin.
Just like me, my mum didn't want anyone to feel pity, she just wanted to be left alone. But after what I'd done she figured I needed someone to talk to, and maybe she needed to see a therapist too. She wouldn't dare tell me but I knew she was slowly, but surely becoming suicidal. She thought I couldn't hear her at night, talking to the moon and questioning whether she should end it all of not, but would always end up crawling back to bed and going into a stress-induced sleep. I never confronted her about this though, I knew she'd deny it faster than I could say the word 'suicide' and even then I already knew she would never bring herself to admit it, let along actually do it. Veronica Darlington was a very stubborn woman, a trait that seemed to course through my veins.
So you could obviously imagine my response to her suggestion about me going to see my therapist again. Because like I said earlier, just like my mum, I wanted to be left alone. I wanted to mourn by myself but we all knew what it would lead to. So I agreed. After a short argument and a few flying objects, I finally agreed to going and was now sat on an ugly brown couch staring past my therapist in order to avoid her ice cold stare.
"You were like this when Phoebe died. But a lot worse. Why is that?" she asked, clicking her pen, preparing herself to write on her notepad.
I stayed silent and continued to look ahead of her, my lips sealed shut and my hands sitting in my lap. Once she realised I wasn't going to respond anytime soon she carried on speaking.
"Maybe it's because you felt guilty. Phoebe's mother was your therapist before me right?" I nodded, "so you felt bad that you couldn't tell her how truly sorry you were. Instead you told me,"
"What does this have to do with my dad?" I snapped, finally looking at her with a fixed frown on my face. She cleared her throat and fixed her blazer.
"Nothing I suppose. But now I've got response out of you... how are you feeling?"
I scoffed, "Terrific,"
"This isn't the place for sarcasm Katie. We both know that," she warned, placing her pen and pad down and walking over to sit next to me, "tell me how you're feeling,"
I swallowed and looked down at my hands that sat in my lap, "Like someone has just ripped my heart out of my chest,"
She nodded and stood back up, returning to her original seat and writing down my words.
"I feel like the last bit of happiness in my life has been taken away from me,"
"That's not true though. You know that right? There's time for you to get better. You have a whole future ahead of you," she looked up from her pad and raised a brow, waiting for my response.
YOU ARE READING
Kingston's EliteTeen Fiction
#1 of THE E L I T E Series "No one ever said being apart of a powerful group of rich people was easy," *Warning, this is triggering and does include self harm, read at your own risk*