Chapter Twenty Eight

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"Don't be so ridiculous. We both know I'm not getting any better. There's not a future for me, and I'm tired of you sugarcoating everything," I sighed, running a hand through my hair.

It stayed silent for a while after that, she sat there chewing her inner cheek hoping she would find any words that could make me feel better but I knew she wouldn't. There wasn't a chance in hell she could ever make me better.

A dark chuckle escaped my lips, breaking the silence. "I'm not okay. And it hurts to say that I won't be for a very long time," I cleared my throat, "so enjoy swimming in the cheques you get given after these sessions. There's a lot more coming your way,"

She scoffed, "I seriously cannot believe how negative you're being right now,"

"My father is going to be buried six feet into the ground soon and you expect me to not be a pessimist?"

"That's not what I'm saying, I'm saying that you're not dealing with it correctly," she crossed one leg over the other, "and destroying his memorial in front of hundreds of students isn't the way to do it,"

"That's not the subject matter,"

"It should be! The whole planet knows what you've done-"

"And they think I'm a freak," I swallowed.

"That's not true,"

"What do you mean it's not true? Because they certainly don't think I'm normal,"

"Contrary to your belief, there's probably a vast majority of people who do," she leaned closer, "what you need to understand is that people deal with situations like this everyday. After finding out he was dead you were a ticking time bomb way before you even stepped into that school and saw his memorial. You were bound to flip out at some point,"

As much as I hated to admit it she was make an excellent point. Although it wasn't the best of ways to do it, many other people had probably dealt with grief the same way I'd done, maybe even a lot worse. There was a slight possibility I was overreacting about the response people were having about what I'd done, but I wasn't overreacting about my father's death. It was almost as if I wasn't reacting enough.

"Katie, you need to understand that there are other ways with dealing with grief you don't know about yet,"

My blood had began to boil because I knew what she was going to say. I knew she was going to tell me to stay strong when she knew I was deteriorating whilst I sat before her. She knew that I was moments away from taking my own life because of his death. She knew I'd been hearing the same thing for the past 2-3 years of my life and that advice has never worked.

"You have to accept that he's gone,"

Oh.

"And stay strong,"

There it was.

"Stay strong? Stay strong?! How on earth am I supposed to stay strong when I can't go a few mere seconds with out have someone spewing their condolences at me. Or having flowers and letters people have written to him shoved into my face left, right and center! Or even worse, having your own family shut you out because they're too depressed to even comprehend the fact that this is driving me mad and I need someone to hold me. I need my dad to hold me. But he can't,"

"Why is that Katie?"

"BECAUSE HE'S DEAD!" I screamed, gripping onto my hair as I cried my eyes out.

"There are five stages of grief," she spoke, as I stood up and walked over to her bookcase, my hands still gripping onto my hair, "denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance,"

"Why are you telling me this?!" I breathed, the room around me spinning as the fact that my father was dead was settling in my stomach.

"I believe you've just gone through the fifth step. Acceptance,"

I felt the bile rise up in my throat as I said it again, "My father is dead," and again, and again until I'd thrown up into the nearest object I could find. Which, thank God, was a small bin.

After I'd finished emptying the contents of my stomach, I stood up and wiped my mouth, grabbing my purse and staring at her. "You should receive your cheque at some point today or tomorrow,"

"Katie our session isn't over," she stood up and walked over to me, resting a hand on my shoulder as if it would convince me to sit back down.

"I'm cutting it short. I don't want to be here anymore-"

"That's not your choice,"

"Last time I checked it was,"

"Last time I checked your signature wasn't on the cheques I received," she snapped, "I'm getting paid to help you get better. So sit down and let me do my job,"

I stood there for a while and glared at her, my hands balled into fists as I searched her eyes for any signs of her giving up and letting me go. However, there wasn't any and I had no choice but to stay.

That's when she presented me a piece of paper with my name scrawled on it. I sighed and took it from her, instantly recognising the handwriting once I'd taken a closer look, my father's terrible penmanship making me chuckle.

It had taken me a while to muster up the confidence to actually open it and read it, albeit his handwriting made me smile a litte, I still wasn't ready to read a full page of it. It was too soon.

"It's not Katie, it's never too soon," I must've said that out loud. I shrugged before taking a deep breath and opened the letter, quickly realising how wrong the woman who sat before me was.

I screamed and cried, and screamed again, ripping the paper into a million pieces as she rushed to my aid.

Yep, it was way too soon.

***
I hate, hate, hate the ending but what can you do eh?

Thank you so much for reading!

Yes, there's still going to be slow updates my GCSEs are a bitch but I'm doing alright I guess.

Thanks again,

Kayla ❤

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