The fake girlfriend deal. ||BEING HEAVILY EDITED||

Eighteen~Cuts. (Edited!)

   Seriously, if they wanted him to pay attention or be chirpier, they could've painted the walls something cheerful instead of drab gray. 

   The therapist adjusts the clipboard over her knee, and sighs, "Alright, Riven, what about you? Do you have an idea for why you rely on alcohol and nicotine?"

   Great, time to make everyone pity him. What's he gonna say? That he lost his leg, the pain from that never eases and it feels like he's on fire all the time, his family hates him, he may not be able to see his sister as much as he wants, and he isn't even sure if he'll ever qualify for his dream job?

  "Why does there have to be a reason?" He makes sharp eye contact with the guy across the circle from him, looking over the scars on his wrists afterwards. 

   "Everyone here has one thing in common, we're all running from something. What is your reason?" She asks again in that mock concerned voice, smoothing her blonde hair back whilst simultaneously sizing Riven up. 

   "Well for starters my parents suck. Oh and my brother couldn't care less about me, my friend gets abused by his father, my damn leg hurts twenty four seven, and my girlfriend is way too good for me and I don't know how to help her. Is that the kind of shit you want to hear?"

   "That's good." God, Riven could die right now. "You're confronting your anger."

 "I'm not angry." He most definitely was angry.

 "Denial is common in addicts, they think they don't have a problem and that it's all under control. The first step in recovery is to get rid of that denial and face this head on."

   Of course, because that's so easy. Because everyone has the time, space and support to do that. Because everyone is the same and Riven is just whiny and unable to be saved. He gripped the rims of his wheels tighter and tighter, wondering if he could bend the metal if angry enough.

 The therapist began to scribble down while a few people looked at Riven and the rest tried desperately not to. "Is there anyone at home you talk to about this?" 

 "My girlfriend." His voice fell. "She's the only one who gets it."

 "And what do you tell her?"

   Riven began to rotate his wheels back and forth, swaying and chewing on the inside of his cheek. "That's none of your business."

  "Being open is the first step to healing."

"I'm not telling you the conversations I have in private."

 "Okay." She nods with a stupid frown. "What would you like her to know about your addiction then?" 

   He wanted her to know that he didn't intend on being this way forever, that he did want to get better. He wanted Yuna to know she was safe with him, and that she didn't have to worry about what would happen if he got drunk. He didn't want to be like the guy she dated, he wouldn't lose control and hurt her. He'd kill himself before he ever did that. He wanted her to know that none of this was her fault, he was just too broken to be fixed. 

    "That I'm not doing it to hurt her or anyone else." He gulped, tapping his fingers over his knee. "Alright is that enough girl talk? Move onto someone else."

     After the ordeal that was group therapy, the lovely one on one therapy came into play, and Riven debated on how hard it would be to propel himself out of the window next to him. 

 "Alright, what's your biggest fear?" This therapist was named Gill. He was in his thirties and seemed fairly chill compared to everyone here. Riven didn't mind him as much, since he seemed more human and less robotic. He always wore a red ball cap and he fiddled with his wedding band often.