“Where do you want me to go?” I asked him just like I’d ask any other non-psycho person.
Most people would think I was crazy for acting so normal, but I don’t care if he kills me. I’ve had depression since I was thirteen. At fourteen, I committed my first suicide attempt. My grandfather has taken me to a numerous number of rapists since. Of course, he didn’t know about the suicide attempts, I’ve had many attempts since my first.
Every therapist says the same thing. “She’s got depression. She’s going to be sad if she doesn’t take the medication.” First of all, my depression is very understandable. If you went through the hell I did as a child, you’d be depressed too. Then there’s the medication. I didn’t even have to tell the therapist I wasn’t taking the pills. He could tell just by the way I carried myself.
My depression meds don’t go *poof* no more sadness. It’s like they numb my feelings. I feel like my soul isn’t there anymore. I’m just a brain walking around trying to figure out the world. That feeling- that awful feelings- itself gives me more depression than I have without it. I’ve never told a doctor that, and I never will.
“Wherever you always go,” he commanded.
I took the regular route to my house. It wasn’t anything fancy. When you first open up, you see a vintage, nice way of saying cheap, tv in front of a couch with a pull out sofa bed. Then there’s a nice little kitchen with neutral colored walls and wooden cabinets. The house didn’t have a dining room, so I coped with putting a small table with two chairs in the back of the room. On either side of the table is two hallways. The right goes to my bathroom and bedroom while the left goes to the garage.
We pulled up into my driveway. The best thing about the house is the location. It’s about a five minute drive from the hospital.
+++
“Are you hungry?” I asked, walking into the kitchen.
“What?” he said looking up from his previous position of snooping around the jars I had laid out on the counter tops.
A light laugh escaped my lips, “I said are you hungry?”
“Um yeah, I guess so.”
“What do you like on your sandwich?” I asked, getting the bread out of the pantry.
“Turkey and mustard sounds good. Bathroom?” He questioned, gesturing to the two hallways.
I pointed to the right as I started rummaging around the refrigerator for what he wanted. Dammit. I tossed the turkey on the table and got the keys off the rack. Before I went to the hospital, I had stopped by the grocery store.
The garage was hot as always. I stopped for a moment to thank myself for not getting milk. The trunk popped open, and I started gathering the few bags. Just like I did when I was a child, the bags were clustered together, hanging from my arms, so I didn’t have to make a second trip.
I was just turning to go finish making Liam’s sandwich when I shoved against the car. Liam had me pinned against the trunk. Each of my arms were held down at my waist. The plastic bags started to dig into my skin as I winched. I looked up at him in the eyes. His face was inches away from mine; his breath fanned my face with every second that passed. He looked absolutely pissed.
“Oi! What the hell!” I tried pushing him off of me, but he resisted to move.
“Where the fuck do you think you were going?” he pushed against me harder, obviously ignoring my remark.
I felt my own body sigh with annoyance, “I was getting the groceries out of my car. The groceries which happen to contain mustard.”
He narrowed his eyes at me. I could feel him searching over my face for a trace of dishonesty, “How do I know you weren’t loading them up to leave?”
Again, I felt stupid that I wasn’t intending to leave at all. I mean it’s my house. This isn’t technically kidnapping, is it? I’m not sure, but as I said before, I don’t care if he kills me. It would definitely end all of this bullshit quicker. I couldn’t tell him that though, so I just shrugged and spoke.
“I guess you won’t. You’ll just have to trust me.”
As if nothing happened, his body detached itself from mine, and he walked back into the house.
Thanks for helping me with my bags psycho-bitch.
