Safe and Forgiven

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I stood in the pristine white bathroom of the therapeutic office, my thoughts attempting to overthrow my sanity. Looking up, I gazed into a mirror with dark swollen eyes staring back at me. My grip tightened onto the sink as though to keep myself anchored to reality, the salty tears flowing freely from my eyes and landing with soft thuds on the linoleum floor. "Smile. Be happy. They don't care how you actually feel. They're faking it even more than you are," I whispered to myself trying to convince myself I was alright.

I had to drag myself into the therapist's office, each step sinking into the grey fluffy carpet. She was a kind, middle aged woman, but she didn't actually care about me. I sat on the large black couch, clenching my fist to keep from crying.

"How has your week been going?" she asked, taking off her black worn down shoes that had scuff marks on the inside arches of the shoes.

I looked at the ceiling hoping she couldn't read into my soul. "Fine," I said lying straight through my teeth. This week had been the worst for me. I had to call 9-1-1 on my mom. She had emptied her pills into her mouth and mixed that with whiskey to drown her "inner demons" as she would say. This had been the normal routine each month. Except for the fact, this time she was sent to the hospital to recover. Following the routine check up, they found signs of liver failure. She had been doing this for so long that it had taken a drastic toll on her body.

"How do you feel about your mother needing a liver transplant?" she asked, seeming sincerely apologetic for the whole situation.

"She won't get it," I replied bitterly.

"Why do you think that?" she asked with a hint of confusion in her voice.

"They don't give transplants to someone who doesn't want to repair their life or even live their life," I said my eyes filling with tears.

"Oh, " she sighed not knowing what the right words to say were. She had tried on many occasions to connect with me, yet I refused each time. I guess I don't know how to accept help, because before therapy I've never been offered it.

Silence had taken over the room and she slowly put on her black worn down shoes. All lady therapists do this as an indicator that the session is over.

The phone on her desk rang. "Hello? This is she," She paused stunned. "Oh, no. I have him in my office. I'll tell him." She hung up.

Her most sincere look she could muster took over her face, "Your mom. She passed in the hospital an hour ago. They did everything they could."

Tears flooded my eyes as my heart sank into my stomach, making me want to throw up. 'Don't care. Stop showing you care. It doesn't make a difference,' I thought in my head. I had expected it to happen, but it didn't soften the blow of the therapist's words in the slightest.

I tried effortlessly smoking one of my mom's cigarettes. I know smoking kills, but I didn't care, I loved how the feeling it gave me. My mom chose her way to die, so why can't I choose mine?

I still remember how this all started. It was sixteen years ago. My mom had me at sixteen. We lived with her parents till she was eighteen and on her eighteenth birthday they kicked her out. My father was a rich boy who couldn't be seen with a child with a woman of less value. He was twenty when she was eighteen. Since we had nowhere to go, my mother began to threaten my father saying he needed to give us money or she'd take a DNA test to the news papers to prove he was my father.

This made my father very angry. He promised that he wasn't going to pay a dime and that if she went to the papers with their story he'd make her life a living hell. Calling his bluff she went to the newspapers with our story and sure enough he kept his promise.