The Worst Drug

•Momma•

   Long chapter...get the popcorn...😈😌

                        {•Unedited•}
                           ~Idris's POV~

Sitting under the waiting room in this damn therapy facility, my knees bounce up and down. It's too damn quiet in this place. The wall up to the office was like entering a fucking mental hospital; at first that's what I straight up thought this was since it's not on the first floor. I was like "Damn, Bex really referred me into a loony bin." Taking my phone out, I open up my messages and text Vina back.
Wife♥️: Are you there?
Me: Yeah...I thought your mom was putting me into a mental hospital.
Wife♥️: That was her first idea.
The door opens and enters an old woman, maybe in her late seventies, walks in. She looks around for second before coming towards the seat beside me. "You're a handsome young man," the old lady says, sitting down. I give her a small smile, the compliment making me uncomfortable.
"Thank you, ma'am," I tell her politely. Her eyes drop down my arms, the expression on her face immediately becoming judgmental looking at my tattoos.
"Too bad all those tattoos take away from the good looks. Your poor future wife's gonna be married to a walking coloring book," she says. The tone of her voice somehow still manages to remain so sweet like she's saying something nice. Turning my body towards her, a bit of excitement courses through me thinking about triggering this woman.
"My current wife loves this walking coloring book. She don't have a problem with putting a few rips in the pages either," I say, rolling up my sleeves to show the cuts left from Vina's scratches the other night. She lets out a horrified gasp. "Have a nice day, ma'am," I tell her as I get up and move seats across the room.
It's not long until my name is called by the blonde nurse at the front desk. Standing up, I tuck my phone in my pocket on the way to the door where she opens it from the inside. She gives me a once over, her cheeks glowing bright pink. The corners of her glossy lips lift into a flirtatious smile. I don't mean to sound conceited, but you can feel when someone's being obvious about checking you out.
"Idris Massimo for Dr.Arden?" She asks softly, tucking her hair behind her ear. I nod, following her down the hall. She stares more up at me than she does in front of her. She stops in front of a door labeled 'A-6.' "I-I know it's unprofessional of me, but...my shift is done in an hour. After your done with Mrs.Arden maybe we can go get a drink?" She asks.
My face heats up at her question. I haven't been approached like this in god knows how long I'm not used to it anymore. If I'm being honest, it's a horrible feeling. Holding up my hand, her blue eyes lock on my wedding band.
"Sorry, but I don't think my wife would be very happy with me if I did that," I tell her. She gives me a disappointed smile, her shoulders slumping. Opening the door, a middle aged woman with brown hair and blonde highlights sits in a chair in front a small couch. There's a shirt black table between the two seats with a vase full of red roses. A long desk is in the back corner with a computer, books, and some pictures frames. Above her chair on the wall is a collage of photos with who I assume is her husband and daughter.
"Your three o'clock is here," the short blonde next to me tells her. She looks up with a smile, her hair falling in front of her face from the neat bun on top of her head. Something about her looks strangely familiar but I can't place it off the top of my head.
"Please, sit," she says, gesturing to the couch. I walk over and sit down like asked, clasping my hands on my lap. "Thank you, Sierra." The blonde nods at her before walking out, giving me one last look. "I'm Dr.Arden. You're here for anger management correct? I didn't have time to look over your file before you came in."
"Yeah, I'm Idris Massimo," I tell her. She nods, picking up the pink notepad on the table and purple pen. What the hell is it that's so familiar about her?! I have to stop myself from staring too hard at her.
     "So I specialize more in the deal with it aspects of things, it's never my intention to make you get too inside of your head. My main intention is to show you ways and help cope with your emotions." This is fucking ridiculous. I feel like a five year old sitting in a kindergarten classroom. "What is it that finally made you realize it's time to work on yourself?"
    "My wife left me after I practically became emotionally abusive. I was dealing with my daughter's mother at the time so it was hard managing everything and the stress got to me. Little things would set me off way more than they should have. I would start going off, saying shit I don't even mean," I explain. For someone who's trying to make me "not get inside my head" these questions are making me think too much about the memories behind the words. Her pen moves along the notepad until her green eyes lift back to mine.
    "What did you tell her?" She asks. My face heats up with embarrassment. Is that what the point of this is? To show you how to stupid and embarrassing your actions have been so you don't repeat them?
    "My wife has autism, so as you can guess-"
    "You were an asshole and picked at that?" My eyes widen. She tilts her head to the side, raising her brows in question. I take in a deep breath, nodding.
     "She told me a long time ago before we were married that her worst fear was me getting tired of dealing with it, with her. Which obviously, I love my wife with all my heart, nothing about her being autistic or not being able to look me in the eye has ever bothered me; but I acted like it did that night."
    She nods along with what I say, I can tell trying her best not to make any facial expressions. I'm a fucking asshole, I KNOW ALREADY!
    "What did you do to make it up to her? Have you guys worked through your problems since this happened?"
   "For the most part we have, this is the main thing she asked for. If it makes her happy with me and not want to date my boss instead it's what I'll do," I tell her. Her brows pull together, lips parting in shock. "Yeah, boss. That's another story though and a cause of one of the fights." She clears her throat, writing down more. Standing up, she walks to her desk and grabs a piece of paper from her printer. As she walks her hair whips around to her back. It catches my attention more than it should for some reason.
     "Take this piece of paper and I want you crumble it up," she says, handing it to me and sitting back down. Looking at the paper, the corner of my mouth tilts upwards into a grin. This is so fucking stupid. Sitting out in the parking lot eating Burger King was a better idea and just saaaying I went. Sighing, I start crumbling it up into a ball in my fist. "Now flatten that paper out."
    "What?" I ask.
   "Flatten it out."
    "This is ridiculous," I say, uncrumbling the paper. Setting it on the table, I flatten it out with my hands. I feel her eyes burning into me, making me glance up. She snaps her eyes away, writing again in her the polka dotted notepad. I gesture to the paper once finished. She looks over the vase and cringes at the sight of the wrinkled sheet.
     "Tell it your sorry," she instructs me. My brows raise. Is this woman insane? She wants me to apologize to a fucking piece of paper!? She's the one who seems to need therapy, mental therapy.
     "I'm not saying sorry. It's a piece of fucking paper."
    "Do you see those lines though? They aren't gone just because you tried fixing it. Did you tell your wife you were sorry?" She asks. I nod. "Then tell the paper your sorry."
     "I don't give a fuck about the paper though."
     "Just tell the damn thing you're sorry!" She says, loosing her patience with me. She sits back, crossing her arms over her chest. Chewing on the inside of my cheek I clear my throat.
    "I'm sorry...paper." She rolls her eyes, my own facial expression flashing before my eyes. I shake it off, knowing I didn't get enough sleep last night.
     "Now are the wrinkles gone?" I shake my head. "Neither are those cuts you left in your wife from the things you told her. You hurt the paper without knowing what you were doing and even after you tried fixing it it's not the same as it was before. That's what happens when you say things before you think about what you're saying. Your words leave marks on those you love, her especially."
    I pick up the piece of paper, turning it over. Taking a deep breath, my shoulders slump. "Or it's because I don't give a shit about this paper. She's moved on from it already. We fight, I apologize through rough sex, and she forgives me." Her eyes widen as she looks down at her notes.
    "You sound like him too," she says under her breath. I don't think she meant for it to be said out loud because as soon as she realizes what she says she looks back up. "Sorry. I'm just finding it a little difficult to remain professional, you look a lot like someone I used to know. Remind me of him too."
    "Must have been a real dream boat."
    "I hated him."
    "Oh." She sighs, rubbing her hand over her knee. On her face is an expression saying she's not here, but somewhere in her mind.
    "He was an emotionally abusive asshole who got me hooked on alcohol and drugs." Personal much?
   "I'm sorry about that...I guess. It sounds to me like you're the one who needs a therapist." Her eyes squint at me, leaning forward a little.
   "What did you say your last name was again, sir?" She asks, closing her eyes for a second. My eyes snap around the room uncomfortably to avoid eye contact with this woman who stares at me intensely. I was right, she's the one in need of therapeutic help.
   "Massimo. Idris Massimo," I tell her like I did when I first came in. She lets out a noise like sounds like I've knocked the wind out of her. My body tenses. "Does...does that last name mean anything to you?" She sits back, looking at me like she's going to be sick. Her skin has paled about four shades.
   "It used to mine," she says. "I-I had a son," she says, her eyes filling with tears. I rub my clammy hands together nervously. "His name was Idris." Now it's just turn to be in shock. That's why she's so fucking familiar looking to me. My throat tightens, not because I'm sad or happy to see this woman, but because I'm pissed off.
    "My moms dead." She shakes her head, standing up from her chair. She takes her phone out of her pocket and starts swiping and going through god knows what. A minute or two pass until she shoves the screen in my face, showing me the image of a little boy, maybe four years old, sitting on her lap. She looks sick and nothing like she does now; now her face is full along with the rest of her body. Her hair is thicker and brighter in color and there's life in her eyes which she lacks in this image. That little boy lacks that life too. That's me.
     "I need to know you're not kidding about your n-"
     "How the hell would I know what your son's name was to come here and fake being him? I thought-I've thought you were fucking dead since I was six!" I yell, my voice accidentally cracking at the end. Again, it's not cause I'm sad. I'm not fucking sad, I'm pissed. This fucking bitch was alive all these years and never once thought about me. Obviously, I don't care about it now but thinking of the shit I went through as a kid it's fucked up she just up and left me with that monster.
    Her hand covers her mouth. "You look so much like him-"
   "Don't fucking compare me to him!" I snap. She flinches at the sound of my voice, her brows raising.
    "Anger management; I asked him a million times to do it but he never would," she says, her jaw shaking. I push myself up by my knees, running my fingers through my hair hair. "Please tell me you didn't do any drugs...?"
   "But Momma, I wanted to be like Dadda," I say sarcastically. "You have no right to ask me questions. Where the fuck have you been?" I ask. She looks down shamefully, tucking her hair behind her ear. "I don't give a shit, but I deserve to know where you left off to. You cleaned yourself up clearly while I was getting thrown from house to house and getting fucked up on drugs."
    "Don't blame me for that. You're exactly like your father," she says with a short laugh. What a lovely fucking reunion this is.
    "You don't know shit about me. Don't ducking compare me to him!" I snap. She gets up and crosses her arms.
    "One appointment where you're so fucked up that I got two appointments worth of information. He couldn't control his mouth when he was angry either," she says, crossing her arms. This is too fucking much. I came in here in a bad enough mood.  
      "Whatever. I'll be finding a new therapist," I say. My entire life I've been without a mother, even when she was around, I don't need or want her here now. Knowing she's alive doesn't change anything. She grabs my wrist just as I turn turns the door. Sighing, her shoulders lower.
   "I'm sorry," she says. "This is just...this is a lot. I've left everything from that man behind me." I scuff, rolling my head back.
    "Clearly, including you're six year old son at the time." She wipes away a tear from her cheek.
    "I know, I'm sorry but everything at that time was wrong. You think I just forgot about you? I never thought to try making contact because I figured you were better off." She was right for the most part. But now I'm wondering what would have happened if she had taken me with her. Everything would probably be different. She didn't leave far from that fucking town if she's here, but it was enough to separate herself. "I want to get to know my son."
    "Fuck you-"
    "Please! I know I fucked up and I was rude, I'm sorry. Your father hurt me, I needed to get away and I promise I believed you'd be better off without me. If I thought I would have been a good mother I would have taken you with me in a heartbeat away from that man." Her tear filled eyes search mine. She reaches up her hand, placing it on my stubbled cheek. I flinch away from the contact, grabbing her wrist and throwing it back to her side. "Please. No matter how upset with me you are I'm still your mother. Don't you want to have some kind of relationship?"
    "I'm not upset, I don't give a fuck for the most part. I'm just in shock. You aren't worth getting upset over. You're just a stranger to me."
    "I'm your mother; you're my son. Let me fix what I did," she says, placing her hands on her chest. I can't help but laugh.
    "There's nothing broken to fix. I've healed from what I've been through and you had nothing to do with that. I went to prison for five years and did drugs, yes, but I also grew up. I graduated high school still, met a beautiful girl, got my license in automotive science and engineering, got married. I have a daughter and another baby on the way, and a...I don't know what the fuck he is yet but he feels something like a son to me. You had nothing to do with that shit, so don't go calling yourself my mom."
     She looks at me speechless me, her mouth hung open. Grabbing the door knob, I swing it open and stomp out of the room. It clicks shut softly behind me despite my hard thrust at it to shut. The blonde that led me back here stands in front the door.
    "Done already?" She asks curiously. I look down at the watch on my wrist. Damn, that was only thirty minutes. Forcing a smile, I tilt my head to the side.
   "Turns out therapy just isn't for me," I tell her with a shrug. She bends over the desk next to her, grabbing a pink pen and writing a series of numbers down on paper and ripping it off. Handing it to me, I hesitantly take it between my fingers.
    "Call me," she says with a flirtatious smile. Did this woman miss the part earlier where I literally showed her my wedding ring?
   "I'm married." She chuckles, looking around herself real quick.
    "And I'm a nurse, two useless details that don't matter. Unless you want do some role play and I can fix you up," she says, drawing down the front of her white shirt to expose her cleavage. I'll admit, she's a pretty girl but nowhere near that sexy goddess I call my wife.
    "I need to get home," I tell her, reaching behind her and opening the door. Putting my phone in my pocket I walk out, keeping my head down in the waiting room lobby. The old lady still sitting in the same spot waiting to be called sticks her foot out just as I walk past her, sending me tumbling to the ground. Groaning, I look to see her faking a shocked expression.
    "Are you okay?" She asks, faking concern. I push myself up, dusting my hands using my knees. Flipping my hair back I let out a deep breath.
    "See you in hell, old hag."
     •••••••
                          ~Vina's POV~