Part One: Rats, Rage and Wrapping Paper
This is a working title to a largely autobiographical story. But I'd prefer if it were considered fiction. Please provide feedback.
Had I the strength I would have strangled him. Or better yet, a quick punch to his larynx so he would drop to the ground and gasp and choke and suffer. I would give him something to cry about as my dad liked to say. Hell, I didn't even know if his name was really Oscar. His soft face, inflammed nose and rose and charcoal eyes told you plenty. Not to mention the attire that showed he was emotional and proud. Do the shopkeepers at Hot Topic send flyers to the depressed before pushing those pants that look like a confused straight-jacket? His high school friend's older sister had died long ago and my sympathy had waned rapidly.
“The four year anniversary of the crash is during Christmas break and I'm not sure how I will handle it without support.”
A nearly unanimous empathic sigh came from the others in the oblong band of chairs. I just wanted to leave. Or to burn the building down. Or to fuck the counselor, Michael, that convinced me to start coming. He was sitting two seats from Oscar, who began to sob, again. His button-up was a bit wrinkled from where he had adjusted how much material should remain tucked in and his running shoes were worn, likely a retired pair. I imagined wearing his ballcap as I rode him in reverse cowgirl. Beside these sessions being required by the university, it was mostly my fantasies that kept me coming back.
Unlike his fellow counselor, Leslie, who had stocked enough tissue for a melancholy orgy, Micheal wasn't interested in circle jerk cry sessions. Without the aggression I would have used, he asked Oscar how he planned on coping.
Fuck! By crying, obviously. It was the only thing these people knew how to do.
I could leave. Maybe I should. But then Michael must have seen the desperation, or rather irritation, welling in the eyes of the group. He began talking in that calm, matter of fact voice about the upcoming break and whether we should meet. No one spoke up. Leslie, always looking for more reasons to solicit Kleenex, traced her eyes along the line of chairs searching for a needy soul. She tried the sorority sister first but her muffled “Cabo” wasn't questioned. I was surprised she had a voice after her earlier body wracking bawl.
Lacking a sufficient victim in need, Leslie turned towards me. I waited for it. She was going to ask the dumbest question in a group of depressed college students and inevitably she would add an extra syllable to feeling as if the word was a question in itself. I was so busy forseeing the prod I barely heard her.
“H?”
“Oh, no. I'll be gone from break.”
“We haven't heard from you today. How are you feeeeeeling?”
I couldn't help but feel amused. Her disconcerting look meant the outer edges of my lips betrayed me, a forty-five degrees angle towards my forehead emitted the idea of happiness and I should have gone towards the chin.
“I've been alright,” Still not enough? Such thirsty people.
“Ran twelve miles last night. Partly because I got lost in Murdale suburbia. Helped me sleep.” At this, the former baseball playing therapist asked if the pills he had prescribed were keeping me from killing myself. Well, what he really said was “Does the medication seem to help you adjust to returning to classes?”
Keeping my face neutral, I lied proudly.
“Yeah, they help.”
What really helped was the Flexeril I'd siphoned off Marv before I quit.
TO BE CONTINUED
This is my first fiction post. Please let me know what you think.