All comments and crits welcome.
Rated again for language...
EL
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II. Therapy (or Welcome to Purgatory)
For the record I don’t need therapy.
I don’t need –
“Do you know why you are here?”
Kyle’s inner monologue was cut off by the woman’s question.
Yes, Kyle knew exactly why he’s here at the mercy of another head-shrinker. This woman made what, 10 or 11 now.
For the gazillionth time I don’t need therapy.
The woman, in her late forties, early fifties looked through her rounded glasses and down her sharp talon hooked nose at him, waiting for him to speak.
Kyle had been to plenty of sessions before; he knows how it will work. They will engage in a staring contest until on of them breaks. Some words will be exchanged, he’ll placate and then finally slip some random fact into the mess, then she will nod and murmur and write on her notepad. Then she will ask him some more questions which he will evade until he gets tired of her ‘hmming’ and starts making things up so she stops her bothering. She’ll send him out, talk to his mother, by phone or in person, maybe even prescribe something, and everything will be fine until the next time he fucks up.
This happens to be that next time.
What was it this time? Oh yeah, the Vicodin pills. He had taken a bottle of Vicodin from his mother’s medicine stash, like she’d miss them in the first place, pill popping wasn’t her really. She had found him the next morning in a daze, half the bottle and a fifth of Jack down his throat. That taught Kyle one thing, never to drown his sorrows in pills with alcohol chasers again. Meeting the contents of your stomach ten times over wasn’t exactly his idea of fun.
Bring it on woman.
Kyle stared vilely back at her as if she was Darth Vader himself.
This one was either a weakling or impatient and she broke after only a few minutes.
“Again Kyle, do you know why you are here?”
Yes, he thought, but I’m not giving you the satisfaction.
*
In the comfort of his own room, which he and Jake affectionately called – The Bat Cave – because it technically was the basement, Kyle lounged on his bed, in a pair of old boxers, fixated on the earlier therapy session.
Who wants to pour out there whole bloody life story to an old woman who never can nor will ever understand you, ever? Who is so out of touch with the younger generation that she’ll probably just prescribe you pills, and be on her way shaking her head from her judge chair. It was so fucking ridiculous.
Picking up his sketch book, he flipped through his previous panels. He hoped Sara could make something of them, because he sure as hell couldn’t. They just seemed a mess of vague figures and sharp angles. He tossed the book again in favour of staring at the ceiling. Was there anything more than this? Because if there wasn’t, Kyle was sure someone had mixed up the labels and this was really Purgatory.
Kyle had stopped going to church whence at the tender age of twelve figured that being a hypocrite just wasn’t his style. He was only going for his Gran, since she had taken him every Sunday since he was a babe. He was going for the record now, 5 hundred and sixty seven days since last time inside a church. (The last time being his cousin Michelle’s wedding.) It felt good; it felt like some kind of accomplishment, that he actually did something for himself. He didn’t feel he was being heretical either, if he was going to find god (if there was one), he was going to find it/him on his own terms.
The house intercom crackled, “Kyle sweetheart,” it was his dear mother, “Remember we have to be at Red Robin’s in an hour.”
Oh goody.
*
Kyle took a look in the mirror, and pinched the skin about his hip bone. He often wondered at times like these if problems with body image were solely female.
Every time he looked at himself, he found something to criticize; he knew physically, he'd been slow to develop. He scowled at his appearance.
Even at the age of fifteen, I look about the same as I did when I was twelve.
He pulled on one of his long sleeved band tees before looking for a clean pair of pants.
*
Well isn’t this splendid, Kyle thought as he slid into a booth seat, red polyester squeaking and biting at his clothed skin. Burring his head, he watched through the dark fringe of his hair as the rest of his dysfunctional family did the same.
“Kyle, sit up, posture sweetheart.” Though his mother tried to make it sound cheery, it came out as a hiss and through his tangled hair Kyle imagined a snake.
“Kyle, listen to your mother, sit up for fucks sake.” His father growled through his uneven teeth.
It seemed the only thing his parent agreed on these days was him. Not that it made him feel any better because usually it was something he did or was doing wrong.
His elder sister Jenny sat at the far end of the round table, clicking her brightly magenta fake nails against the linoleum surface.
She fixed an annoyed stare at Kyle, “Can we just like eat?”
As if one some cue, the teenage plastic waitress, her coral tinted brown hair clashing with her tight fire engine red uniform.
“So,” her rakish speech was accented by a pop of gum, “What can I get you fer?
Jenny rolled her eyes, his mother stared dagger at his father for giving the girl a little more than a once-over, and Kyle feverishly wished to be anywhere else; even his six period Algebra II class, even the shrink’s office.
“Uh…I’ll have Number 7 with a coke, that’ll be regular, none of this diet shit, and a side salad instead of fries, ranch dressing.” Jenny pouted at the waitress and picked up the menu between two fingers and shoved it at the girl.
“The special for me and a draft,” His father barked, leering at Kyle as if he was the cause of all his problems.
Kyle perused the greasy, sticky menu as his mother started a debate about types of cheese.
This was unbelievably a farce.
“Popcorn shrimp and a water,” he voiced before pushing the menu away and trying to wipe the grease from his fingers on the edge of the table, only to find it was as disgustingly stick as the menu.
) and they really sucked.
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