Young Writers Society

"So, tell me what you remember." His words come out slow and thick, and the smell of whisky on his breath floated across the room over to me. A ray of moonlight shined through the window and reflected off of the short glass that still sat perfectly in his hand, displaying the golden liquid that surrounded two perfect ice cubes.

I leaned back against the cushioned leather chair and thought. But nothing came. Half of my mind wanted to declare my anxiety and be free, while the other half wanted nothing but to forget. So similar to the problem of -2+2, my mind continued to cancel out any possible answer.

The clock ticked along, pointing out the evident fact that I still hadn't said a word. A thick hand cuts through the light of the moon and reaches a handle of his glasses, taking them off, and the sound of a soft thud is also heard as he gently closes his book with his other hand that no longer held the glass. "Well it looks like our time has run out on us once again Mr. Collins. Will I be seeing you again here next week?" I nodded in agreement though I wasn't paying attention until I noticed him standing in the door way waiting for me to leave.

By the time my next appointment rolled by, the chains that constricted my mind seemed to loosen up. "How was your week." It eased my mind not having to jump into intense conversation, but somehow the dark green turtle neck thathewore seemed to suffocate me.

"It was decent. My father stopped by for a visit. Its the first time he's been over since..." My voice trailed off.

"Since what?" He asked, wanting me to say it.

"Since the accident." Was I making a break through?

"But it was forced, and he didn't stay long. He wouldn't have come if my mother didn't need more clothes. She's been staying with me ever since."

"Since?"

"The accident." The word stung a little bit less every time I said it. "The accident."

I felt bold.

"And why is that?"

"Why is what? Why can't my father look at me anymore so he never visits? Or do you mean why does my mother expect me to be three people at once?" My head began to pound as I spat out those hateful words, and my hands went clammy out of nervousness. My mind locked up on me and I could say no more. I didn't want therapy, I didn't want to devote an hour and a half of my day every week to sit in a rectangular room at eight at night to be watched by someone who's just good at asking questions.

He didn't say anything, he would just occasionally look up at me then write in his notebook, then back up at me again.

"Is this what I'm paying you for?" My emotions were out of control and I decided that this was my last time going to 'therapy'. I didn't go the next week or the week after that but my routine of leaving the house at a certain time was still kept to calm my mothers nerves. I spent most of my time driving around town, not knowing where to stop. I just wanted to be alone but my thoughts always seemed to follow. After three missed appointments I finally returned. For the first time I was able to see the entirety of his face as he stood in the beam of light that shined in when I opened the door. He was covered in white hair that was sprinkled with specks of black, and a thick indented scar lined from his temple to his jaw. His eyes were the warmest shade of brown and were surrounded by wrinkles.

"Close the door, don't just stand there." He scolded as he turned away.

"I apologize for my absence." I took my usual seat while he made himself a drink and stayed silent.

"I've been doing some thinking these past few weeks, and I realize my problem. I take things in and try to repress them way down so I never feel them. It's wrong but I do it because I don't have someone to talk to other than a random man who knows nothing about me. My brother was my confidant. I could talk to him about anything, and now he's gone. He didn't have to come with me on the train to New York that day, but I asked him to be there for me." The words came pouring out as my mental block melted away. I couldn't stop no matter how hard I tried, I had to say what was trapped on the inside.

"I'd switch places with him in a heartbeat. I was the one who should have died while my brother went to the bathroom." Tears began to form at the corners of my eyes and spill over onto my hot face. "My father blames me, says that I 'killed my favorite son' so that hurts, how was I suppose to know there was a bomb on the tracks. And my mother wants me to be both myself Brayden and my dad all at the same time, and I just can't handle it. I passed by an old park we use to visit, and I cried when I remembered the time my brother comforted me when I fell of the monkey bars and broke my arm." All the while I was giving my speech my eyes stayed either glued to the floor or on my hands which shook, and I secretly wondered if we was still in the room.

Silently the sound of slow claps began to envelope the small dark room. "You did it. You finally expressed your true feelings. I'm glad I was able to reach out to you after the accident." He got up slowly from his chair and went over to his desk, putting down his notebook and bringing a drink over me. "How do you feel now?"

"Not great, but a hell of a lot better." My heart felt a lot lighter.

"What would you do to see your brother again?" His tone changed slightly.

"Anything." I said facing him now, as he sat on the arm rest of his chair sipping his drink.

"You see, something I never told you, I was at the train station that day as well."

"Really?" I said, surprised.

"Oh, yes. I was on the same train as your brother, but like you I got off early too." He let out a small chuckle, "I didn't expect this to be so hard." I was confused by his words. "When you stopped coming I was prepared to come after you no matter the cost. You see, everyone on the train that day was suppose to die. Not one lone survivor. So when I heard that you survived, I had to find a way to get to you. So I volunteered to be your therapist to make sure you were the right person."

"Every time you sat there saying absolutely nothing I wanted to reach into my desk drawer and end it." He held the hand gun with the barrel facing the ceiling, allowing the moon light to shine against it. I couldn't believe what I was hearing. I eyed the door trying to think of an escape plan.

"Don't try to escape. It won't do you any good." His glass clanked against the table as he set it down and stood up. "Don't worry, it won't last long. Besides, you'll be with your brother before long." He raised the gun to my head.

"Please, don't do this! I'll give you anything you want, just please don't!" I hollered frantically.

"Anything?"

"Anything."

"I want satisfaction." The hammer hit the bullet and it flew out, piercing my skull.