Chapter Text
I was absolutely fuming in the backseat of the car.
Mom knew this wasn't going to work. And yet she was forcing me to do this anyway. All because of what she thought was wrong with me.
There was NOTHING wrong with me.
I took a few deep breaths. I needed to calm down before I started yelling or stomping my foot again. If I did that, things would be even worse…
Glancing out the window, I saw we were going over a bridge. It must have rained recently because the lake we were driving over seemed so full of water, almost like it was about to overflow.
I could relate to the lake. I was about to overflow as well– not in tears– but in rage. I pictured myself, as I had many times, strangling my mother to death. It made me feel more relaxed. One day she would die and never force me to do anything ever again!
“I know this is hard, Evan, but just give it a go. At least talk to him.” Mom said in her nasal, annoying voice.
It took all my might to keep my cool. Usually when I lost control of myself, I spewed out whatever thoughts I was having as I thought them. If I lost control of myself now, I doubt I'd even be able to say anything coherent. I'd probably just scream and scream and scream.
It's OK, I thought to myself. I just need to be calm. Think of calm things.
I looked out the window again. There was a homeless man begging.
All the memories of last week came back to me.
I groaned, holding my head in my hands. I hated this so much. Even if losing control of myself and getting angry and violent made my life worse, at least it made me feel better afterwards. But now there was no way I could let my anger out, not after what Dad and Mom had threatened.
I could tell Mom was looking back at me in the rear-view mirror. I didn't look up at her. I didn't want to see her face.
More deep breaths.
I kept telling myself just to breathe.
Everything would be fine.
I just had to control myself.
“We can get McDonald's after this, if you'd like.” Mom offered gently. I could feel us turning a corner as she spoke.
Again, I didn't say anything. I didn't trust myself to say anything. Although Mcdonalds did sound good…
Mom was always going on about how if I ate crappy food it would just make my moods worse. It was kind of stupid of her to offer me junk food if she thought it would just make me even more troublesome to deal with later, but I certainly wasn't going to warn her of that.
I hoped this guy, whoever it was I was supposed to be talking to, was nice. Usually men don't like me so they're jerks to me. Actually, scratch that. Women don't usually like me either. Nobody likes me, really.
Well, whatever. If this guy was a jerk, I'd show him just how much of a jerk I could be right back. He'd probably be hoping to get therapy himself by the end of this stupid therapy session.
All therapists start out the same; with the goal to help people down on their luck, just like they themselves once were. But soon they realize that the majority of people are simply incurably stupid and sad and cause all of their own problems. There is no hope for 99% of humans. Probably 100%, but Mom says to keep an open mind, so that's my compromise to her… only 99% instead.
All I had to do was get through this stupid therapy session/meeting thing. Then I would be free. Mom would give me McDonalds. We would go back home and I'd go up to my room and be safe again from the disgusting outside world.
I sighed, calmer now. Imagining being back at home, after this all was over, made me feel so much better. I would probably binge watch my favorite show again when I got home. It had Wonyung in it, my favorite idol. She was the only good thing on this stupid planet where nothing was even remotely nice.
Mom's voice snapped me out of fantasizing about Wonyung. “We're here.”
I looked up.
We were in a parking lot behind an old looking schoolhouse. This was the place? I gave her a suspicious look. This building choice for a therapy clinic (whatever the name for them is) just seemed weird.
She saw my confusion and shrugged. “It's worth a try. Let's not judge a book by its cover.”
I snorted and opened up the door. I hadn't worn my seatbelt. If we had gotten into an accident and I had died because I hadn't been wearing it, I would have thanked all my lucky stars. Despite my Mom being Asian, she wasn't really that bad of a driver, which was annoying for me. We had never gotten even close to getting into an accident before.
I waited for her to get out of her side of the car and then followed her as she began to walk around the side of the building. I kept my head down and didn't look too closely around me. It was already making me nervous being outside right now… I didn't need to see people either! (Or anything at all, really)
I did look up when we reached the front door. There was a little bell hung up on the front of it that would jingle when you came in. I guess they must like knowing when the next psychopath will enter their building.
“Are you ready?” Mom asked me, somewhat nervously. I could tell she wasn't nervous for me… rather she was nervous of what I might do once we got inside. That just annoyed me even more.
“So ready.” I mumbled as I opened up the door.
The bells jingled loudly. Too loudly.
I shook the door extra as I let my Mom in, just so that they'd know by the extra jingles how extra psycho their new lab rat was.
I followed my Mom down the small hallway leading into the reception area. There was a small plump woman who was behind the desk there. She looked like her name would be Debbie.
I stood over near the window, watching the cars go by as my mom spoke to miss plumpy over there. Mom was probably telling her to evacuate the building as soon as possible if she started to hear me scream from the therapist's room.
A moment later Mom sat down on one of the chairs. I plopped down next to her on the floor.
She whispered, “I thought we talked about this.”
I ignored her. I liked sitting on the floor. It wasn't against the law or anything. If someone got seriously upset with you for sitting on the floor, it wasn't really your fault if you punched them.
Maybe Mom was a secret psychic because she shut up after that. I continued to look at the cars going by out the window as I sat on the floor. I thought of how lovely it would be to get hit by one of them.
A few minutes later a casually dressed man walked into the room. He had a cup of coffee or tea in his hands and was kind of freakishly tall. He made eye contact with me. “Evan?” He called.
My mom was smiling at the man. I got up and tried to stop myself from imagining me shooting her in the face. I always felt guilty after I imagined hurting people with guns… maybe because I knew it was something that could easily happen if I simply obtained one? I didn't want to think about that, though. Today was already full of enough problems.
I barely looked at the freaky tall therapy guy any longer than I had to. He murmured something to me but I didn't hear what it was. He started to walk away, so I guess we must be going to the therapy room now. I glanced back at my mom and hoped she wouldn't go back on her promise of Mcdonalds.
She was still smiling hopefully. As if this might actually work.
I turned back to the tall freak. He was leading me down another hallway now. He wasn't making small talk which I appreciated. He wasn't saying anything at all.
Good.
Or that was until we got to one door on the left hand side. “Here it is,” he said. The door had a little welcome rug in front of it that seemed somehow condescending. Just a big ol welcome text with a bunch of smiley faces. I sure hope he didn't choose that himself. If I had to spend an hour with a person who chose that type of rug, I don't know what I'd do.
I didn't get to think about his dumb welcome rug anymore because he opened up the door.
I went in. It was the usual setup. Chair for him, sofa for me. I sat down on the sofa and quickly decided I really did not care if he got mad at me for putting my shoes on it, so I stretched my whole body out on the sofa and put my dirty shoes right onto it. I looked at him as he got into his chair, daring him to say anything about it.
He didn't say anything. Just smiled at me.
Two minutes went by.
He wasn't saying anything.
I was sick of him staring at me. “You're kind of creepy.” I muttered.
He smiled at me a little. “Usually I like to see what the client starts the conversation with.”
I side-eyed him. This guy was quickly falling under “weird” in my judgement categories.
He paused for a moment, looking at me even more before continuing. “I can tell you don't want to be here.”
I blinked. He was kind of blunt. At least he was honest, though.
“Was it that obvious?” I asked.
“A little. Just a hunch.” He yawned. He seemed so relaxed, somehow. As if this was his home instead of his work place.
I could tell he was going to say something else, but I spoke before he could. “How old are you?”
He smiled again. “I'm forty-five. How old are you?”
“You already know that.” I grumbled.
“Actually, I should have known that, but I forgot. I get numbers mixed around pretty easily. Let me guess. You're sixteen?”
He was so calm, it was almost pissing me off. But it also made me feel sort of relaxed? As if he was rubbing off on me.
“I'm fifteen.” I spoke.
“I was close. Anyway…” he paused again, just for a little this time. “Evan, I don't believe in parents sending their teens or children to therapy if the kid doesn't want to go. It just doesn't work that way. No progress will be made unless the client is willing.”
I raised a brow. “So?” What was he expecting me to do? Cry with joy that he wasn't making me talk about my big, overwhelming feelings?
“So, we don't have to talk at all if you don't want to. I'll tell your mother that I don't take on unwilling clients.” He kept smiling as he spoke. He seemed so confident. “Although, I do think we'd better find something to talk about, as there's not really much else to do here. I'd offer you a coloring page, but I doubt you're interested.”
Was he joking? He was bad at making jokes, then. “Um, I'm good, yeah.” I thought for a second about what he had said about telling my mom that he wouldn't take me as a client anymore. I couldn't help smiling a little. She would be so annoyed.
The therapist guy looked happy when I gazed back up on him. Then he said something annoying. “It's a beautiful day out, but we're stuck in here. It's a shame, isn't it?”
I rolled my eyes. Somehow, I knew it would be okay to do that around him. That he wouldn't get upset with me for it.
He chuckled after seeing my reaction. “I take it that you don't get out much?”
“Do I look that bad?” How did he know that about me immediately?
“Your mother told me some things about you. Although, I might’ve been able to guess by your skin. You're pretty pale.” He rolled his chair over to his desk area and looked through his papers for a moment.
“What are you doing?” I couldn't help asking.
“Looking for something… Here,” he said, pulling out a pamphlet. When he laid it down on the table, I saw what it was.
The same stupid self help pamphlet I'd seen over and over and over again. “How to manage your anger effectively.”
Before I could even react, he continued. “I want you to rip that up.”
“Huh?” Did I hear that right?
He laughed again. “You heard me. Rip it up! It's alright.”
Well, he didn't need to tell me another time. I was kind of a pro at ripping things up at this point.
I took the pamphlet in my hands and began ripping it into tiny pieces. As I did it, I realized this might be a trick. “You aren't going to say ‘notice how you feel better after that’ now, are you?”
The man shook his head. “There's no guarantee that ripping up that paper will make you feel better. But that's what made me feel better when I was younger. Just ripping up the stupid stuff I didn't like or didn't believe in.”
There was silence for a little as he waited for my response.
“Guess my mom told you I don't like the stuff they say in anger management stuff?” I eventually said. Despite talking about anger management, I wasn't getting too angry. So far. Usually when it was brought up, I got upset.
“Yeah. But we don't have to talk about that. We can just rip up pamphlets if you want. I have… way too many extras here.” He opened one of his desk drawers and made an overreaction of a worried face.
Did Mom tell him about how when someone told me to do something, I often wanted to do the opposite of it? If she had, she might’ve actually cracked the code. Because now, for some dumb reason, I actually found myself wanting to talk to him about what was bothering me… even though just minutes before I would have never considered that.
“Um…” I looked out the window from this room. From here, you couldn't see any cars passing by. All you could see was some trees, some grass. It was kind of nice. “I don't mind ripping some up.” I told him.
“Great,” he searched for a minute before beginning to pull out loads from his drawer. I was kind of shocked. There were so many!
“Are you sure you don't need these?” I asked him. “I mean… looks like you're getting rid of all of them.”
“Believe it or not, that's not all. There's still more in the next room over.” He picked one up and started ripping. “We can pick it all up when we're done making our mess.”
I picked one pamphlet up and began ripping it, watching the pieces fall to the floor. As we ripped them up, I was beginning to feel kind of sad, I think. Whatever his name was, this guy was reminding me of how Dad used to be. Before he worked his way up in his company and became a big shot and got invited to all these fancy parties. He spent zero time on me or mom or anything actually important nowadays.
“Do you have any kids?” I asked him after a lot of pamphlets had been destroyed by us.
He shook his head. “The opportunity never came up, but I wouldn't have minded.”
I was surprised by how honestly he answered me. I was quiet for a little longer. “You could still have kids.”
He smiled. “That's true, Evan. Do you want kids?”
Should have seen that question coming. I shook my head. “Think I'd go insane.”
He laughed. “They are a lot of work,” he peeked at his watch. “Well, we'd better start to clean up. By the time we're done, our time will be up.”
There were still more than half of the pamphlets on the table. We'd barely made a dent in the pile.
I felt disappointed about leaving for some reason, even though I had only been calmed down earlier by the thought of finally escaping this session and getting back into my bedroom. I began to pick up the pieces on the floor slowly, hoping that would somehow make this last longer.
When there were only around a dozen pieces left on the floor, I spoke up again. “Um, what's your name?” It had been bugging me.
The therapist looked over at me as he tied his mini garbage bag full of pamphlet pieces up into a knot. “I'm Mike.”
“Okay. Well… um…” I was nervous now that I was actually asking him this. But I couldn't help it. I knew if I didn't do it now, I would never see him again, and I'd regret it. So I spat it out. “Can you tell my mom that I.. that I, uh, am willing to do therapy…?”
Mike smiled. “With me, or in general?”
“Um… with you, I guess.” I wanted to go home, now. I didn't like sucking up to people. I felt like I was complimenting him, which I didn't want to do. But I didn't want to never ever see him again, either.
I hardly spoke to anybody. I didn't like to admit it, but I knew I was probably craving socialization. I told myself so often that I hated socializing because so often my mood swings made all socialization attempts turn out awful for me. But maybe with Mike things would be different. He didn't seem like the other stupid therapists my mom had forced me to see.
And maybe if Mom and Dad saw that I was taking the amazing initiative to go to therapy, then they wouldn't kick me out of the house.
My face must have dropped because Mike suddenly seemed worried about me. “Are you okay?” He asked. Kind of a stupid question for a therapist to ask.
“Yeah. Just tired.” I handed my mini garbage bag to him and he dumped them in the bin.
Before I walked out the door, Mike spoke. “I'm glad you decided to come see me again, Evan.” Mike beamed at me as if I had made his day by doing that.
I smiled sheepishly. Mike kept reminding me of Dad, the old dad. Dad used to say nice things like that to me all the time. Now he could care less about me or anything but himself.
“See you… Mike.” I waved a little wave to him as I left. He waved back happily.
When I got back to the waiting room, Mom looked anxious. She saw me and immediately was trying to read my face and how I was feeling. I sighed. She was so irritating.
“It went fine,” I told her. “He says we can go ahead with the appointment for next week.”
“Oh.” She slowly smiled. “Oh, Evan, I'm so glad that–”
I walked away from her and out the door. I wanted to go home. Or I guess we were going to Mcdonalds first, but who cared? As soon as I was home, I could forget that this had even happened. I could just watch my show and forget everything about today, about last week, about the last five years.
Although maybe remembering Mike wouldn't be so bad.
_____
When we got home, I ran upstairs to my bedroom with my Mcdonalds and immediately turned on Netflix on my computer. I crawled up into my bed and ate while I watched my show. As always, Wonyung was gorgeous in every scene and made me smile at her lines.
That night was pretty much like any other. I watched too much TV, went on my phone for way too long, played video games for way too long– basically doing nothing important or productive. I had nothing important or productive to do anymore.
As always, I decided to watch some porn before bed. Masturbating before sleeping was what I usually did and then when I'd wake up I'd almost always do the same.
Except today, I just couldn't seem to get hard. Nothing was really arousing me, which was annoying, because usually jerking off helped relieve a bit of my stress. But apparently even my dick wasn't going to let me have a good day.
Had it really been a bad day, though? I considered most of my days bad, but usually that was because nothing ever happened in them, and what did happen in them didn't really make me happy.
Seeing Mike– talking to him, ripping up the pamphlets– that had kind of made me happy, in a weird way. Was it because he reminded me of Dad, or how Dad used to be?
I sighed, relaxing against my pillows. Mike had been kind of cool. He seemed so in control of himself and confident, but not even in a cocky way. Just in a self assured manner. And he hadn't told me a bunch of useless bullshit, which I appreciated.
I wondered vaguely if he had a wife. Somehow, I doubted it. He didn't seem like the married type. Although it wouldn't have been hard for someone to imagine him with a woman. He was good looking even for his age– he probably didn't work out too often, but often enough to pay off a little. His attitude and height definitely helped as well.
I let my mind wander for a few moments, thinking about Mike and how he had looked as he spoke to me today. How it had felt when his hands brushed against mine when he had given me the pamphlets.
I felt weird, strange all of a sudden. Almost warm. My boxers felt tighter and It took me a good second to understand that I had somehow managed to get a hard on while thinking of Mike.
But that was probably just a coincidence.
Afterall, that would be totally messed up and wrong and disgusting. Which I am definitely not.
______
I can't wait to see Mike again.