Following one counter lunch and two table mates with foul breath, I nearly leap for joy when the clock strikes 5:00 p.m. and I am let out of the police station. Detention done. I grab a red alarm clock on my ride home, one the shared features of a yatch and an owl, befitting of creepy huts.
It feels like home is coming to me and not the other way around. I see the mildewed doorstep draw closer, taking form among hedges of ixora. I can almost hear the engine of my father's Ford on the day that I was unceremoniously banished to this hut.
I'm here for being violent, cursed with grief, blessed with parents who know when to call off their parental superintendence punishable by my giving them the silent treatment, when to help with luggage, and when simply to go away.
I guess the reason my parents insist on therapy for me is the violence. I'm calm most of the time, but when the switch goes off in my head, I see red. It must be tough for my parents, having to deal with me. It's tough enough having to deal with myself.
I settle down to my homecoming routines, waiting for seven. For Jack. My life's really that hopelessly empty.
YOU ARE READING
My Jack Side
Mystery / ThrillerA grieving boy falls in love with his therapist. Of course, he makes nothing about how he feels known. Except his longing to meet Jack, this twisted yet addictive therapist he's contacted only through writing. But that will be the pit of it all. Whe...
