Without The Words

Chapter 20

A bright yellow light erupted my daze. I groggily pushed myself off the ground.

"Guess your dad is here," Donnie murmured as he pushed himself off the ground as well. "Want me to tell Vera you left?"

I nodded and whipped out my notepad again. Thanks so much, I wrote. Hope I see you again.

"Yeah, me too," Donnie said. He waved me a goodbye and turned around. I smiled to myself when I watched him take out his flask again and gulp down whatever liquid he had in it.

I followed the blinding light until eventually my dad's familiar car came into view. I slid into the passenger seat, the familiar scent and confinement of being safe overloading my senses. I leaned my head against the seat and took a deep breath.

"Rough night?" He asked. I nodded.

"I can smell beer, but I can already tell you didn't drink, so I'll let this slide."

To be honest, I hadn't even thought about getting in trouble for being at a party with drinking involved. It's not like I could get grounded for much, anyways. I usually didn't do anything after school, nor do I use my phone often. There would be nothing to take away if I were grounded.

The rest of the ride was silent, and when we reached home, my head slammed down on my pillow so fast that I had forgotten to undress, and so I slept with my dirty, beer-stained dress and Converse on.

The next morning, my father set me up with an appointment for another therapist. He claimed it was mandatory, dealing with trauma and all. None of my sessions ever ended well. Talking about my mother didn't help me at all, but all the therapists seemed to think otherwise.

"Good afternoon," the middle-aged lady said, her strawberry blond hair firmly tucked into a bun. Her face was caked with makeup. She gave me a tight smile and gestured to the red cushioned seat in front of her, in which I slowly took. I felt her eyes watching my every move, inspecting my social skills. "I'm Patricia Gomes. You may refer to me as Patricia."

I stared back at her, completely silent and fiddling with my shaking fingers. I didn't like being alone in the room with her like this. It felt like the walls were gradually closing in on me. I dropped my gaze to the floor and focused on the tiny specks of sky blue mixed into the white fuzzy rug beneath me.

"How have you been coping?" She asked.

I shrugged nonchalantly and began to pick at the sleeve of my sweater. She had placed a paper and pen in front of me on her desk, but I hadn't touched it. I refused to communicate with her.

"Poppy." She urged, nudging the paper and pen to the tip of the desk. I shook my head at her, attempting to indicate that I would not talk about it.

"If you want to get better, you need to communicate with me. I know it is hard facing what is constantly pulling you down, but it's time you take a step out of your comfort zone." Patricia said calmly. I, on the other hand, was growing impatient. This session was a waste of time and money.

I angrily shot out of my seat and left the room, slamming the door behind me. My father was sitting in the waiting room, reading a magazine that probably bored him, due to the emotionless expression on his face.

"What happened?" He asked me, placing the magazine down and standing to his height. I immediately collided into his chest and began sobbing. He stroked my hair and let me cry into him for a while, until eventually we both left the place together and drove home, the session playing out the same way it always did.

Come Monday morning, I was an eager bundle of overwhelming emotions. The classes uneventfully and sluggishly blurred by, fifth period drawing nearer but simply not quick enough.