Eyes Bright, Uptight {EDITING}

//i wanna, i gotta be adored//

OH MAN YOU GUYS. Totally in the feels after writing this. LOVE YOU ALL. Getting closer and closer to the end and it's breaking my little heart. This picture of Matty (AND HIS NEW TATTOO) is making me feel a lot better, though.

{Play "I Wanna Be Adored" by The Stone Roses, "Do You Want It All" by Two Door Cinema Club, and "Hearts Like Ours" by The Naked and Famous}

THREE MONTHS LATER

{Matty's POV}

His name was Gabriel Hall, and he was dark-skinned, built, classically handsome. His voice was earnest, slow, and deep. He should have been able to help me; but I suppose I was refusing to let him. Dr. Hall came as a packaged deal with my useless fourteen-day stint in a detox facility. His therapy sessions were the icing on the cake.

Hann and Ross had talked me up, or, rather, talked me down, saying I was going to kill myself and they couldn't watch it anymore. George stood next to them, sad and silently nodding. I had told them to fuck off, but went anyways to satisfy their need to fix something that was inherently broken.

The treatment facility was a joke. The interior was nicer than most hotels I had been to, and it was fully-equipped to appease every celebrity or wealthy person's needs: excessively large bathrooms, bedrooms out of furniture ads, a full gym, an idoor and outdoor pool, fridge stocked with food way, way too healthy.

My roommate was an actor in his 50s, still reliving the fame from a TV show he was on in the 80's.  I had forgotten what the show was called, but his name was Thom, and he had brought in cocaine via his girlfriend, who was young enough to be his daughter. We we stayed high nearly the entire time. It was one of those rehabs not intended for treatment, but more for the illusion of treatment. They didn't even do randoms. The house helpers were more about picking up after us and asking us if we needed anything than checking our rooms or strip-searching us.

I supposed, though, Dr. Hall was not a joke. We had shared daily, one-hour therapy sessions over my stint and the rehab and I was continuing to see him every Thursday. He had scared the shit out of me more than once, though his tone was low and his body language friendly.

He would ask me questions like, "How was today, Matty?" or "How are you getting along with your housemates?" and I'd answer with "Oh, pretty good" and "Just fine." Then he'd throw me for an absolute loop and throw in questions like "Is cocaine the only thing you believe you're addicted to?" and "Tell me a little more about the girl you always mention. Claire?"

I liked the room; it's just that I hated being in it. The room was a muted beige, Dr. Hall's degrees hung like prizes he'd won, straight and centered amongst nice photographs of London's buildings downtown. His desk was tidy, orderly, military-like. There was a miniature modern-art scupture at one corner, a slim Macbook in the center, and a framed photograph of his wife, and his gorgeous children. The boy looked like him.

"I won't ask how you're obtaining the cocaine, Matty," Dr. Hall began, his crisp grey slacks crossed over the other at he knee. "That's not entirely too hard to figure out."

I shrugged, not seeing the sense in lying to him, but also not seeing the sense in trying to defend myself either.

"Would you like help? Are you ready to recover, Matthew?" he asked me.

I twiddled with my hair tie, testing out the elasticity as I seriously contemplated this.

"No, not really," I admitted.

Dr. Hall nodded once, his head resting at his hand, thumb and index finger making the shape of an "L" at his jaw and ear, respectively.

"Why not?" he asked me.