"Thank you for loving me."
❀
No one would think that the Davy Wade would die, much less, kill himself.
He was the epitome of a good person. Some even thought he was the second coming of Christ. But when the shock and confusion of Davy's suicide co...
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t h e p r o b l e m w i t h d a v y
3
p.s this isn't Dawson, I just thought that this is the expression I'm looking for
My parents told me therapy was every Friday for as long as they want me in there. It was run by this gypsy/nurse/teen guru, Hannah Carmichael. The official name of the class was Therapy for Troubled Teens or the Triple T's.
I wanted shoot something when I heard it.
At least now the kids in school and the adults in town have a reason to call me freak.
My parents allowed me to skip school on Friday if I agreed to go to therapy in peace. I was starting to think that school was going to be better than therapy and that was when I knew I hit rock bottom.
The hospital in my town was like every M.D television drama. The four stories were all painted in white, and everything looked a little bit too clean. The receptionist desk was in the middle of the circular foyer, and if you tilted your head back you could see the rest of the floors and the glass ceiling. It was very contemporary for a hospital, but it still had the same aura. I've always hated hospitals for as long as I remembered. I felt so much anxiety being in a place where someone was coming to life the same time someone gave their last breath.
My mother walked with me to the receptionist desk with a smile plastered on her face and a grip on my shoulder reminding me about my agreement. She was good at that.
"Good morning, I was wondering where Therapy for Troubled Teens is being held?" I cringed at the name, and adverted my gaze from the receptionist. I bet a thousand dollars she looked me up and down, taking in my black winter jacket with its hood up, my dark wash jeans, and my worn out sneakers thinking I'm some devil worshipper, an angsty teen who is just 'misunderstood', or something like that. People always did that shit.
"It's right down that hall," she said as she pointed to the last hallway on her right. "And all you have to do is walk all the way down until you see a red door and you're there." Her smile was all teeth and nothing else. It annoyed me, but my mom loved it. My mom nodded her head, and walked me to the beginning of the hallway.
"I think I can manage," I stopped walking, and turned to her abruptly. She looked at me, then down the hallway, and then back at me. I hated when she did that.
"I'll pick you up at 7 PM alright?" She reached her hands out, but I started walking by then.
While walking down the long hallway I really tried to keep my eyes on the white tile beneath my feet but my mind thought otherwise. I found myself looking in each room I passed. I didn't know why. Maybe it was for curiosity, or maybe it was for the slight chance I may see Davy happily sitting on one of the hospital beds reading one of this favorite books by Charles Bukowski. I turned my head to the floor after that thought. I forcefully kept my head down until I reached the end of the hallway, and faced that damn red door. I felt this overwhelming fear when I reached for the off gold door handle. I really didn't want to be here. One reason is because I think it's not worth it. Therapy won't bring Davy back and that's the only thing that could make this easier. Second reason is that I didn't want the label of crazy. I know I shouldn't care about labels and how people perceive you, but I would be lying if I said I didn't care at all.
