Okay

.19.

Mo throws his arm around my shoulder, it feels heavier than it normally does like it might push me straight through the concrete.

"See you later Dr. Gregory." He says as we walk out the door. It doesn't even have time to shut before Mo says "that was a good one yeah?"

No.

It fucking sucked.

I don't want to rehash my childhood. I don't want to talk about the loneliness that resides in my bones, so engraved in them it'll never go away.

"It's all a process." Mo continues. "I know it's hard, but it's worth it I promise."

What's the point though? My parents don't even care. They've made it obvious. I haven't even spoken to my mom since my family therapy session that exploded. The only reason I hear from my dad is because I'm his slave. Julia, I don't even know if she cares.

But as usual I don't voice any of this out loud. "Yeah."

He looks at me. "Drew."

"Hmm?" I mumble.

"You've got to talk for this to work." He says.

I laugh through my nose. "I did, where were you?"

All I did was talk. I told Dr. Gregory everything he wanted to hear, answered all his questions.

"You're holding back." Mo accuses me his arm falling from my shoulders.

I feel defeated. "I'm not Mo. I'm doing everything you want. I swear."

The elevator doors close, sealing us in together. With my mistakes and my lies and everything I can't be.

"I can only do so much for you Drew." He sounds frustrated and I want to tell him to stop then.

That he created this. If he had just let me go that night he wouldn't be here trying to fix something that's too broken.

Somethings just aren't worth fixing, you're better off throwing them away.

The air around us falls silent and I'm thankful. I stare at the floor my mind focused on the pit that's slowly over taking my insides. I don't know how to explain to anyone that it's not just a thought, it's not a mood. That it feels like there's something in me, broken and oozing it's venom into my soul. That it's a tangible thing like if someone cut me open, there it'd be, in all it's disgusting darkness.

It's consuming. And I haven't been able to fight back in a long fucking time. It's won.

The doors open and Mo lets me out first. He waits until we're both in his truck, driving of course because he likes to trap me when he wants to talk. I fucking hate it.

"Taking your antidepressants? I nod. "Regularly?" I nod again but not before I let out an irritated sigh.

"Do any drugs recently?" He asks.

"No."

"Been drinking?"

Blowing out a sigh, I roll my eyes. I can't convince him alcohol and drugs aren't my problem. Living is. I stare out the window, watching everything shift into a blur as he increases speed.

"The other night." I answer truthfully but only because he'll be pleased I was actually hanging out with people. "With Alec and Owen."

"Yeah?" He sounds too hopeful. "You and Owen patching things up?"

I snort, he clearly doesn't know Owen well. "No, we won't be either."

"Aw come on, you seem like you guys are starting to hang out again. That's gotta mean something."

Glancing over at Mo, I wonder how he still looks the same. Massive, fit, clean cut. Where has the past six years gone? Why hasn't he changed? Why does he seem completely unaffected by everything?

"It's fine." I'm fine, I know better than to think Owen and I will ever be like we were. He tolerates me. "I don't expect us to be friends again."

"I bet if you just talked to him."

I've talked. I've begged. He's yelled. Shit I swear he even tried to bust my ankles that day in the hallway when everything exploded. Sort of wished he had. Maybe he would have hated me less.

"Can we stop? Talking."

I'm done being analyzed for the time being. I don't want to sit there and have Mo try and pick his way through my thoughts and feelings. He'll surely be disappointed.

I let my gaze drop to my lap, my mind focusing on the desperation that seems to be touching every corner of my body, swallowing me whole until there's nothing to grab hold of. There's no more hope.

Mo lets out a resigned sigh. "No Drew, we can't stop talking."

Tears want to flood my eyes but I laugh instead. Dry and humorless, frustrated.

"You can't keep it inside son, you have to talk about how you're feeling."

But that's what he doesn't get. I can't feel, the small amount I can I'm not keeping it inside. He just doesn't like what I have to say.

"I've told you already." I tell him, I can't muster up any emotion at the moment. My voice flat, too calm, I sound off. "I'm tired and I don't want to be alive anymore."

"Stop Drew." Panic fills his voice, urgent and angry. "You don't mean that."

"I do." It's absolutely what I mean.

"No you don't. This is just a rough patch. You're just overwhelmed and confused."

I shake my head no, I'm not the one confused or in denial. He is.

"I'm not, Mo. I'm fucking depressed and nothing is working." Can't he see it? Can't he hear it in my voice? "I don't want to feel like this anymore."

The leather of his steering wheel creaks as he wrings it with his hands.

"I just want it to stop." I whisper, the words too heavy for me to get out.

Mo stretches his arm out across his truck cab. It falls on my shoulder.

"It will Drew. I promise. You just gotta give it time." He begs.

But any length of time feels too long.

————————

All I can think about is how this is day two. Maybe it's because it hit so hard to home. I also can't stop thinking about what went through his mind. As he realized he lost control on the ice and snow covered road and his car traveled into oncoming traffic. Did time slow down? Did he think about his mom and his brother and sister? Was he scared? Did he pray? I know he wasn't a religious man.

There's a quote by John Green from Looking to Alaska. I read the book forever ago but this quote sort of haunts me in moments like this.

"What is an "instant" death anyway? How long is an instant? Is it one second? Ten? The pain of those seconds must have been awful as her heart burst and her lungs collapsed and there was no air and no blood to her brain and only raw panic. What the hell is instant? Nothing is instant. Instant rice takes five minutes, instant pudding an hour. I doubt that an instant of blinding pain feels particularly instantaneous."

We don't know anything other than he was pronounced dead at the scene but I hope for his sake that it was instant and I hope that "instant" isn't particularly long.

2/27/20 Bryan