Falling ♡ Timothée Chalamet

29 - better

I feel this emptiness in my chest as I sit down. The hollowness inside of me is numbing and I want to pinch myself, or at least give my arm a good smack so I can feel something again. The abyss that is my heart feels so vacant, and I don't think I can bare it anymore.

I'm being asked a few dumb questions. Things that are insignificant but still necessary to know. I answer them as best as I can, but my voice is quiet and my eyes are focused on the floor. Dr. Smith clears her throat. 'So, it says here that you inflict pain on yourself sometimes.' I nod my head slowly. 'Does it bring you comfort?' She asks.

I take a moment to reply. She doesn't seem to mind as I gather my thoughts in my head and take a deep breath. 'It's comforting in the moment, but afterwards I start to feel guilty for doing it.' I answer truthfully.

Dr. Smith leans forward so she's closer to me. She tilts her head to the side and studies me with her big brown eyes. 'Why? Why do you feel guilty afterwards?' She asks.

I gulp, fidgeting slightly in my spot and tapping my foot lightly on the ground. 'Because my father used to harm me, and now I'm doing it to myself.' I say, and I watch her nod her head like she understands me, like she gets it.

But she doesn't get it. She can't understand my pain. She didn't experience nights of fear as I trapped myself under my blanket hoping my father would come home and find me asleep so he wouldn't hit me again. She didn't experience the way it felt like when I saw him for the first time, how terrified I was. She didn't experience the relief I felt when I harmed myself for the first time, when I saw the blood on my arm after biting too hard.

She can't know how this feels like. Because she didn't experience it first hand.

Nonetheless, she still looks at me like she comprehends this. 'Do you ever miss him, your father?' The question seems so preposterous, yet I still wonder for a moment if I do miss him. If I miss the person he used to be, the person who I can't seem to vividly remember.

My mom must have fallen in love with him for some reason, she must have seen some good in him that we didn't get to see. That the alcohol didn't mess up. But my answer is still definite. 'No. I don't miss him. I fear him.'

She nods, jotting something down on her paper. 'Why didn't you ever call the police, or tell somebody to come save you? You must have known there was a way to stop him.' She asks this question like there's a simple answer to it. But it was never that simple.

I shake my head in frustration. 'When my mom died, he was at his worst. He abused us everyday, and sometimes he would do it multiple times. In the morning he would target my brother Aaron, the afternoon was me and at night when he got drunk he would hurt the two of us together.'

I watch how her eyes aren't filled with sympathy or remorse. She must have heard worse stories, seen people with more pain in their eyes. I must seem like I'm being over dramatic as I sit here in this chair and tell her what bothers me. But I don't care. Talking about it was helping, even if it felt just a little bit better.

I breathe slowly. 'It got so bad back then that my brother had black eyes and a bruised lip and my neck was filled with so many bruises and marks. Aaron ran down to the police station one night to report him, but they said they wouldn't speak with him unless there was an adult around.'

She furrows her eyebrows. 'And why is that?' She asks.

I shrug. 'They must have thought he was a delinquent. I mean he had the look of one, he looked so badly beat up, like he got himself into trouble all the time. That's probably why they didn't want to hear him out.'