Pause, Rewinding To The Times You Hurt.

[behindTHEmask]

((Should I add more about the gang before I close? Should I quote when the narrator talks? I need some help on it. Please comment!))

Part One.

I guess it was time to get help. After everyone starts telling you that you need it, you believe them. Your brain just makes it so that’s a fact; but then again, after what I’ve been through, maybe I do need it. Maybe I’ve just been denying the truth that’s been sitting in front of my face.

So here I am now, admitting it to you, I need help.

Your office is dark. The blinds are blocking the light from shining through, but I guess it makes a better effect on your clients. Personally, it does not impress me. It makes me tired. I would fall asleep, but it feels like I’m sitting on plastic.

“Make yourself comfortable, Mr. Livington.” You sit in your chair, fingers in the shape of a steeple. I took a class in high school telling me that is showing you’re in control. You own me.

I tell you that you can call me Drew.

“Alright, Drew.” You say, taking the pen from your desk. “Where would you like to start?”<br>
I tell you I don’t know. I don’t even want to be here.

You nod lightly, looking me over. “Well, when did you start cutting?”<br>
When I was thirteen, I say pulling my wrists closer to my body.

“And why was that?” You cock an eyebrow, looking intrigued with this. You’ve found somewhere to start.

I wanted pain, I tell you bluntly. The pills weren’t enough.

You lean forward, placing your elbows on your desk. “Pills?”<br>
Yes, pills. Didn’t you hear me?

You nod again. “I heard you. When did you start taking pills?”<br>
When didn’t I? I ask you, tapping my feet on the ground.

“You tell me. This is your story.”<br>
I lost track of time, I tell you. I don’t remember.

“I see.” You scribbled something on that yellow pad of paper. You’re evaluating my sanity. “What made you start taking these pills?”<br>
Life, I tell you as my eyes wander. It got to hard.

“Why did it get so hard?” You asked, leaning back once again in your chair. I learned about that, really, I did. I just don’t remember what it means.

I was entering middle school, I say. People were changing. I was changing.

“Puberty?” You ask.

I tell you more or less.

You write something on that yellow paper again. I hate that paper. “What happened in middle school?”<br>
Nothing special, I say. I was the weird one, got beat up. No big deal.

“Are you sure it’s no big deal?” You question me, again. You enjoy interrogation, don’t you?

I said it was no big deal, I tell you. So it isn’t.

You nod once again. What, hearing things rattle inside your head? “What about high school?”<br>
High school was different, I tell you.

“How was it different?” You ask, leaning forward on your desk again.

I became accepted, I say shuffling my feet around the carpet. I became a part of something.

You arched your left eyebrow. “A part of what, a gang?”<br>
I nodded. Yes, I say. Yes.

You scribble a few words on your paper again. “Times up. We’ll start where we left off tomorrow.” You extend your arm, showing me the door. You’re giving me permission to leave.

Okay, I tell you. Even though it’s not.

[quilleh]

_{Wow...awesome; deep. I can relate, like I really AM sitting in that chair. *Pulls sleeves down* I wanna wear short sleeves...}

[behindTHEmask]

Do you think I should add more of the gang, or save it for part 2?

[behindTHEmask]

Part Two.

I’m sitting here again, on this plastic couch that sticks to my jeans. It’s the second most uncomfortable thing in the world—first is your stare. It’s blank, yet asking my to just reveal myself. You don’t understand that I’m not like that. I’m not open. You have to pry.

“So, tell me about this gang.” You’re tapping the butt of your pen on that yellow paper. You seem bored. I’m sorry I fucking bore you.

What’s there to tell, I ask.

“Why’d you join?”

I needed protection, I tell you. I needed to feel involved in something.

“Why not join a club?”<br>
I mentioned protection, right, I ask you.

You nod. “Yes, you did.”<br>
That’s your answer, I say.

“What kind of protection were you offered in this gang?” You place the butt of the pen in your mouth. Germs. Your desk is infected. Your mouth is now dirty.

More protection then you’ll ever know, I tell you. They were my family.

“What about your mother and father? What did they think of this gang?” You’re leaning back in your chair again. Just like last time. There are only so many positions you can rest in.

I tell you that they didn’t care.

“Are you sure about that?”

I nod. Yes, I’m sure, I say. They were just glad I had friends.

You look at me, a frightened expression crossing your face. “Were they your friends?”<br>
At the time, I tell you. They were at the time.

“What about now?”<br>
I bite my bottom lip, telling you they are just memories.

“So they all hurt you?” You ask, leaning forward. I must be getting more interesting.

More or less, I say. More or less.

“More or less?” You question me, like I don’t know what I am talking about.

Yes, I tell you.

“What do you mean?”<br>
Some of the hurt was physical; some was just emotional, I say.

“Which hurt more?” You’re having fun again with these questions. I’m starting to get annoyed.

I tell you the emotional pain.

“Is that where the cutting came from?” You ask me.

I don’t remember, I say. I told you that.

“No, you said you didn’t remember when you started taking pills. You told me the cutting happened when you were thirteen.”
Then that’s when I started, I tell you.

You write something again. “Did you start anything else after the gang?”<br>
I tell you I started drugs in the gang.

“What kind of drugs?”<br>
Any that I could get my hands on, I say.

“Heroine? LSD? Pot?” You want more details. I prefer being bland.

I nod. All of them, I tell you.

“What about now, do you still take them?” You’re looking at me with wide eyes, like you feel sorry for me. Don’t pitty me. I’m not worth it.

I tell you that’s not important.

“I think it is.” You’re very persistent.

Yes, I do, I say. But I’m trying to stop.

“How are you doing that?” You’re my mental doctor, shouldn’t you know? I thought you kept tabs on my every move.

A clinic, I tell you. I’m getting treated.

You nod. You’re always nodding. It drives me insane. “You said the gang was like family; how was that?”<br>
I correct you by telling you they were family. They protected me from danger.

“But weren’t they your biggest threat?” You create that steeple shape with your fingers again. You’re back in control.

When I was one of them they weren’t, I tell you. They were like my brothers. Especially Jake.

“Jake?” You tap your fingers against your chin.

Yes, Jake, I say.

“Who was Jake?”

I tell you he was a friend.

You ask me another question. “Was he a good friend?”<br>
I glance down at my watch. I tell you times up.

I’m escaping you once again.

[masterairboarder]

i really like this - i can totally relate - its so well written and emotional definately keep going - i wouldnt change anything its great as it is