Status: Done.
The Blood, Sex and Booze: Boy called Kill.
Routine
Some point between starting my story and finishing it I had set my coffee, cold and neglected, on the table and began to weep. Autumn remained where she was, a curious look on her face. She passed me a box of tissues but offered me no comfort of her own. I sniffled and whimpered into a soft Kleenex for a good fifteen minutes before I was able to gain some control.
“I think we should call it a day Mr Armstrong.” She smiled at me.
I nodded and gently stood up.
“D-don’t tell anyone.” I whispered.
“I won’t. I can’t. But, Billie Joe, we’ll work through this.”
Again, I nodded, without actually believing or heeding her words. It wasn’t as simple as just working through it; she knew it and I knew it. What utter bullshit.
I met the same nurse at the door and followed her in silence back to my room. The radio was switched on in the corner and I lay curled up into a tight ball on my bed. The events of the last hour or so spun through my head, carelessly crashing into the fragile sides of my cranium.
The song was only a blur, a buzzing in my ears but it chased the smothering silence. In the silence you often retreated into your own head and after the session I had just had with Autumn it was the last thing that I wanted.
A nurse peered around my door, issuing her usual checks. However another appeared a mere twenty minutes later and I was struck with the sudden thought; Autumn has ordered a watch party on me. She did it every time she had an emotional session with one of her patients.
I sighed and allowed them to continue, pretending it was undetected. In all fairness I didn’t mind the constant interruptions as long as they left the stereo on; I was fine with my static.
****
Later that evening, after I neglected my dinner, I was taken to the visiting room. It was a room every patient either loathed or loved; more often it was a bit of both. The walls were pastel green with paintings by various patients. Unsurprisingly most of the patients in the hospital were artistic types whom found it easier to express themselves through writing, singing, dancing or painting. Of course I would fit in right away but I just had no intention of doing so.
Mike and my mother were sitting upon one of the overstuffed couches. The nurse watched me carefully until I took my rightful place in a recliner opposite and then she left the room. Silence followed.
My mother just gazed at me through tired eyes, she looked older than the last time I had seen her and, although she smiled, I knew it was genuine. Mike was a much better actor than my mother; he was also stronger and dealt with things in a better way. He moved towards me and gently wrapped his strong arms around my frail body.
I stiffened, as I usually do when people touch me. He immediately pulled away and retreated to my mother’s side with a rather downcast expression on his handsome face.
“We spoke to Dr Autumn a moment ago.” My mother cooed, still carrying off that stupid smile, “What a nice woman.”
“Olly.” Mike warned.
He often did this when my mother began to go off topic. He knew she could go on for hours about something completely unrelated to what she had first intended and so he took it upon himself to stop her. He also did it to speed things up, afraid that I would become upset if confined with them for too long.
Of course he didn’t know I knew this; as far as he thought, I was a vegetable.
I just watched them as I usually did, my legs pulled up to my chin and my head resting lazily upon my knees. Gently I swayed from side to side, just to have something to do besides stare. My mother continued to speak about how things were at home and how well Autumn said I was doing.
My mother never used the word ‘progress’. She saw the way I always turned my nose up at the word and knew that I hated it. Mike decided to go against my wishes and continued to use it regardless.
“She also told us you had started to talk about what happened.” Mike spoke this time in a low whisper.
My eyes snapped up to meet his.
“Of course she wouldn’t tell us what it was.” My mother continued, her tone somewhat annoyed.
“Olly, she can’t. It’s a confidentiality thing.”
“I know, I know. I just can’t stand this.” She looked to me, “I want you to get better Billie. I don’t want to see you so…haunted anymore.” She began to weep and her hand went to cover her breast, “It hurts baby.”
I felt my eyes welling with their own tears. A lump was forming in my throat and my body began to tremble. I couldn’t take this.
***
My own white room, with its stiff blankets and wardrobe full of my own clothes, was my domain for the rest of the evening. For a while I stared at the ceiling, listening to the same track as I had before. After midnight I paced the floor in silence.
Tonight, sleep was not on the menu. I would much rather feel the pains of heavy eyelids than see him behind them.
“I think we should call it a day Mr Armstrong.” She smiled at me.
I nodded and gently stood up.
“D-don’t tell anyone.” I whispered.
“I won’t. I can’t. But, Billie Joe, we’ll work through this.”
Again, I nodded, without actually believing or heeding her words. It wasn’t as simple as just working through it; she knew it and I knew it. What utter bullshit.
I met the same nurse at the door and followed her in silence back to my room. The radio was switched on in the corner and I lay curled up into a tight ball on my bed. The events of the last hour or so spun through my head, carelessly crashing into the fragile sides of my cranium.
The song was only a blur, a buzzing in my ears but it chased the smothering silence. In the silence you often retreated into your own head and after the session I had just had with Autumn it was the last thing that I wanted.
A nurse peered around my door, issuing her usual checks. However another appeared a mere twenty minutes later and I was struck with the sudden thought; Autumn has ordered a watch party on me. She did it every time she had an emotional session with one of her patients.
I sighed and allowed them to continue, pretending it was undetected. In all fairness I didn’t mind the constant interruptions as long as they left the stereo on; I was fine with my static.
****
Later that evening, after I neglected my dinner, I was taken to the visiting room. It was a room every patient either loathed or loved; more often it was a bit of both. The walls were pastel green with paintings by various patients. Unsurprisingly most of the patients in the hospital were artistic types whom found it easier to express themselves through writing, singing, dancing or painting. Of course I would fit in right away but I just had no intention of doing so.
Mike and my mother were sitting upon one of the overstuffed couches. The nurse watched me carefully until I took my rightful place in a recliner opposite and then she left the room. Silence followed.
My mother just gazed at me through tired eyes, she looked older than the last time I had seen her and, although she smiled, I knew it was genuine. Mike was a much better actor than my mother; he was also stronger and dealt with things in a better way. He moved towards me and gently wrapped his strong arms around my frail body.
I stiffened, as I usually do when people touch me. He immediately pulled away and retreated to my mother’s side with a rather downcast expression on his handsome face.
“We spoke to Dr Autumn a moment ago.” My mother cooed, still carrying off that stupid smile, “What a nice woman.”
“Olly.” Mike warned.
He often did this when my mother began to go off topic. He knew she could go on for hours about something completely unrelated to what she had first intended and so he took it upon himself to stop her. He also did it to speed things up, afraid that I would become upset if confined with them for too long.
Of course he didn’t know I knew this; as far as he thought, I was a vegetable.
I just watched them as I usually did, my legs pulled up to my chin and my head resting lazily upon my knees. Gently I swayed from side to side, just to have something to do besides stare. My mother continued to speak about how things were at home and how well Autumn said I was doing.
My mother never used the word ‘progress’. She saw the way I always turned my nose up at the word and knew that I hated it. Mike decided to go against my wishes and continued to use it regardless.
“She also told us you had started to talk about what happened.” Mike spoke this time in a low whisper.
My eyes snapped up to meet his.
“Of course she wouldn’t tell us what it was.” My mother continued, her tone somewhat annoyed.
“Olly, she can’t. It’s a confidentiality thing.”
“I know, I know. I just can’t stand this.” She looked to me, “I want you to get better Billie. I don’t want to see you so…haunted anymore.” She began to weep and her hand went to cover her breast, “It hurts baby.”
I felt my eyes welling with their own tears. A lump was forming in my throat and my body began to tremble. I couldn’t take this.
***
My own white room, with its stiff blankets and wardrobe full of my own clothes, was my domain for the rest of the evening. For a while I stared at the ceiling, listening to the same track as I had before. After midnight I paced the floor in silence.
Tonight, sleep was not on the menu. I would much rather feel the pains of heavy eyelids than see him behind them.