Phony

Frank

If you were to walk by my house, all you would hear is screaming and banging. Profanity would be slipping through the walls, broken by my fists. Pain would drip off each syllable that passed through my lips, and you could probably even smell the salt from my tears, with the state I was in.

I knew going to this therapist was a bad idea.
A horrid idea. Stupid, putrid, despicable, horrific, bad, bad, bad idea.

The therapist made me remember. Made me resurrect him, summon him from the ashes of my forgotten memories. Feelings that had been washed away by tears came flooding back. Things I had noticed about him things that made me tick—the way his nose twitched when he would draw, the way his lips would pull slightly to one side as he talked, the glint of adolescence in his eyes when he talked, his mischievous smirk as he leaned into me, his breath smelling of cancer, wrapped up in a piece of paper. The things I worked so hard to erase, to never dwell on again.

His face was once again burned into my eyelids, lingering in front of my eyes whenever they were closed, so close for me to reach, to touch, to feel.

But never close enough.

And by now, you’d be standing uncertainly outside my house, noticing that my screams had quieted to sobs, which had faded into whimpers. The banging had completely ceased. You’d be wondering if you should be a good citizen, a good neighbor, a good person and ring my bell to see if I was okay.

But, of course, that would be the point where human instinct would kick in. You’d realize that you didn’t care, it didn’t benefit you, therefore you’d carry on your pitiful life and forget about the broken man inside that house.

You’d walk away. You’d leave me.
Just like Dad left.
Just like Mom left.
Just like my sister, Kacey, left.
Just like Gerard left.

And you’d leave a broken man in your path.