Popping Cherries

Since that evening, we’ve been using that secluded spot as a way to let off our issues. She obviously did more of the venting then me, but I’m not complaining, it is better to listen to her speak then listen to the constant nagging of my thoughts.

The night feels cold, colder then usual in California, and I curl up into a ball under the thin blanket that adorns my bed. Closing my eyes, I start imagining Cashier Girl, who is literally nothing like-

I can’t even summon up that bitch’s name again. It makes me want to slaughter something. Without a hint of mercy.

Cashier Girl… short, blue eyes, red hair. Glasses.

It’s all my mind can create since my last visit to her store. I slam my fist into a rail that lines the bed in frustration. The pain feels nice and soothes me, my eyes begin to feel heavy.

Casey…

I am out like a light.



Normal morning routine rolls around and I feel like I am forgetting something. Something that is probably deemed important.

“Fuck…”

“Mr. Sykes, Dr. Greggor wants to see you today,” Hannah says in her most pleasant voice, I can tell she wasn’t pleased to hear such an expletive fly out of my mouth. I nod and attempt to loosen the atmosphere with a smile. Instead I receive a look away as I pass by.

Hannah follows a few paces behind, to make sure I go to Greggor’s office, probably. I open and close the door before she even has a chance to poke her head in.

“Hello Oliver,” Dr. Greggor says evenly, he is leaning back in his chair and balancing a gold ballpoint between his thumb and index, “It’s been a while since we’ve last spoken.”

“Aye.”

“Jane and Hannah say you’ve been recovering quite beautifully for the past… three and a half months now? Yes. Three and a half months. You have one and a half more to go, how does that make you feel?”

“Fucking brilliant.” Just because I’m recovering doesn’t mean I need to be polite. The guy maddens me anyway.

“You’ll have been here for five months soon-” Fucking duh, “And still no manners. British people are a strange bunch, aren’t you all?”

I give him a hard stare. Fuck him.

He keeps talking anyway, indifferent to my silence, “So, I have an offer, because of your excellent recovery time, that you can be let out a week early. Would you like that?”

Of course I would. But his condescending voice makes me want to punch his face and chew his arms off. My feet are hard pressed on the ground, I know this guy is just as sick of me as I am of him. This battle of the wills has been going on since I’ve been coherent enough to hold a decent conversation.

Greggor gives me a weary look, waiting patiently, or maybe not so much, for my reply.

“No,” I say, “I’ll ride the entire rehabilitation through.”

Disappointment is evident but hastily covered as he turns to a file cabinet and pulls out a manila folder with my name on it in bold, black lettering.

“Look, Mr. Sykes, this is all of your papers,” He says, splaying them out before me. One of them has my picture clipped to it, and he points at it with a thin finger, “All I have to do is sign on this particular one right here and you’d be free to go as of right now. I know you can’t stand me and I fucking hate your guts, so the sooner you leave the quicker we don’t have to see each other anymore.”

It’s probably not even legal for the guy to talk to me like this, but I don’t give a shit because he actually has a point. Yet, it only causes me to want to twist the knife harder into this bloke’s stomach. I shake my head, “My final answer is no. My friends and family want me to go through with this, so I am.”

If there is any plus side of me, it’s that I stick to my promises.

“Fine,” Dr. Greggor sighs, “You are excused.”