Blighted Soul

My eyes graze the mess hall. People are talking and sitting with friends they’ve made here, while I sit alone and nibble on a chicken finger. I usually ate in in the privacy of my room, but I’d been here for almost three weeks and wanted a change of scenery. So here I was.

He catches me by surprise, snatching a chicken finger off my plate and biting into it. “Ah,” he says with a sigh, “The chicken fingers are divine.”

Normally, I would have been irritated with him, but for some reason, I feel oddly comfortable. “It beats the mashed potatoes,” I say mildly. “They’re more paste than anything.”

He points a finger at me, eyes wide with agreement. “So true!” He exclaims, taking a seat beside me. He then bends his head close to mine and I find myself leaning closer to hear him. He speaks in a hushed voice. “Between you and me, though: I could hook you up with some food. You know. From the outside.”

I can’t help but laugh at this. He makes it sound like we’re in prison. It wasn’t illegal to have food brought to you. It was only against the rules to leave and get it yourself. “Thanks, but I think I can just have my brothers bring me food.”

He leans back in his chair, eyebrows raised. He folds his hands behind his head of close-cropped, dark brown hair. “Ah, I thought you were an orphan like me.”

“Orphan?” I ask, interest seeping into my tone.

“I don’t get any visitors,” he says with a shrug.

“No one?” I ask softly.

“Not a soul.”

I stir uncomfortably in my seat. I want to ask him questions, but I don’t want to be too nosy. I mean, what was the standard conversation for two rehab patients anyway? Before I can come up with something to say, he says, “Anyway, I was just realizing how funny it is that I’ve never seen you around here. I mean, I’ve been here for six months and we have never run into each other.”

My eyes widen. “Six months?” I ask incredulously. The longest I’d ever been here was two months and even that felt like a century. I couldn’t imagine being here for half a year.

“Yes, sir,” he says with a nod and a smile that makes his gray eyes glint.

“Christopher,” someone calls from right behind us. We both turn around to see a well-dressed, middle aged man. The notepad in his hand is unmistakable. He’s a therapist and the boy sitting next to me doesn’t look happy to see him. I can tell the feeling is mutual by the way the man is nearly scowling.

“Heeeyy, Jonathan.” Christopher says unenthusiastically, leaning back in his seat.

“You’re over twenty minutes late for your session. Anything to say for yourself?” Jonathan asks in a quipped voice.

Christopher purses his lips in thought, arms crossed over his chest. “Yeah…” He says before looking him directly in the eyes. “You suck.”

My eyes widen, not in shock, but because I’m impressed. I can’t count how many times I’ve wanted to tell my therapist that. Jonathan simply looks at Christopher, unimpressed. “I don’t even understand why your father continues to pay for your treatment here. Clearly it’s a waste.”

“I’ll tell you why,” Christopher says, rising from his seat with his palms spread out on the table. “It’s because he’s a man who has way more money than he knows what to do with. Oh, and he’d rather send me away to be dealt with than to deal with me himself.” He turns to me with the utmost kindness on his face. You would never guess the troubling things coming out of his mouth. “We should hang out sometime. There isn’t anything better to do around here, is there? You can find me in the recreation room.”

I’m left dazed as he follows after his therapist.