“Why don’t we begin with you telling me a little bit about yourself, Caspian.”
My new shrink looks like a shrink. Big wire-framed glasses, her light brown hair in a low bun tied tightly at the nape of her neck, a stone gray oversized knit sweater over a white floral blouse and black slacks. She’s got a pad of paper in her lap and a black pen between her fingers, ready to write her judgements and assumptions about me based on what I do or don’t say.
The couch I’m sitting on is black leather, and her office is bright, airy. The entire back wall is floor-to-ceiling windows, a view of the turquoise waters and the thick greenery front and center. There are no picture frames placed strategically around the room indicating a spouse or kids, but certificates and diplomas in wide black frames decorate the wall behind her desk. She’s educated, I’ll give her that.
“I’m sure you know all about me already, Doc,” I say in response to her request.
Her smile is soft, the wrinkles tightening around her eyes. “Well, sure.” She shrugs a shoulder. “I have heard of you, seen things here and there, but I want to hear them fromyou.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Let’s start with the incident that led to you deciding to check in here.”
“I didn’t decide shit,” I grumble. “I was given an ultimatum, and this was the best option of the two. Although, now that I’m here, that’s debatable.”
Scribbling something down, she says, “Okay, well, tell me about the incident that led to the ultimatum.”
“You want me to talk about the dead girl.” I don’t bother phrasing it as a question. I know that’s what she’s after.
“Only if you’re comfortable talking about it, Caspian.”
When I was seven, I had to move from my home in Scotland to the States to live with my aunt after my dad died. In doing so, social services required I attend mandatory therapy sessions to make sure I was okay mentally after the tragic passing of my only present parent. What they didn’t seem to grasp was that his death wasn’t the first tragic thing I had ever witnessed. On the fucked-up scale, that was probably on the lower end of the list.
I wasn’t okay. Not by a long shot. But even at seven years old, I was able to feed them what they wanted to hear. What appeased theirprofessionallittle hearts. Because I knew I didn’t want to sit in front of that man with the funky breath and the Mr. Rogers cardigans for longer than I needed to.
This woman—Dr. Weaver—wants to hear me divulge how troubled my life was, how the incident with the little bitch who died was some subconscious cry for help, how I want to get better, live a cleaner life.
She wants tofix me.
But what she doesn’t seem to understand, and maybe soon she will, is that I don’t need to be fixed. Nor do I want to be fucking fixed.
“There’s nothing to tell,” I supply dryly. “She was a fan who practically begged me to hang out with her. Begged me to give her the drugs. She said she could handle her shit.” I shrug. “How was I supposed to know she couldn’t?”
More scribbled out notes. “Is that something you do often?” she asks, voice even. “Drugs.”
“Once or twice.”
“Once or twice,” she repeats quietly. “And what was it that was consumed before she died?”
“Just some cocaine.”
With a glance up at me, she grabs my folder from the side table next to her. She flips through it until she finds what she’s looking for. “At the time of intake, it appears you had cocaine in your system, as well as heroin.” Closing the folder, she sets it back on the table, folding her hands in her lap as she peers over at me.
I don’t say anything as I drag my eyes away from her and focus on the view outside. Yes, I have to be here, so I don’t get kicked out of my fucking band, but that doesn’t mean I have to sit in this office and vomit all my secrets to a fucking stranger. I don’t give a shit if she’s a John Hopkins graduate who was probably top in her class. I don’t have a problem, and that bitch’s death wasn’t my fault, and I refuse to be made to believe it was. Sebastian and the label just want to make sure they cover their asses so the band doesn’t look like a bunch of fucking low-life junkies.
She was an adult, just like I am. Nobody forced her to do anything she didn’t want to do. And again, I never claimed to be a fucking saint.
The rest of the hour-long session goes by without anything more said. She must’ve known I shut down because she didn’t even try to get me to talk. Before I leave, though, she reaches back over to the side table, underneath my folder, and pulls out a black leather notebook. Handing it to me, she says, “I’d like for you to start writing in this. When your thoughts are too loud, when your feelings feel too big, write them down. I don’t care what you write; it could be poetry, song lyrics, gibberish. Just write.”
She must sense my apprehension when I hesitate to take it from her because she adds, “Think of it like homework. I will never read this. It’s for your eyes only, but I do hope to be able to talk about some of what you write in here next week.”
Leaving her office with the journal tucked into my back pocket, I pop in my headphones, turn on my music, and head toward the little secluded spot I found the other day after breakfast. Admittedly, this place is beautiful, and it’s big enough that I don’t seem to have a problem keeping to myself.
Unless, of course, I’m in the restaurant and someone decides to sit down with me without my permission.
That was a few days ago and, thankfully, it hasn’t happened again, nor have I even seen him since.
It’s warm as fuck out here already, and getting to this place is a bit of a hike. My black t-shirt sticks to my back as I trek through the jungle-like mountainous trail. Flowers in white, yellow, and pink line the path, the scent mixing with the salty oceanic aroma in the air. It’s only about a mile and a half until I get to where I’m wanting to go. The trail clears, opening up to a small cove with the clearest turquoise waters I’ve ever seen up close and an exceptionally tall, roaring waterfall.
