It starts off when I begin talking about how I don’t want to move to Virginia, but staying in Seattle on my own seems like it’d end up a huge problem. When Greg asks me why, I tell him it’s because I think I’ll get into too much trouble on my own and I don’t want things to change when I’m just getting my life back together.
“Things are going to change no matter what you do, Quinton. That’s life,” he says in the monotone he always uses when he’s forcing me to talk about something that’s emotionally draining.
“But what if I can’t handle them changing?” I ask. “Because just the idea of something as simple as moving makes me feel like my head’s going to explode.”
“You’ll get there,” he reassures me. “It’ll just take time.”
“But what if I don’t want to get there?” I say, staring at the clock on the wall, the hands moving around and around. Time always moving no matter what I do. “Dealing with the future seems so hard.”
“You will, but it’ll take some time and effort on your part,” he says, scooting his chair closer to his desk. “Tell me, have you worked on taking down those photos and pictures on your wall yet, like we’ve been talking about doing?”
“No, and I’m not ready to,” I say coldly, gripping the handles of the chair. “So stop pushing it.”
“Why do you think you’re not ready?” he inquires, crossing his arms on his neatly organized desk. He’s always calm, just like he’s always wearing a wrinkle-free suit without a tie. I can tell he’s a man of routine, which makes me wonder how the hell he’s supposed to help me with my erratic instability, because he probably doesn’t understand it.
“I don’t think it. I know I’m not.” I slump back in the chair and fold my arms, fighting the overpowering urge to reach for my cigarettes and light up right here in the office. “Every time I go to do it, I feel like I’m going to freak out and lose it… I feel like I’m letting go of stuff I shouldn’t be letting go of.” Like Lexi. My mom. My anguish and self-torture.
“I know it’s hard.” He reaches for the pen and notebook in the file cabinet just behind his desk. “And I’m not saying you have to take them all down. But I worry that the reason you’re keeping them up there is to remind you of the past, which is hindering you from completely working on moving forward and healing yourself.”
I want to get angry with him, but he’s only saying the truth. “You know what, you’re right,” I say straightforwardly. “That’s why I’m holding on to them, but even thinking about taking down the photos and sketches—letting go—makes me want to do drugs again. If I had drugs in my system then I’d easily be able to take them down or at least feel better about it.”
“Why, though?” he asks with attentiveness. “Why would doing drugs make you feel better about taking pictures on the wall down?”
“Because I wouldn’t have to feel the things I know are coming when I pull the pictures down.”
“Feel what exactly?”
“The guilt.”
“Over what?”
I narrow my eyes at him because I’ve talked to him enough about this that he knows what I’d feel guilty about. “You know what.”
“You’re right. I do.” He jots something down in his notebook. “But I’d like you to say it aloud. Verbally express what’s going on inside your head.”
My jaw sets tight. “I’d feel guilty about the f**king accident and that I killed people,” I say through gritted teeth. “There. Are you happy? I said it.”
He shakes his head. “What I’d like to know is, what about the accident do you feel guilty about, exactly?”
I shake my head, fearing the emotions that will prickle at the surface. “You know the answer to that.” I dig my fingers into my palms and stab hard, trying to override the emotional pain with physical pain. “So quit asking.”
He sets the pen down and overlaps his fingers on his desk. “No, I don’t, Quinton. Because every time we get to the accident you never fully say how you feel about stuff. You always tiptoe around it and run away from it. Something that drugs help you do, which is why you always want to go back to that every time you have to deal with the hard stuff.”
“The hard stuff.” I give him a cold, hard stare as I scratch my arm where the tattoos mark my skin: Lexi, Ryder, No One. All the people who died that night, No One being myself. I remember that when I got it, the tattoo artist looked at me like I was a nut job, but I didn’t care. I didn’t care about anything but making sure I hurt myself more and more because it was the only way I could distract myself from the pain and the guilt. “Do you know how much talking about the hard stuff hurts and makes me feel like shit? How hard it is to breathe whenever I have to talk about the hard stuff… about the accident… about the deaths… dying.” My voice is sharp because he’s digging up memories I don’t want to deal with. “Jesus, it’s not like anyone else would act differently. Causing people’s deaths… I’m sure no one else would want to talk about it.”
He considers what I said and then reaches for his pen again. Then he scribbles something down on the corner of a piece of paper and tears it off. “I want you to attend a group meeting,” he says, stretching his arm across the desk to hand me the piece of paper.
“I already do that every Tuesday and Thursday night.” My tone is clipped as I snatch the piece of paper from his fingers.
“Yeah, but this is a different kind of support group. It’s not a sobriety group like the one you’ve been going to. This is one that’ll help you deal with your guilt over the accident,” he explains. “Many of the people who go have been through similar experiences. Both with the accident and with the drugs afterward.”
I glance down at the piece of paper, which has a phone number and an address on it. “People go to this because they’ve caused car accidents and caused people to… die?”
He wavers contemplatively. “Well, not all of the instances were driving accidents, but I think it’d be good for you to talk to people who’ve gone through something similar to you and have experienced your form of guilt.”
My fingers wrap around the piece of paper in my hand. “What stuff have they gone through, then?”