To Catch a Falling Star Read Free Page A

fucking ledge.” He sinks more deeply in the chair. I notice for the first time how skinny he is.
    His silver-gray eyes fix on mine. They are vacant. It tugs me deeply. I want to reach inside his soul and snatch away the rooted pain he seems to carry.
    “Please elaborate,” I say.
    “There is nothing in your bag of tricks I haven’t done at counseling before.”
    “It’s never about the therapist, Tarry. It’s about what you want to accomplish. Your goals and aspirations. Let me ask you, Tarry, what inspires you?” I inquire using the best condescending tone I can muster.
    His jaw muscles tighten. “Hell no. You won’t get to sit on your comfy chair lecturing me on what I want to accomplish. Do you think for a minute that I enjoy living in hell? But we both know the upcoming result of this therapy. You will find a shitty excuse from your dumbass textbooks to appease you for your failure with me; I will continue to be the loser I’ve been my entire life. Do you have any idea of the fucking hole I live in?” he says in one breath.
    Again, I smile inwardly. He bit the bait. He is so angry. Passive-aggressive, my ass. He has very easy trigger buttons. How his previous therapist never found and used them is beyond me.
    “No. I don’t. Please enlighten me.”
    “I’ve fucking tried, okay? Over and over, but it’s always the same shit. I succeed for a while, but only to go back to the same goddamn life.” He stares at the wall.
    “Tarry, I know you are court committed to be here. But, for this to work you need to be fully present. If you can give me that much, I promise to help you.”
    “I am far beyond the fucking point of help.”
    “You clip your wings,” I murmur.
    “What?” His sad eyes glance at me. He’s so broken.
    “Are you taking all your meds?” I ask.
    “Mmm-hmm,” he mutters. “But they’re tapering off.”
    “Are you still hallucinating?”
    “No. I mean, seldom.”
    “How is your sleep pattern?”
    “Okay, I guess. I wake up in the middle of the night, and it takes me a while to fall back a sleep.”
    “Taking any sleeping pills?”
    “No, they make me feel like shit.”
    “How are you eating?”
    “Poorly.”
    “Hum, that’s atypical. Are you excessively fatigued?”
    “Think of it, yeah, I’m exhausted half the time.”
    “Is the formication gone?”
    “Yeah, I mean, no. I still itch like hell over my chest and thighs. But the hallucination with ants crawling under my skin has stopped.”
    “Are you easily irritable?”
    “Can’t you figure that one out?” he asks bitterly.
    “How’s the craving?”
    “It’s every fucking minute of every goddamned day.”
    Tarry’s stare meets mine, but he wrenches his eyes away and nervously taps his long fingers on his thighs. He’s so lost, so broken. How can darkness and desperation take a soul hostage like this? A precious life wastes away. The pain emanating from him is suffocating. It’s so dense I can touch it with my soul.
    On an impulse, I reach for my purse. My fingers tremble slightly as I search for my wallet. It’s time.
     

 

     
     

     
     
    FUCK, WHAT JUST happen? Years of drugs must have screwed my brain worse than I thought. I have a profound mistrust for therapists, why am I fucking spilling my guts out? Worse, I sound like a chick.
    She’s so beautiful; it fucking hurts to look at her. Goddamnit. It should be forbidden for a therapist to be so damn sexy. As she searches her purse, I examine her face. She has full, tempting lips and high cheekbones. A severe knot secures her hair on the nape of her neck. But her eyes. I could get lost staring at them. They’re green with slivers of gold, like a green forest set on fire. When she pulls a coin from her wallet, I feel expectant, like a fucking retard.
    Again, I question my sanity. I’ve been through this bullshit of mandatory therapy for two months and never once have I lost it. This pretty little thing is able to coax me to say more in twenty minutes