for yourself. You will always be remembered – well done. If this is what you wanted, you got it. You’re immortalised, while the rest of us are stripped clean of any future we may have had. I hate you so much!
I don’t hate you.
I don’t know how I feel.
After I’m finished, I’m going to hide this. Maybe I should put my journal in your room. No one will touch it in there, especially not Dad. He’s so angry at you right now, but I think that will change over time. At least, I hope so. This family will deal with hatred, remorse and bitter negativity every day of our lives. We don’t need it from Dad too. He blames Mum. He blames me. He blames videogames, music and social pressures put on young people today. He even blames the school and their apparent lack of vigilance and security measures. He blames lax gun regulations that apparently make it easy for an eighteen-year-old to get access to an unlicensed handgun. The one person he does not blame is himself. He believes he’s innocent in all of this. That’s why I have to hide the journal. I don’t want anyone to read this, and know what I’m thinking. I don’t want Dad to know that I miss you. God, I miss you so much Charlie. How am I going to get through this?
‘Everything Must Go’ (Manic Street Preachers, Summer 1996)
‘So, how do you feel?’
Although this was only my third session, Dr Albreck had already fed into every stereotype one could have about a therapist – leather sofa, plant in the corner of the room, box of tissues within reach, and the occasional smile and nod to remind me that she was still listening. And, of course, she always asked me, ‘How do you feel?’
Honestly, I didn’t know how I felt. I never did. Even if I could identify just one of the emotions that stirred within me, I wouldn’t want to give it to her. All she would do with those words is write them down in her black leather notepad. She wouldn’t absorb them. She wouldn’t understand them. And she certainly wouldn’t help me feel any differently.
‘Fine,’ I finally answered.
‘What does “fine” mean, Sam?’
‘I’m not sure how to exactly describe it. I don’t have a dictionary with me.’
She smiled, although I could tell it wasn’t genuine. ‘What I mean is, “fine” isn’t a feeling.’
I stared at her, biting my lip while waiting for a chance to unload all of my thoughts like a heavy suitcase being unpacked after a long journey. There had been so many words written in the newspapers about how my family should feel – ashamed, guilty, ignorant. It didn’t matter how I felt, or what words I used to describe it because there would always be someone ready to tell me what to feel. I just wished someone would tell me what to say.
‘I can see this is a difficult question for you, as usual. So, let’s start with something easier. When is your first day of school?’
‘Two weeks on Monday.’
‘And how do you feel about that?’
There it is again – the need to talk about feelings. ‘Well, I’ll be starting a new school where everyone will know my name before I even step into the building, so I guess I don’t feel fine.’
‘Good.’ She leaned forward in her chair, apparently pleased with my response. ‘Sam, everyone who has faced – and survived – a traumatic event like you have finds themselves at what I like to call a “Turning Point”. It’s at this point where you decide whether you want to let go of everything and move forward, or stay stuck in the past. This new school could be your turning point. You should consider giving it your all. Keeping that in mind, are you planning on joining any clubs or afterschool programmes? They provide wonderful opportunities to make friends. How about the music club?’
‘I was thinking of joining Teens Against Violence. What are your thoughts?’ I said, crossing my arms and leaning back in the chair.
For a moment I thought she was going to smile but she didn’t. ‘I think that’s a very good idea, Sam. Getting involved in your new school will be the fastest route to immersing yourself into that community. Immersing means – ’
‘ – I know what immersion means.’
‘Of course. You’re a bright young man Sam. Are you still playing the cello?’
‘Piano. Not so much, any more.’ I intertwined my fingers, pressing deep into my knuckles. Resting my hands on my lap, my eyes skimmed over the walls thick with framed certificates and awards. I wondered how much each session with the great Dr Elizabeth Albreck cost. Fifty pounds an hour? Less? More? I considered asking her directly, but I had a more important question on my mind. ‘How long do I have left?’
‘Why do you ask?’
‘Because you don’t have a clock in here.’ I thought that was obvious. Maybe she didn’t know.
‘I prefer not to remind my clients of the passing of time. I want them to feel safe and heard, without the pressure of a clock hurrying them along.’
‘How do you know when the session is over?’
‘It’s over when it’s over.’
‘So, what if I was to sit here all morning?’
‘Why would you do that, Sam?’
‘It’s just a hypothesis, Dr Albreck,’ I smiled. Getting dismissed from therapy might be easier than I had thought.
‘I guess I would ask you to bring whatever thoughts were going through your mind to our next session?’
‘You mean, hurry me along?’
‘No, not hurry you along. But gently inform you that I have other clients to see other than you.’
‘So, you do keep track of time?’
‘Not exactly. Again I don’t like to remind my clients – ’
‘ – But by “gently informing” me, you’d be reminding me of the passing of time, thus adding pressure.’
‘Sam, we’re getting way off topic. Let’s go back to talking about your new school,’ she sighed, uncrossing her legs and then re-crossing them.
‘But we can’t,’ I shrugged, getting up off the sofa and grabbing my hoodie off the edge.
‘And why is that?’ she asked, sliding her glasses off her thin face that wore a tired expression.
‘Because according to the large watch on your wrist that you kept glancing down at, we’re all out of time.’ I leaned over and popped a green mint into my mouth from the glass bowl that sat on the table by her black-skinned planner. And as I pushed open the door to the waiting room, I heard her notebook slam shut.
Unlocking my bike from the metal grid in the car park, I swung a leg over and pushed my foot down hard on the pedal. Dr Albreck’s office shrank behind me until it became no more than a dot in the distance. Only seven more sessions to go. Four hundred and twenty more minutes that I would have to sit on that leather sofa and face questions that I didn’t have the answers to.
The late summer wind whipped at my face, a non-existent chill stinging my skin. I pedalled harder and harder, faster and faster. The wheels spun wildly like a washing machine, going around and around. I lifted off the seat and leaned to the left, the bike curving around Knockturn Lane onto Knockothie Brae. Small square semi-detached houses lined the streets, their brick roofs blending into one thick blurry stream of red as I sped past. Around the corner into Findhorn Drive, past Market Brae, down onto Pembrook Road – I slammed the brakes on.
There it was. Pembrook Academy. How could I have