Post by WESTON BRODERICK on Aug 12, 2012 17:46:16 GMT -5
He hadn’t slept since she left. Not through the night, though that was normal. Not an hour, even. He’d have liked to, really, even if he knew there’d be no dreams—he’d never had one of those, not that he could remember anyway. He didn’t miss them, then. It was more the idea of blankness, of not having to think, that appealed to him. If he could sleep, well, he could stop wondering where she was. He could stop hearing her voice in his ear or imagining the way she looked as she bent over him the last night he’d seen her, or how it’d felt to be inside her for only the second time in his life. If he fell asleep, Wes thought, he could stop thinking about how much he loved her. Of course, he knew that wasn’t quite true. It also wasn’t why he was here.
His mother didn’t know about the not sleeping—or, rather, the not sleeping more than usual—but she did know about the not going to class. And she didn’t know about the chain smoking late at night when he couldn’t sleep or the not showering for days at a time, but she knew that he wasn’t returning her calls and hadn’t until he’d been approached by a councilor and told very firmly that if he didn’t, well, he’d have to be sent home immediately the next day.
He couldn’t go back there. She couldn’t make him.
Therapy, although not something he’d agreed to without lots of swearing and jabs and general sullenness, was preferable to that any day. He’d see a shrink every day for the rest of his life, if it meant he got to see his Sally again. Thankfully, it was only once a week to start.
He hadn’t showered to come here. Now, Ripley had practically dragged him out of bed again the day before, so really, he didn’t look half bad. He had on fresh clothes. There just wasn’t a point, he figured, it being fairly obvious by his slouching in the waiting room chair and the semi-prominent dark circles under his eyes that he didn’t want to be here. It wasn’t his idea. He wouldn’t pretend it had been. And hopefully, if he just plain stared at the doctor for long enough, or treated him just as he treated his mother when she tried to pry things out of him, he’d get sent off, labeled as unfixable, and be able to go back to his bed and smoke and close his eyes in peace, at least until Xander or Ripley decided to disturb the not-so-peaceful silence.
Silence, he figured, was what he had without Angel. It was her, after all, who’d gotten him to talk and sing. He didn’t deserve to continue if she wasn’t around to listen, and quite frankly, he didn’t want to. Not to some bullshit head doctor, anyway. There was nothing wrong with him. Nothing Dr. Milner could figure out, anyway. Of that, Wes was positive. He wouldn’t even give him the chance.
outfit
His mother didn’t know about the not sleeping—or, rather, the not sleeping more than usual—but she did know about the not going to class. And she didn’t know about the chain smoking late at night when he couldn’t sleep or the not showering for days at a time, but she knew that he wasn’t returning her calls and hadn’t until he’d been approached by a councilor and told very firmly that if he didn’t, well, he’d have to be sent home immediately the next day.
He couldn’t go back there. She couldn’t make him.
Therapy, although not something he’d agreed to without lots of swearing and jabs and general sullenness, was preferable to that any day. He’d see a shrink every day for the rest of his life, if it meant he got to see his Sally again. Thankfully, it was only once a week to start.
He hadn’t showered to come here. Now, Ripley had practically dragged him out of bed again the day before, so really, he didn’t look half bad. He had on fresh clothes. There just wasn’t a point, he figured, it being fairly obvious by his slouching in the waiting room chair and the semi-prominent dark circles under his eyes that he didn’t want to be here. It wasn’t his idea. He wouldn’t pretend it had been. And hopefully, if he just plain stared at the doctor for long enough, or treated him just as he treated his mother when she tried to pry things out of him, he’d get sent off, labeled as unfixable, and be able to go back to his bed and smoke and close his eyes in peace, at least until Xander or Ripley decided to disturb the not-so-peaceful silence.
Silence, he figured, was what he had without Angel. It was her, after all, who’d gotten him to talk and sing. He didn’t deserve to continue if she wasn’t around to listen, and quite frankly, he didn’t want to. Not to some bullshit head doctor, anyway. There was nothing wrong with him. Nothing Dr. Milner could figure out, anyway. Of that, Wes was positive. He wouldn’t even give him the chance.
outfit
