“Breakfast is now being served in the dining room, immediately followed by the first group session.”

Why the fuck do they feel the need to wake me up at 8 o’clock in the morning with a fucking intercom?  A nice tap on the door would be sufficient enough. Or how about an alarm clock? Those things work wonders.  I pulled the pillow over my head. There is no way in hell that I’m going to go sit down there and listen to everybody else’s problems.

I am a grown man, when I’m hungry I’ll eat. I don’t need anybody telling me when I’m supposed to eat. This whole place is just fucked up.  I haven’t see another human being in this place except for the girl that eats my pizza and yells at me for trying to make sure she’s still alive when she’s laying in the field for hours at a time.  Are there even other fucking people here? I hear the voice of God over the intercom but that’s about it.

I guess I’d see the rest of the people if I were going to the group session. That’s not going to happen. If the one on one therapy did shit why the hell would having to share the time with a whole group of crazies help.  So instead of getting my ass out of bed I’m going to spend my day the way I would have spent it if I were still home, in bed.

I did manage to fall back asleep. I don’t know, I either have complete insomnia or I can sleep for days at a time. It’s much easier for everyone if I sleep all day, at least then I don’t have to be alone with my thoughts. Although, I do have some fucked up dreams that are sometimes even worse than actually thinking.  It was all fine until that tap on my door. Apparently this place was made before fucking locks because they just walked right in.

“There’s a mandatory session taking place in the conference room in five minutes Mr. Timberlake.”

“I’m not going, I’m asleep. Thanks though.” Assholes. They can see I’m asleep, leave me the fuck alone.

“Mr. Timberlake, you’re here to get help and we can’t help you if you don’t let us. The session will only be an hour.”

“I was told I don’t have to do anything I don’t want to do.”

“You have to go to the mandatory sessions, Mr. Timberlake. Everyone does. If you’re not ready to participate you can sit outside the circle. There is another client that is not ready to participate. It’s important for you to at least sit in and understand the process.  You’ll be able to sit in and listen to see that everyone’s going through the same thing.”

Why the fuck would I want to sit around and listen to the other crazies problems? This lady is driving me fucking crazy already and it’s only the first full day. “Anyone else out there have their wife and two year old daughter die in a car crash because of  what they do for a living? I doubt it, I think I’m the only one there so until there’s someone like me, I’m going to stay here in bed. Thanks though.”

“Mr. Timberlake, everybody out there blames themselves at one time or another. It’s perfectly normal Mr. Timberlake, but you’re here to get better and lying in bed all day is not going to help anything. This is the only mandatory meeting. If you don’t feel comfortable sharing you certainly don’t have to. After this first meeting you do not have to go to any other session if you don’t feel like it will help. We’ll work together to come to some other kind of arrangement.”

For some strange reason I stood up and walked down the hall to the conference room. I don’t know why, it was like I couldn’t even control myself, like some force was making me do it.

The session had already started. People were sitting on folding chairs in a circle. Some were crying, some were praying, some were paying close attention to the person speaking. This is the first time I’ve seen the other people, except of course for Pizza Girl. I noticed her first, sitting outside of the circle hugging her legs and looking into space. She tends to do that a lot, phase out completely. Maybe I should try that, it could be calming. Although she’s here too so it can’t be the secret cure.

Everyone went around the circle sharing their sob stories. I don’t know how this is supposed to make me feel better. This girl’s crying because her 97-year-old grandfather died. Was she surprised that that would happen? He was 97. That doesn’t make me feel better. It makes me feel worse actually because he got 97 years on this earth and my daughter got 2. Let’s move on. The next guy is here because he just found out his ex-girlfriend passed away. The problem, of course, is that this girl was his high school sweetheart, fifty fucking years ago that he hasn’t seen in fifty fucking years. This is complete bullshit.

I looked over at Pizza Girl who was still looking into space. I kind of wish she was sitting in that circle so I could find out what her story is. All I know is she likes pizza, laying in the mud for hours at a time and has some kind of a problem with driving in cars. I feel like she may be one of the normal ones here, and that says a lot about everybody else. 

“Delia. Delia,” I heard my name being called and jumped a little before turning to see I was now the only one in the conference room fr the group session. There were people here but now there’s no one except the counselor calling my name. I don’t know how I phased out enough not even to realize it was over. But I did go to the session like I was asked to. No one said anything about me actually paying attention. “It’s time for lunch.”

“Oh, lunch.” I stood up and headed to the dining room. I hope it’s something good. Who am I kidding? I’ll eat anything.  I went through the line, filling my plate with a sandwiches, salads, and lots of chips before looking around to find a place to sit. I wish they didn’t have a big table like they do; I’d much rather just sit at a small table by myself. I could go to my room but I’m going to want seconds and it’s a pain to go back and forth.

I looked around the room for the Pizza Guy but he’s nowhere to be found. I bet he’s in his room eating more pizza. I want pizza. It’s not fair that he gets pizza all the time and we get stuck with this gross shit. I hate when they put mayo on all the sandwiches, mayo usually makes me gag but I’m hungry so I’ll still eat it.  I think I’ll go see if the Pizza Asshole can spare a slice.

I did knock on the door although I could have easily just walked in since they don’t seem to believe in locks here. “What?” he shouted from inside the room. Jeez, and he calls me a bitch. “What? I went to the fucking meeting; I sat there through the whole damn thing. Don’t tell me I have to fucking eat with…” he stopped when he came to the door and saw me, “Sorry, I thought you were…”

“Do you have pizza?” I didn’t let him finish. I didn’t come here to talk. I came here for pizza.

“Do I have pizza?” he repeated sounding very confused, “Now?” I nodded my head, “No? I had pizza last night…”

“Do you have any left?”

“No.” He’s looking at me like I have ten heads. I don’t think I’m asking anything too strange.

“None?”

“No. No pizza. Sorry.”

“This food sucks.”

“You could order a pizza.” I could order a pizza. That would be smart.

“I don’t think I have money.” I could have money. I’ll have to go check, and then I’ll have to call my dad and see if he can come bring me some pizza or some money. “Are we allowed to leave?”

“We’re not in prison.”

He has a point. A very good point. “So I can leave and go get some money and a pizza?”

He shrugged, “I don’t know probably. That’s a long walk though, no? We’re kind of in the middle of nowhere.” What’s that supposed to mean? Does he know I won’t go in a car? How does he know that? What do they send out a pamphlet to everyone stating all my issues? “You don’t have a car, do you?” I shook my head, “I can spot you some money to order a pizza.”

I don’t want him to buy me a pizza. I don’t even know him. “You don’t want pizza?”

“I just had it last night.”

“So did I.”

“I’m aware. Apparently you like pizza a little more than I do.”

“How do you not like pizza? It’s like the best thing in the…”

“I like pizza,” he cut me off, “I’m a big pizza fan but I’m not really interested in eating it for every meal.”

“We could order something else, like Chinese food.”

He gave me a very strange look, “I thought you don’t have any money.”

“I thought you were going to spot me.”

I think he might have laughed a little. I haven’t seen someone laugh in a long time so I’m not positive, but it kind of looked like it.  He turned around and walked back into his room but I followed him. I’m not sure if I was supposed to but he didn’t close the door and I’m not exactly done with this conversation. “How about we suffer through the lunch and order something for dinner if it sucks?”

I sat down on the empty bed and stuffed some chips in my mouth, “OK, fine.” I’ll take it. I’d rather order pizza now and Chinese for dinner but I guess I can’t complain since I don’t think I have any money.

“You want a drink?” he asked holding a bottle of Jack Daniels in his hand.  I do want a drink, very badly, but I do know better. There is this… thing growing inside me. So instead of grabbing the bottle from his hand I just shook my head and grabbed the bottle of water I stuffed in my sweatshirt pocket.

“I’m all out of chips.” He didn’t say anything; instead he just handed over his plate that was full of chips. He’s smarter than I am; he had two plates, one for his sandwiches and one with an amazing combination of chips. “My name is Delia… by the way.”

“Justin.”

“Thanks for the chips Justin.”

He nodded his head and lay on the bed, drinking his Jack Daniels. I don’t know if that should be my cue to leave but I don’t want to. To tell you the truth this is kind of a hideaway here. It’s much better than my bedroom with the sobbing lady. So I’m going to stay until he tells me to leave.

I laid down on the other bed, eating the chips and looking out the window. I stayed in the room for a while. Neither of us said another word to each other, but it was the first time since the accident that I felt like I was able to breathe again. I almost felt calm, like I finally found someone that understood what I was going through. I don’t know how true that is since I still don’t know his whole story. I kind of like not knowing. I like that he’s not asking me about why I’m here. And more importantly, he’s the first person that hasn’t told me how sorry they are since it happened.