Malcolm (fck) wrote in invol_rpg, @ 2012-10-09 21:41:00 |
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Sitting there, silently, in the counselor's office, Mal knew he had a problem. And he knew if he didn't do something about it, it would lead to bigger problems. He already couldn't deal with the ones he had, at least not on his own, so it was time to do something about it, even if he still didn't trust this so-called person across from him. He'd finally read those anger management pamphlets the other night. One tip in particular had stood out to him. That had led him to suddenly deciding to take boxing as independent study instead of the infuriating math class. He'd also signed up for hockey, soccer and swimming. Last night, he'd swam, weight-lifted, rock-climbed, punched and sparred his way into complete exhaustion. Before he knew it, he'd fallen asleep, fully clothed on the couch in the lounge on his floor. Then he'd woken up sore, but feeling oddly, slightly better. "I read this," he said, tossing a pamphlet on anger management he'd been given months ago down in front of him, as a response to the counselor's questions about these recent events. "Good," the counselor said. Mal could have sworn he could tell that the other man wanted to add, "about time, too." "I just don't want to get thrown in some fucking permanent detention center. Or go mad. Or both." He let that sink in for a minute or two. Something was bothering him, though. He felt that something needed to be cleared up. "It said anger is a symptom of depression. I'm not fucking depressed," Mal asserted, while he watched the counselor scribble down notes. Trying not think about what was being written about him, he continued. "Really, I'm not. I'm not sad. I don't cry no matter what Remy thinks. I'm just pissed off. And frustrated. At being here." He paused. The writing was distracting. Maybe it was just a grocery list. Maybe he was being conceited assuming it was about him. Then again, what else were they there for? So far, this had been the most Mal had ever let himself talk during these sessions. "It just sucks here. I know, people say it could be worse but I don't think that means we should just accept it then. And I don't think I'm special. Really. It's just… being around the same people everyday, a lot of them who I don't like and who don't like me… it's frustrating. I just fucking want to be alone sometimes. And not like in solitary. Just away from all these arseholes sometimes on your terms, you get me?" He paused again for a bit, but the damn counselor was still writing. Finally, Mal was given a look that clearly said "go on" which he would normally return with his own, "yeah right, asshole" look, but today, he kept talking. He was trying something different, at least. "They just frustrate the piss out of me some times. And obviously I can't just hit them to shut them up or whatever. So I'd just rather not deal with them. I don't think there's anything wrong with that! I get along fine with some people. So it's not like I'm being fucking antisocial or anything. Sometimes a lad just needs to be alone and collect his thoughts." Mal didn't look up when he stopped again. He could hear the pen still scribbling furiously away. He didn't really know what he was trying to accomplish here, other than finally trying to get his frustrations with everything out in a slightly more constructive way. He wasn't stupid and he knew if he messed up and let his anger get the better of him one or two more times, he'd be locked up for good. Actually no, he wouldn't let them get that far. He'd already decided if they ever came to take him away permanently, he'd have to put up a fight and he knew those tasers could be set to kill. It seemed like a better alternative than rotting away slowly. Of course, he wasn't about to tell anyone else that. "And what were you trying to prove by jumping off the roof?" As if the counselor could read his mind. It wasn't the first time he'd been asked it, but apparently it merited being brought up again, as if his flippant, "it was just a laugh" reply the last time wasn't sufficient. Mal shrugged. "I was bored. And annoyed. It's not as if I was trying kill myself though. I don't want to die, not yet anyway. But it's going to happen. And this life… is overrated. Being stuck here. Being a vol. Fucked either way. It's too much to deal with. Even if this stupid fucking place had a little more sympathy." "How have you tried dealing with it?" "Haven't, really." Why should he? It would end the same, either way. Classic case of damned if you, damned if you don't. He would, ultimately, still be a vol. There was no changing that, which meant nothing would change either, no matter how he decided to deal with it. So he hadn't. Back home, he could avoid it, among oither things, by partying. A lot. But here, that had been severely limited and he found the cold, harsh realities of the world to be quite crushing. It sucked beyond just the forced compliance that everyone at IVI dealt with. He thought about exactly how much things sucked for a while longer, while neither said anything, like old times. "Malcolm, I hope someday you'll find it in yourself to stop this self-loathing. It's not your fault you're a vol. You don't have to punish yourself for it." Well, that was something he had never heard before. Or maybe he had, but he hadn't let the full impact of it hit him. And hit him, it did, right in the feels. Did he hate himself? Was he punishing himself? It seemed like a really fucking stupid thing to do but it also made sense. And he was nothing if not the king of doing stupid shit. He almost asked how he was supposed to stop doing that, but didn't, lest the sudden tightness in his throat betray him. Fortunately, timing was on his side and he got up to leave, quickly before anything that was definitely not a tear could continue to fog up his vision. "Way to be a fucking blubbering arsehole," he berated himself on the way to the gym, again. He had a punching bag to beat the shit out of before hockey. Then he'd feel a little better. |