Quiet Home: Misha & Oliver
Oliver was put together, he usually was. Unless it was a gray day, he was together. But today wasn't gray, and he was wearing a faded red shirt(so faded it wasn't even red anymore, more of a tango pink). His pants were gray denim, and overall, Oliver looked like corpsewax under paint. Pink on gray on empty. Even the pink was less than, washed out somehow. Just like the boy with the eyes pointed toward the floor.
He wasn't nervous. Oliver wasn't ever really nervous, he just needed to plan out the script. So, he was thinking with his hands interlaced and his teeth on his lip. He thought of his Jude, and he thought of all the ways he'd planned to dodge questions in this group. But mostly, he thought of Jude.
The therapist's eyes were on him, and Oliver thought it was that new fish kind of thing, but he still felt a little uneasy when he straightened in his chair.
"I saw this girl die last month. Well, she didn't just die, really, she shot herself. I didn't try to stop her, I don't even know if I could, but I didn't try either, I just kind of... froze. And when I think about it, I'm still there... frozen."
He glanced up, over the group, eager for somebody else to take over. "Some times I can't not think about it."