Re: Quiet Home: Misha & Oliver
"Yes, I'm mad!" And the truth of it was unknown to Oliver until he said the words. His ribs felt like a tuning fork, struck by truth and his shoulders shook a little like young elm branches divesting themselves of leaves in the wind. "I'm mad that she did that to the girl I was working for, and I'm mad she did it to the people who might not want to shop there anymore because they know what happened in there. I don't even know who had to clean it all up, but I'm mad that she did that to them too. It was a… real fucked up thing to do." Something about the way that Oliver cursed that word, it said he didn't do it often.
Having never been to any sort of group therapy session, or a private one for that matter, Oliver wasn't aware of any traditions or protocols. Engaging with this other chipped nail polish boy seemed natural enough. Nobody else seemed to really object or have anything to contribute to what Oliver had to say. Which was fine with Oliver, because he wasn't sure if or when he would ever talk about this stuff again. Only if Jude insisted, he figured.
What the other said about Oliver's event managing to bring up a death out of the past, it quieted the artist. He made a face, sour toward the floor. He figured that it was true, but he didn't like it. There was a crumpled pamphlet about meeting times in his hand, and Oliver smoothed it out over the cap of his knee. Not to read, but to doodle on with a blue marker that he dug out of a pocket.
"Why are you here?" He looked over. Nobody else had seemed to have much to say, not even the therapist.