Welcome to the Therapy Quirks, a fan blog dedicated to the internet novel, Therapy. Our main function is to post quirks related to said novel, but we all post the occasional related graphic and question. If you need a Therapy fix, we're the blog to see!
Asher chews the inside of his cheeks and scratches the back of his head – the Asher equivalent of, “I don’t know what to say to that.” Then he drops his arm into his lap, heaves a sigh, and settles on, “That’s some serious suckage.”
This episode requires more time before he successfully locates his tongue. “Wow. Um. That blows.” He nods in vehement agreement with himself. “That really, really blows.”
“Come on, Andy,” he offers, “you know I’m shit at discussing feelings.”
“So you’re Katie’s friend,” purrs the specter in my ear. “You’re shaking.”
Katie knows exactly what she’s doing. I can trust her. “Jay, this is the girl I was telling you about.” Her voice is distant, as though she’s miles away from me, instead of inches. To me, she says, “Andy, this is Jarrod Hale. He’ll be taking care of you.”
Jarrod Hale has to be six feet tall, at least. He’s pale as death, from the exposed flesh of his chest, to the silver of his eyes. Tattoos lace his arms, but - inebriated, as I am - I can make no sense of the images. He has the Elvis do, and what appears to be a feather dangling from his left ear.
“Hello there, Andy.” His voice is deep, with the mangled rasp of a chain smoker. He leans his forehead against mine, sending a shiver – not of pleasure – down my spine. Apparently he’s cold as death, too.
My companion and I bend to retrieve it at the same time. He snags it first. I freeze with my fingertips and inch from the back of his hand. Tucking a curl behind my ear, I glance up to meet a pair of pale blue eyes.
The whole look, from the sideburns and Elvis Presley-style haircut, - just swap the brown for jet black -, to the tattoos crisscrossing his arms, the over-six-foot height, and the ungodly lankiness, resembles a page torn from the book of Andy.
“Did he at least have a name? What did he want?” “Leo,” I mutter absentmindedly… “He asked me if I had a date to Prom. Apparently we have, like, five classes together.”
His tone is gentle, riddled with underlying requests. Look at me, blink, remember to breathe. Assure me that I’m not hurting you.
In the farthest, quietest recess of my mind, I wait for Darius to say something and distract me, but the foremost part of my mind is too preoccupied crying to notice when he doesn’t. He simply sits there on his couch, probably with elbows propped on his knees, and listens to me cry. Written in those sobs are all the feelings I can’t express with words, because there are none. Darius knows that, so he sits, he waits, and he listens.
He’s watching me warily, from the corners of his eyes.Don’t go there, he says. Don’t go to the dark place where proportions are skewed and hopelessness reigns. We’re going to get through this. You and me, together.
Comfortable silence falls over Office 215. In that silence, Darius reassures me that I’ll be okay, no matter what the world throws at me after today, and I agree with him.