If Ever (COMPLETED - EDITING)

Chapter 1 - Ella

Group therapy was awful. Not because it didn't help those that wanted it or looked for it or searched for some understanding of their lives. But because I couldn't talk about any of it, I had stayed quiet each week, just passing. I didn't know what to say, how to act or function anymore. How did one do that when they were so desolate. I was done. I had nothing more to give and no capacity to take. If I could have sat down with a god face to face I would tell them I was done. I couldn't do this anymore. I would tell them to just take me. I had nothing left. I was no one.

I don't think I had even bothered to look up from my shoes in session. I was slowly wearing a tiny hole in the side of my favorite red converse with my nervous fingers. But who cared? I was a rip of cloth too desiccated to be put back together.

I had been told by the group therapist, Jane, that I had to open up at some time, whatever I was going through, needed to come out or it would eat me alive. How could I explain to her that life had already eaten me alive, that there was nothing left in me. I was some debris of destruction floating out into space with no direction and didn't know how to let anyone help me let alone whether said help would or could do anything about it. I had kept quiet for too long and now I didn't know how to live and move forward.

I had been coming to this state mandated therapy session for over 7 months now, my aunt and uncle had tried everything - therapist after therapist and it just hadn't worked. I just refused to speak.

If I did, I felt like a torrent would be released. And no one would survive it, let alone me. If I was being honest with myself, I just wanted to watch the world burn for everything that had happened.

Including myself. It was luck, pure chance, why? Why had I survived? Why had I crawled through that fucking tiny window? Why did I want to live like this, was this even living?

Everyone was gone, I was too ashamed to admit that maybe I was relieved. Because this was the only way I would have ever gotten out. Or I would have died there. But then again what difference would it make? I was already dead.

I sat there staring into nothing, the florescent lights slowly incubating into the beginnings of a head ache, I hated the white light. I stared at the checked black and white tile. The words of the others in group washing over me, I heard nothing, felt nothing. I didn't know anyone here; even after coming for months. I didn't recognize faces or voices. And thankfully, no one tried to speak to me.

Once everyone was thanked for sharing, I stood, slinging my backpack over my shoulder, ready to walk out, when a gentle tap touched my shoulder. My body was paralyzed with the contact and I flinched away.

"Hey." Said a soft gentle voice, I turned to it. It was one of the guys at the circle. I couldn't for the life of me remember his name. I just stared, eyes wide.

"Troy." He answered realizing I was just staring at him. "You're Estelle?"

"Stella." My Mouth automatically corrected. The scar tissue on my left shoulder twitched. I absently rubbed it.

"Right. Sorry." He was nervous.

"I ... do you want to maybe grab a coffee?" he asked.

I shook my head no. I knew it was rude, he was being perfectly polite. "I'm sorry, I just... I just can't." My voice was raw, like I hadn't spoken in months, it just might have been. I had forgotten how to. I couldn't remember when I had had a conversation.

Mel and Owen had tried so often to speak to me to let me know they were there for me, but I couldn't, couldn't reciprocate their love and concern. I walked in and out of the house each day with nothing to say to them. I heard their hushed worries and conversations through my bedroom most nights and hated myself more for putting them through this; but I simply couldn't care. I didn't think I was capable of more self hate, but here I was further detesting my existence.