A Visitor
It's Sunday night and I'm sitting at my desk talking to Mom. Lying to her, actually. "Yeah, I'm fine. Just tired." I play with a pen on my desk, flipping it between my fingers.
"You sound depressed. Do we need to find someone for you to talk to? Are the cravings getting to be too much?" The words are concerned, but her tone implies I'm a headache she's got to medicate somehow.
"No, Mom. I'm fine. It's just been a long week." A week in which my head flips back and forth between Aiden and Chase and the consequences of listening to either of them.
What will I do?
I didn't bother shutting my door properly. It creaks and I turn to find Amy standing—scowling—in the doorway, I roll my eyes.
"Mom, Amy's here and she wants to talk to you."
Amy blinks, but nods and holds out her hand.
"Well, I'm talking to your father. He needs to be keeping a better eye on you. And you don't forget—"