-Prologue-

-Zeke-

"Honestly Doc, I don't see the point of coming here," I say. "What's done is done and talking about it won't undo anything."

I sit on an old red couch in possibly the blandest room to exist, white walls with nothing on them, a single desk that looks worn to hell where my therapist sat behind.

My therapist sighed. "That's the thing, Mr. Slater. You seem to be lingering on the past. I'm trying to help you move on."

"There's one flaw in your plan though," I say before sitting up. "I can't move on within a few months."

"I understand that. That's why we give you the medicine to help." The doctor said, trying to explain.

I've just about had it with people telling me to get over it. Frankly, it's annoying and disrespectful in my opinion. What if they went through the same thing? What if they witnessed someone who they held so dear shoot themselves right in front of them. They wouldn't be talking then I bet.

The therapist looked up at the clock and back to me. "Well Ezekiel, our session is over today, I'll see you next week."

"Don't call me that please and thank you." I snap before opening the door and begin wandering the maze of halls, also known as the hospital.

Therapy is not fun.

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I keep my head down in an attempt to keep myself from being bothered on the way home, then again a dark grey beanie and a maroon jacket would probably raise some eyebrows if one were to pay attention. During my walk, as I cut through the park me and my friends hang out at every once in a while, I stopped to look at a moving truck I saw in front of a house across the way.

"Welcome to Boston." I think to myself as I continue walking home.