Achieving Unbroken
Chapter Thirteen

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"Hang my head, drown my fear;
'Till you all just disappear"
Black Hole Sun | Soundgarden

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Jason
[Sunday, May 1st, 2017]

A fist softly knocks on my door for the sixth time today. I don't get up, I don't even hum in response. I sit, in my deafening, crushing silence, and wish for everyone to let me bath in it.

"Jay- Jason," Mom says so quiet that it could be considered a whisper. "Cannon is here to see you."

My silence holds.

"Can, um, can he come in? He would like to talk to you." The sound of her trying to discreetly turn my doorknob stands out among the quiet. She fails; I locked my door.

I don't want visitors. What does it take for people to understand that?

Only one pair of feet humbly walk away from my door. I assume that Cannon is still standing there.

"Hey, Oakland," he strangles out. I don't think he expects a response, which is good; he knows I won't give one to him. "I, uh- there's been talk about your brother. Nothing bad, just, like, what happened. But nobody knows the real story. It sounds pretty bad."

Yeah, Fireball, it was. It was really bad. Worse than anyone can ever tell you, because they weren't there. You weren't, either.

Just me.

And all I can do, is stare at my wall, with dried tears in my eyes, and a broken voice.

"You haven't been at school this week," he continues. "You obviously know that. But I brought you the work you've missed. Your teachers send their best wishes."

You're too good, Cannon.

My eyes squeeze shut as new tears cover the old ones. They leave my lids despite my efforts, and stream down my face like it's a window pane.

"There's also notes from the teachers on how to do everything and what they've done this week. Also what units and lessons are coming next. I don't think they expect you back anytime soon."

My fists clench. In, out, in, out, in. They curl in the bedsheet that is splayed around me, halfway off of the bed after another shitty nights sleep.

"I heard Coach saying that he hopes you stay with football," Cannon goes on. "I don't think he knows the severity of what happened to you. What happened to Joey." He takes a long, deep breath. "You probably aren't coming back to football. The guys and I know that. We just wish you could talk to us. But it's understandable that you can't right now."

I push my face into the pillow more. I need Cannon to leave. Now. Stretching my arm, I reach a book on the floor of my bedroom, and fling it at the door. I don't look to see if it directly hits my target or not, but I hear a loud thump as it hits the wall. Cannon lets out a long, loud sigh.

"Love you, man."

And that was the last thing he said before I felt his presence leave.

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[Tuesday, August 9th, 2017]

"Because of the current symptoms you have presented, Mr. Oakland, the diagnosis is chronic Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder."

Mom clutches my hand. I pull it away. Without meeting the doctor's eyes and keeping my head down, I nod.

"We will put you on medication, and it should help curb the flashbacks and nightmares if you take it how it is prescribed. When you reach the six-month mark, come back and we will plan how we will determine whether or not you have reached delayed-onset PTSD. Are you secure with that?"

Slow nodding. Quick reflexes hurt my head.

"Great. We are going to help you recover in the best way we see fit for you, yeah?"

"Yeah," I whisper. God, this doctor probably thinks I'm such a freak. Just like everyone else did when I went back to school to finish finals.

"Brilliant. Now, Mr. Oakland, that's the end of this appointment, but if you could go and seat yourself in the waiting room, that would be fantastic. I just need to have a quick talk with your parents."

Nodding, I squeeze out of the barriers my parents made themselves on their side of me. They look up at me as I get up, but I don't look back. I keep my head down and leave as soon as possible, but I don't go to the waiting room just yet. I want to know just what could not be said in front of me.

"You two should have brought him in sooner," I hear Dr. Newhall say coldly. My parents hesitate to answer.

"Sooner? What the hell do you mean 'sooner', Rick?" That was Dad. He sounds aggravated and surprised.

"I mean that we could have had him on medication sooner. Maybe you didn't notice, but your boy couldn't look up from his lap that entire time. He's going through severe mental trauma, the poor kid! You should have brought him to me sooner, and if you didn't wanna do that you could have found another shrink who doesn't jump into medication ASAP. But he needed this months ago."

It probably wouldn't have helped. I needed time.

"How dare you, Rick! That's my son! That's my son who didn't leave our house for three months and refused to leave his goddamn room for two! That's my son who found my other son dead on a bathroom floor! He's allowed to take time to himself, Rick!"

This time, it's Mom. She's losing it. Hearing her say the words makes everything so, painfully real. At least they understand, right? I should be thankful for that. But it's hard to be thankful for anything when your 14 year old brother gets ripped from the world too soon.

"I know, Saige. But what I don't know is how long Jason will be in a rut like this. Get him on the medication, check in at one month. Push him to socialize, interact with his other siblings."

"With all do respect, Rick; we will not be forcing Jason to do anything that he doesn't want to do."

Dr. Newhall hums, almost condescendingly, and I resist the urge to walk back in there and punch him. My parents are trying to let me go at my own pace; who in the world is he to judge that decision?

"I'm just trying to help, Stephen. Call me if you need anything," Newhall finishes. I'm crossing my fingers that we can leave now.

I hustle out to the waiting room while they say final goodbyes, plopping down in a chair with mere seconds to spare. My parents' faces soften at the sight of me, and I stand, meeting them at the door. Mom clutches to my arm, anxious.

"Listen kid, we are never coming back here again, understand?" Dad says as we rush out of the office and to our car in the sweltering August heat. My shirt clings to my skin the second we get outside. "We'll get the prescription and use it for what it's worth, but after a month we will see if the current medication is working or if we need something else. Either way, we're gonna find another psychologist."

We reach the car and pile in, me in the backseat. While I listen to Mom and Dad badger back and forth about Dr. Newhall, I can't help but think about how they defended me when I wasn't around.

The corners of my mouth twist upwards without me fully processing it. If my parents see it, they don't say anything.

More to be appreciative of, I suppose.