Architecture and Morality by Glenn Brown (2004)

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Devlin's POV

"Have you ever thought of attending group therapy?" Dr. Mitchell asked me.

"No, why?"

"I think that it would be a great thing for you. You might feel more comfortable discussing your feelings with people who you can relate to."

"I'd rather not, doctor." I blanched, feeling a tightness in my chest.

"Is there something that's worrying you?" She asked, noticing my pallored complexion.

I lowered my eyebrows on my face, not sure to understand her question and she asked, "what do you fear will happen if you join the speaking group?"

"Nothing." I shrugged, running a hand through my raven hair. "Let's just say that talking to large groups has never been my thing."

"I don't want to pressure you. It's okay if you're not ready."

Not ready? Of course I was ready. I was fine now.

"No, I'm ready! I'll be just fine," I blurted out, stretching a smile across my face.

"You're sure?"

"Yeah. Of course."

"Good. Then, I'll see you next week. The meetings are twice a week," she informed me as she walked me to the door. She handed me a business card on which was written 'Free discussion group'.

"I'll be there. Bye, doctor."

***

That was how I found myself going down the stairs of the subway station to attend my first group meeting. The dim light coming from the bottom of the stairs allowed me to observe the barely visible graffiti that covered the brick walls of the station. I looked away, checking the time on my phone. It was 6:27PM, only a matter of seconds before my train came. I walked through the dense crowd, keeping my eyes on the ground, avoiding to meet the familiar faces of those around me.

"Is that him? The guy that tried to..." One of the students from Amberwood High whispered, not daring to say it. I glanced at her briefly. Her brown eyes looked away from mine as she was ashamed that I had heard her.

"Yeah," her friend answered. "He was on the news. It was crazy."

"I heard it wasn't the first time that he tried. Do you think it's true?" One of the guys jumped in.

"I don't know."

I could feel their gazes on my back. They burned the surface of my skin and made it crawl, but there was nothing I could—or wanted to do. I preferred to pretend that the volume of the music in my ears was high enough to drown the sound of their voices. But truly, as much as I increased it, I knew that it would never be enough to stop me from hearing. didn't dare to look back at them. I knew that they were talking about me. I heard them in my mind, their words seeping through the gaps of the melody– I was a freak; a loser; a regretful mishap amidst a perfect creation. And even when I could no longer see their lips moving, I still hear the sound of their voices in my head, an everlasting torture that refused to fade.

I finally walked away from them, joining the mass of people standing behind the yellow line, waiting for the train. A loud creaking sound coming from the darkness of the tunnel announced the train's arrival. It immobilized in front of us and its large metal jaws slowly opened. Like a bunch of ants entering a formicary, we entered one behind the other. I stepped into the train, letting out a soundless sigh of exhaustion as I sat in one of the few available seats.

The weight of the first week of school had caught up on me, but I tried to remain optimistic. After all, the more positive I was, the faster this school year would be over; the faster I could graduate; the faster I could leave this town; the faster I could forget about everything. I reminded myself of that everyday–that the world didn't stop at Amberwood. That beautiful places existed beyond this rotten town and that even if for now, those places only existed in my mind, I would get the chance to visit them one day. Truly, it didn't matter where I would run off to. As long as it was far away from here, I would be happy.

I closed my eyelids for a few seconds. My head swayed to the rhythm of the music in my ears. For a brief instant, I thought about nothing. Not the future nor the past. Not even the present. Just nothing.

I finally opened my eyes back up as the words "Square Avenue and Dorchester stop" were spoken into the speakers. The train then decelerated before finally coming to a full stop. Its doors slid open once more, allowing new passengers to enter and I exited.

I walked a couple of minutes down the bright gleam and billboards of the touristic area of Square Avenue before following a busy street leading to the financial district. The night was dark–completely starless—but the lights coming from tall skyscrapers that surrounded me were dazzling. The glass-like surface of those buildings reflected my image as I walked past them. I looked at myself briefly, wondering what I was doing here. For an instant, I thought of going back, just turning around and heading home, but something within myself pushed me to keep going.

I glanced at the card between my fingers. I checked the address that was written on the piece of paper and realized that it matched the one written on the facade of the tall building. It appeared to be the only building that wasn't made of glass, but bricks. I stood before its automatic doors and they opened. I entered, my eyes slightly fluttering as they slowly got adjusted to the warmer shades of illumination. I looked around the entryway, noticing that it was empty—the large reception desk that was placed in the middle of the room.

I walked down a narrow corridor, reaching an ajar door. I timidly pushed against it. The door opened onto a relatively small, but cozy room. I removed my headphones, resting them around my neck as I stepped inside.

"I'm glad to see that you decided to join us!" Dr. Mitchell exclaimed as a smile stretched across her face. Her bamboo jewelry clicked as she approached me. She placed one of her hands into the pocket of her tie-dye yoga pants, while adding, "we're going to start in five minutes."

"Thank you." I nervously smiled back at her before glancing at the intimidating circle of black chairs placed in the middle of the room. Behind it was set a large table around which a couple of people mingled. They spoke softly as they grabbed various snacks and beverages.

"Make yourself at home," she said.

"Thanks." I told her as I sat on one of the chairs.

***

"Okay, everybody! Let's start," Dr. Mitchell said, holding her usual pen and notebook in her hands.

Everyone reached their seats and listened as she spoke. "I'm glad to see some new faces. It's always good to have new members. Before we start, I just want to remind you that this is a free and totally confidential space. Feel free to speak and express yourself, while remaining respectful to those around you."

"Okay, let's begin. Does anyone want to share something?" She asked, looking around. Her eyes briefly settled on me before moving on to the next person.

"Can I start?" A shaky voice coming from beside me said. I slightly turned my head to glance at the brown haired girl that sat next to me. Her lips were pressed into a thin line as her eyebrows drew together, forming two inclined slopes on her face.

"You can go ahead, Lisa." Dr. Mitchell handed her the 'talking stick', a wooden stick on which was placed a smiley face sticker.

"Thank you," she said as she took it. "Hmm... Hi, I'm Lisa. I'm nineteen years old and I'm a freshman in college."

"Hi Lisa," the circle said in unison. I was taken back for a second, soon figured that it was some kind of group thing that they did every time some presented themselves.

"And I have OCD," she breathed out, looking down for an instant before resuming. "I've had it for as long as I can remember, but I've never had that much trouble managing it. At least until this year."

"With the stress that college has brought into my life, I feel like my OCD has gotten worse. I no longer feel that I have control over it. Actually, it's the opposite, my disorder is controlling me." Lisa spoke like she was out of breath. As though she was physically tired and exhausted.

"How does that make you feel in your day to day life?" Dr. Mitchell asked in a voice full of compassion.

"It makes me feel trapped. As if it's all that defines me," Lisa said. Gregory, a middle aged man sitting next to her, nodded in an understanding way.

"Would you like to say something, Gregory?" Dr. Mitchell asked.

The man wearing a black and red flannel nodded as the stick was passed on to him.

"Hi, my name is Gregory. I'm forty-three years old and... and... I'm an addict."

"Hi Gregory," everybody said once again.

"I think that it's the first time that I say it out loud," the man said as a faint smile of disbelief flashed on his mustache-covered lips. "I just want to say that I understand the feeling of powerlessness that you talked about. I feel the same when it comes to alcohol," he began in a hoarse voice.

"Sometimes, I just want to give in and serve myself a drink. I tell myself 'what's the point of being sober if my addiction still has a hold on me?'After all, I'll either spend the rest of my life running away from alcohol or drowning in it. So what's the point?"

"But then," he continued. "I remember who I'm fighting for—my wife, my kids and all of those who care about me—and suddenly it doesn't feel easy, but it feels possible to overcome the challenges. I feel that as long as I stay sober, one day at a time, things will get better."

"That's so true. After the storm, comes the sun. Never forget that," the psychiatrist said.

Both Lisa's and Gregory's lips stretched into a hopeful smile as they listened to Dr. Mitchell's words. They seemed to have internalized this sentence in completely different ways, but the closure that they had gotten from it appeared to be the same.

My smile dropped as my heart sank. I was the next one to speak. Logically, I had to be. First it was Lisa then Gregory and next it had to be me. I swallowed the lump that blocked my throat as I thought of something to say, but nothing seemed to come to my mind. My mind was foggy and my mouth dry.

"Would you like to say something, Devlin?" Dr. Mitchell asked.

As I opened my mouth, the door swung open. In the utter silence of the room, the steps of the newcomer attracted the attention of all. It was a young woman. From where I sat, I could only perceive the coily black hair that covered the side of her face as she closed the door shut.

"I'm sorry for being late," she said as she approached the circle.

My jaw dropped when I heard her voice. She then removed the hood of the raincoat that casted a shadow on her face, exposing herself to the light.

'Shayana?' I muttered to myself as I pushed my glasses higher on the bridge of my nose, convinced that my eyes were playing tricks on me. What was she doing here? Out of all times and places where we could meet, she seemed to have a gift for picking the most inconvenient ones.

"It's no problem, Shayana. Take a seat," the doctor told her.

"Thank you," she said, taking a seat on the last empty chair, right in front of me.

I put my hangs beneath my tights to stop them from trembling. I bit the inside of my mouth, feeling myself grow uneasy. What was I going to do? I had to do something... Run away? No, my legs wouldn't have allowed me to do that.

Shayana's lips parted as her eyes fell on me. She tucked one of the black strands behind her ears, her widened eyes still staring at me in shock.

"Feel free to resume, Devlin."

My heart thudded in my rib cage. So hard that I could hear its rhythmic vibrations in my ears and feel them throughout my body.

I lightly shook my head, unable to speak as though my jaw was screwed shut.

Dr. Mitchell's face crumbled with concern as she asked, "is everything alright?"

"I-I can't do this. I'm sorry."

★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★

Hey loves!

Thank you for read in this chapter

Here are some questions that I have,

What do you think that the teenagers that Devlin met at the subway station were gossiping about?

What do you think Shayana attended the meeting?

Much love,

-A