Espoir

LOUIS
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drop a gear and dis
- mitski
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I'd been in this useless therapy session for three hours now, suffocating under the weight of every word this woman said. My dad, overly concerned after yesterday, pulled me out of school and sent me here to "get help."

"Now, Louis, have you ever heard of PTSD?" The therapist asked, her overly sweet voice grating. She was wearing some pungent perfume that made my eyes water. I ignored her, shrugging.

"It's common in cases of child abuse," she continued, undeterred. "Some signs include behavioral problems, emotional distress, learning difficulties, nightmares or flashbacks, and difficulty falling asleep. From what I know about you, you experience all of the above."

Her words hit too close to home, and I shifted uncomfortably. "I don't have PTSC or whatever it's called," I muttered.

"PTSD," she corrected, placing her notepad down and clasping her hands. "Why do you think you don't have it?"

"Because," I groaned, tossing the stress ball she'd given me between my hands, "that's just not something that happens to me."

She raised an eyebrow. "Believing you 'can't' have trauma or that you're immune to its effects is often a coping mechanism associated with child abuse—"

I snapped, slamming my hands down on her desk. "Yes, woman, I know I was abused as a kid! You don't need to keep repeating it like it's news to me! Just...fuck off!" My voice echoed through her office as I started pacing.

My chest heaved as I pinched the bridge of my nose, forcing myself to take a deep breath. Calm down. Calm down. "I'm...sorry," I mumbled, dropping back into the chair. "For yelling."

She smiled lightly, her expression calm, as though she'd expected this. "It's okay," she said, her voice gentle. "It's okay to be angry."

She slid a piece of paper across the desk. "These are things I'd like you to discuss with your father. They're not definitive diagnoses, just observations."

I stared at the list:

• PTSD (Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder)
- Behavioral problems
- Emotional distress
- Learning difficulties
- Nightmares or flashbacks

•ASD (Acute Stress Disorder)
- Intrusive thoughts and flashbacks
- Emotional numbness or detachment
- Irritability or anger outbursts

•Alcohol Use Disorder

Disgust rose in my throat. What was the point of labeling all the ways I was broken? I'd gone years without a therapist, without diagnoses, and I'd been just fine.

The session ended with her usual preppy smile, and I practically ran out of the building. Adrien waited by the entrance, leaning against a potted plant with his phone in hand. When he saw me, he pocketed it, smiling.

"How'd it go?" he asked.

Wordlessly, I handed him the paper.

"What's this?" He frowned at the list as we walked to his shiny black car.

"Apparently, what I have," I muttered, sliding into the passenger seat.

He started the car, glancing over. "Feeling better after yesterday?" I nodded, looking down. "Sorry...for making everyone worry."

"You don't need to apologize," he said softly, his smile warm. "We care about you."

The words stung. I wanted to scream. How? How could anyone care about me? I wasn't worth it. I'd been reckless, angry, and unreliable. My sister had ended up in the hospital because of me. I wasn't someone to care about. Aimée deserved their attention, not me.

Adrien pulled out of the parking lot, and we passed the "Care for Kids" sign. I rolled my eyes.

"When's the trial?" I asked.

"In a few months," Adrien said, his brows furrowing. "Do you still want to do it?"

I picked at a hangnail, the thought of seeing Mike making my stomach churn. "I don't have a choice," I muttered.

"Yes, you do," he said, his voice firm.

I turned to him, my voice rising. "But I don't, do I?" A hot anger floods over me. "Because if I don't testify, he walks free, isn't that right?"

"You don't have to do anything you don't want to." Adrien parked the car, and I barely noticed the other vehicles in the driveway. My anger flared, and I yanked open the glove compartment, pulling out pamphlets he thought I hadn't seen.

How to Parent a Child Who's Experienced Abuse.

I ripped it open, reading aloud with venom. "Give the child the chance to make decisions for themselves." I grabbed another pamphlet. "Don't judge the child for their past experiences."

My chest tightened, and my voice cracked as I grabbed another. "Let the child know it's not their fault."

I wanted to scream, to tear the world apart. What I didn't want to admit was that I wasn't angry at the pamphlets. I was angry at myself—at the idea that I was so impossible to love that Adrien needed instructions on how to care for me.

"Louis—" Adrien's voice was calm, soothing.

"No!" I yelled, throwing the ripped pamphlets on the ground as I stormed into the house. "I don't want to talk to you."

I slammed the door behind me, pulling at my hair, trying to force myself to breathe.

"You need to calm down," I whispered to myself, over and over, but the words felt empty. I had two meltdowns in the span of thirty minutes like a fucking toddler.

"Louis?" a soft voice called, and for a second, I thought it was Aimée. But when I turned, I found Odette staring at me, her eyes full of concern.

Dread settled deep in my chest.

A/N
Okay, guys, do you like this chapter or the last few ones better? Be honest because I used two different styles and I need an honest opinion.