“You have to go, you don’t have a choice.”

That’s what she says as we enter the tall gray building. The walls in the waiting room are covered in posters talking about suicide hotlines and depression. She tells me to sit down as she talks to the young girl at the desk. I sit down alone, isolated from everyone else. Then I enter an office at the end of the hall and tall middle aged guy is sitting in a chair.

“Take a seat” he says. “Let’s talk.” “About what?” I replied “Let’s start with your life at home.” “Oh, it’s fine.” “I see, so how about school, how are your grades?” he asks faking concern. “They’re fine.” “Okay, let’s come back to these questions later; let’s talk about Nick.” My heart skips a beat and I look up at him. His eyebrows rise because he knows he hit a nerve. “I don’t wanna talk about him” I tell him without breaking eye contact. “Well, you’re in court mandated therapy; we have to talk about it.” “No, I won’t.” “You broke a boy’s nose, collar bone, dislocated his shoulder and gave him to black eyes. Let’s talk about that.” “Nothing to say, he deserved it.”

Court mandated therapy, it was a stupid ruling. I was being charged with assault, and I pleaded guilty. Not because I had this dramatic epiphany, or became nauseous with guilt. It was because I wanted everyone to know what I did to him. Every punch, every kick, and every tear would have been for nothing if everyone didn’t know. They say you revenge is a dish best served cold, and they’re right. It’s a cold rush, and for a moment everything feels better. Now, why did I do this? I did it for Nick. It’s all for Nick.

Nick. He was my best friend. No, he was more. He was my brother. He was thirteen, only thirteen. He was so young, but had the baggage as if he was forty. He was bullied, and His mom was raped and had committed suicide by the time he was ten. Instead of turning to friends or family for help his dad turned to a bottle. Leaving Nick out in the cold, alone now more than ever. Except for me, I would be there for him every day. Whether it was letting him stay the night, feeding him because his dad’s too drunk to cook anymore, or just hugging him and letting him cry. I was there for him like he was for me when I was in the hospitals, but then when he needed me most; I had to move away. I left him for a couple months, but a couple months was enough. Every day I wonder if it would’ve been different if I hadn’t of left him. I know it would have.

I came back in February, and found Nick in terrible shape. He had been stealing his dads’ liquor and he’d drink it. I would run up to Nicks dad and start screaming at him, but he would only down another bottle like somehow the answer would be in there, like somehow one more bottle would fix the sadness and disappointment in his heart or at least numb the pain. I would scream that his son needs him to be there for him, but he just brushes it off. That’s when I finally realized that he would never help. He will just end up drowning in alcohol.

There was still hope for Nick. I could still save him, he needed me to, but kids at his school weren’t helping. They would torture him about his mom being dead, and about his dad being an alcoholic. He would ignore it as if he didn’t die a little inside when he heard his mom being brought up. They would find him after school and beat the hope right out of him and he would look for more hope at the bottom of another bottle. He’d come home bloodied and broken, each day worse than the one before telling me that it would stop. He told me the name of the boy who kept doing it. Then he finally stopped going school and the beatings stopped for a while.

I still remember how he was before his mom died. A happy nine year with brown hair and green eyes, without a care in the world. He never had many friends, but he was happy with that. He knew he had everything he would ever need if his mom was with him, but now she was gone. He could never see her again and he was slowly dying without her.

I saw Nick for the last time on March 29th. Two days before the two year anniversary of his moms’ death. Nick wanted to be alone on the anniversary. I always wonder what was going on those last days. I wonder what was going through his head. What was the last thing he saw? Why did he do it? When did he decide he was going to? Why didn’t he talk to me about it?

I stopped by Nick’s house on the 31st anyway. I arrived and saw a horrific scene. There were flashing lights, and his dads’ mouth was opened as wide as his eyes. I dropped to my knees as goose bumps covered my body, my heart stopped beating, and I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t control the tears sprinting down my face. I failed, I couldn’t help him. I couldn’t save him from those boys at school, from the pain in his heart, I couldn’t save him from himself. And as I screamed out the rope never stopped swinging.

This is what the therapist wants me to talk about. He wants me to relive this tragedy again as if I hadn’t been doing that since it happened. I get that I assaulted that boy and I said I would go to therapy, but I never said I would talk, especially about Nick. I didn’t want to go back there, I couldn’t think about Nick without bursting into tears. I thought therapy was supposed to help people, but it just makes you feel like you’re a walking travesty.

I went back to the office the next day for my next court mandated session. He started out the same, how was school, and how are you doing. “Let’s skip the idiotic questions” I reply to him. “Okay, if you won’t talk about Nick, let’s talk about the boy you assaulted.” “Fine.”

April 14th, I put on my black clothes, grabbed a bouquet of violets and roses as they were Nick’s favorite, and grabbed one last thing as I headed out the door. I start to walk, memories of walking the same streets with Nick flood my mind. I feel tears start to fill my eyes as his laughter fills my head, laughter I’ll never hear again. I walk past old parks where we used to swing, the family owned ice cream shop we used to get ice cream from on hot summer days, and I pass by our old tree house. As my head is drowning in memories I arrive at the church.
Everything is dark in the church, you can feel the sadness as you enter. The pictures of Nick and his mom, and nick and me are everywhere surrounded by flowers. I hold on to mine as they start. They start by reading a passage from the bible, and they talk about how God will forgive him for taking his own life. I was chosen to speak, being the only friend Nick talked about.

I said only this, “Nick, everyone here loves you. I love you. I hope you’re with your mom.”

Everyone was expecting this big speech, but I just couldn’t do it. After my speech they let everyone say good-bye to Nick. I went last because I would be there the longest. After everyone went through I looked at the lifeless face of my brother. He looked calm, and serene away from the storms of his father that rage on in his absence. I lean in close and whisper “I’ll miss you.” I lay in the flowers and a note. The note reads: I miss you, I’m so sorry, I wasn’t there for you and I let you down.

I stayed in the city for a while. When Nick first died I was so heart broken, I couldn’t look anyone in the eye, and I couldn’t think about Nick without dying a little inside, but something soon replaced that sad feeling, I didn’t know what it was until I was in the park reading when I saw him. The boy that used to beat up Nick, that’s when I figured out the new feeling was anger. I don’t know if I was mad at Nick, the boy, or myself. All I knew was that I was angry.

As I started walking towards him he must’ve recognized me. “I’m sorry about Nick.” He said. “You don’t get to say that!” I shouted back at him. “I know what you did to him and you don’t deserve to feel sorry!” He looked at me with eyes that didn’t look like they were sorry. “fine, then I won’t feel sorry for that freak.” That’s when it happened, I lost it. The first punch I threw was bittersweet, I knew what I was doing was wrong, but I couldn’t stop. When I finally threw the last punch of anger I sat on the swing, crying into my bloodied hands.

I never argued when the boy charged me, I never denied it either. I knew it was wrong, but how could I stop? They told me I had to go to therapy and I would maintain a clean record. I didn’t care. I knew it wouldn’t bring Nick back, but it made me feel like Nick now knew I was always there for them and that I wasn’t going to let some kid keep doing this.

“I’ll tell you why I did it, I did it for Nick.”

There’s not a day that goes by that I don’t wonder how Nick is, if he’s with his mom, or if he’s in a better place. All I can do is go to therapy, but therapy never works. You can’t talk about your problems and then they’ll go away, you can pop pills or drink another bottle and make it go away.

So, give me therapy, I’m a walking travesty.