Prolouge

                                    

                                          
[6 months before meeting]
                          
"Maybe you should get away for awhile. Do you have any family out of London." I anxiously sit in the leather chair, tapping my foot on the ground.
                          
"No." This is about the fifth time that I have used a one word answer. I'm not good at telling strangers my personal information. Although, Marie was hardly a stranger. She has been my therapist for the past month and she's barely gotten anything out of me. But it's not because she isn't good at her job. She's great at her job. Soft spoken, pretty to look at. Knows the right things to say when I need them said.
                          
I want to tell her how I feel. I want tell everybody how I feel. But I just can't. I feel like I'm going mad. Somebody is looking over my shoulder constantly to make sure I'm still breathing. I feel angry about it. But I can't blame them. Not after what I did that night. Not after how I did it.
                          
Marie is the perfect therapist and my family is the perfect family. I tell myself that. I'm sad because I make myself sad. So, if I could just stop making myself sad, I wouldn't be depressed anymore. 
                          
I tried painting, writing, playing guitar. All things just to distract myself from the pain I am feeling.
Nothing helps though. 
                          
No matter how great of a therapist my wealthy family could afford, the words that her pretty mouth speak still aren't what I need to hear.  
                          
"You know how this works. I ask you what's wrong and then you vent about it and you'll feel better. But I can't help you if you don't open up to me." I bite the inside of my cheek and hesitate to answer. My first thought is to say something mean. Something so hurtful that she'll stop asking me these stupid questions and request that I withdraw from therapy due to unruly behavior. But I don't.
                          
"Yeah, a vacation would be nice. Always wanted to visit the states. Maybe I will." She smiles widely. I can tell she was also expecting me to make a rude remark, now pleased that I didn't.
                          
"I think that would be a wonderful idea." She stands up and walks towards a notepad sitting on her dresser. "This week I am prescribing you with another bottle of your usual prescriptions and make sure you call me if you need anything." I smile at her, shyly. Not being able to honestly smile.
                          
"Thank you."
                          
"And Harry?" She asks as I walk through the door.
                          
"Yes?" I turn back around to face her.
                          
"You deserve happiness just as much as the next guy. Take that vacation. Who knows? Maybe you'll meet somebody." I just nod at her, letting her know I understand and then I walk out of her office. Little does she know that after what happened a few weeks ago, I don't think I'll ever look to meet somebody again. 
                          
With it being December now, it is cold on the streets of London as I walked to the local coffee shop. The cafe is only a few blocks from my therapists office but as I stick my cold hands into my coat pockets, I pray for the walk to be over already.
                          
I don't mind the cold but I have always hated the winter. Somehow, something tragic always seems to happen in the winter for me. Whether it be my dog dying on Christmas when I was a child or my grandparents fatal car crash halfway through last January, something always seemed to damper the mood when the cold air rolled around. 
                          
My thoughts are quickly replaced when a little bell is rang and my body is engulfed in warmth as I walk through the small wooden door of The Busy Bean. Ironic name considering I've never seen this place busier than serving maybe ten people at once, on a good day. 
                          
I take my seat at the same small table that I always sit at, never letting it serve it's purpose by seating two people like it's suppose to. I can't complain though. I've never asked for anyone to join my presence here. I've noticed not many people in this part of London enjoy wallowing in self pity as they pretend to read a book in the back of a cafe.