Too late.

After being enrolled into a camp for 'troubled children', Brian is having to confront meetings with his councilor. Although, this meeting could save his life.

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1. The meeting.

“We need to talk.”

The man was intimidating, with a long and lanky physique, which loomed over me like a claw of Satan, dragging me to his den.

Reluctantly, I followed his slender finger directing me to a single chair. My feet hesitated and I procrastinated until the man said, “Sit down, it is just a talk.”

Tumbling, inside my mind, was a colossal amount of thoughts, eager to emit from my chapped lips; they were muted as I gradually made my way over to the chair.

My mother is a person of wisdom and courteous, constantly filtering her knowledge to me; with her high standards, behaviour is frequently a topic of her inspirational lectures.

 Whilst the man smiled with his cigarette stained teeth, I recited the quote she said too often: “Fine manners need the support of fine manners in others.”

Saying this however, the main matter at home still remained, causing me to just stare beyond his empathetic features.

“I am concerned about the recent messages you have been receiving from your parents and family.”

I glanced up, for a millisecond, attempting to look beyond his pure face, which was tilted to an awkward angle; I was trying to discover whether he was genuinely concerned, or whether he was merely just reading the questions on his crinkled queue card.

I looked back down at my tattered vans.

“Brian, look at me.”

Straining, I stiffly turned my head until I was facing the man; my eyes were tightly squinted, as though he was a bright source of light.

“Brian, I am anxious about your health since your parents have been requesting you should see a councillor because of your drug intake and the ‘method’ in which you resolve your issues.”

The movement of his fingers made me flinch; one can only understand the distraught I am going through if they were to witness the issues I have to face each and every day of my pointless life. The knife that pierces through my frail wrists and legs are only a minor, temporary solution so drugs are the windows I escape to. Anger was slowly bubbling up in my throat but I pushed it down, with a large gulp of thick saliva that was threatening to erupt out of my mouth, along with the sandwich I managed to force down my throat an hour ago. At the entrance of my oesophagus, a bitter taste was being produced and I had to dash to the window before bile exploded from my chapped lips.

“Brian. Brian!! These are the type of consequences you have to face because of your stupid, immature behaviour. What is the matter with you? This camp is for troubled children and you have proven to be a troubled troubled youth! What do you have to say for yourself?”

A flutter of giggles came out of my mouth to mask the emotion buried beneath.

“Brian, this type of nonsense is killing you! You have to listen! You are on the verge of insanity!”

He tried to make me look at his beady eyes, which were now glaring down but instead I just stared straight ahead at the bile I hadn’t quite vomited out of the window, dripping carelessly back onto the grass outside.

“Brian what I am about to say is important and you need to listen. I have been trying to tell you this throughout the meeting but you have proved to be... distracted. Your parents called asking to tell you something.”

I rolled me eyes up in disgust. They always want to tell me something.

They said what they need to say is important and the incident occurred a few days ago, although they didn’t want to tell you and disrupt your course.”

Incident? What could have happened; before I could thing anymore on the matter, the man took a big intake of breath and proceeded.

“It’s about your friend: Zach; he has passed away.”

The colour in my face was filtered away into an unknown better, brighter galaxy and my malnourished body began to tremble. Zach was dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. 

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