I sit in a grey cushioned chair, my feet propped up on the other spare one, alongside my supposed therapist. The office space is relatively small, and it’s been about an hour, cutting close to the time for me to leave. We haven’t talked much. We rarely talk at all to be honest, making little to no progress. It’s been two years so far, and still my quiet and brooding demeanor compared to the therapist’s joyful and bubbly one are complete polar opposites. Even her office screams, “HAPPY!”, just by the bright colors of the all the drawings the kids she talked to had given her.
   I don’t hate her necessarily, even though it seems like it sometimes. We go through the same exact start of each session, every Monday and Friday. A boring continuous routine of: “hellos” and “how are yous” she’ll say, and I’d respond with my trademark grunt. Mostly cause I don’t speak, and I don’t want to. She’ll try to get me to talk, and I make no effort to do so. And I know that it makes her sad, sad for me that is. Just by that small frown, her thin lips are make, and the way her eyebrows furrow together. Her powder blue eyes withhold worry and sympathy for a few seconds before it disappears; and she’s back to her “happy” self once again. My therapist’s long dark brown hair cascades down her back, even when it’s been pulled up in a messy ponytail. A few stubborn strands stick out causally on the sides, framing her oval shaped face; she’s wearing her black AC/DC shirt today with worn jeans and red converse. She believes she’s a teenager at heart, even though she’s about fifty four years old.
   “Okay.” she says whilst clapping her hands together. I mentally rolled my eyes. “Bear with me, now,” her tone getting serious, “I want you to…..”
   And, I tune her out right then and there. Not another one of those lame exercises again, I think to myself. I swear she needs to come up with something better nowadays. Seriously, sometimes I feel like her so called “methods” can be found on Google.
  “Do you understand?” she asks, rubbing her hands on her pants. I just nod my head and give a tight fake smile. She was about to add something, but her timer went off, meaning that our session was over and I’ll see her on Monday.
   I stand up before her, brushing off the invisible dust on top of my yoga pants. They are dark grey and worn out, probably from me climbing up on top of the roof at Rob’s house when I want to be alone. My oversized dark blue knit sweater hugs loosely around my body, making it look like it was swallowing me whole. My grey headphones clutched around my neck, as the wire loosely hangs there against my body. Trailing down to where it connected to my phone, that I was currently holding. I bring my french braided cotton candy pink colored hair over my shoulder, and walk towards the door. I’ve had my hair this color for a few months only because it faded out; it used to be hot pink, a “stunt” Rob says, to rebel against Stella. I have given my therapist a curt nod before opening the door,
   “Bye, Logan.” she bids. I don’t reply. On that note, I bring my phone up to my face and press play on my Spotify app. I place my headphones over my ears and walk back out to the front desk, drowning myself with Amy Winehouse’s soul filled song “Rehab”. One of my hands absent-mindedly taps against my thigh going along with the beat of the saxophone. My walk to the front desk is short, I sign out on the small pad on that says “what time did you come to your appointment” and “what time did you leave”. I guess it’s suppose to keep track of all the appointments. The receptionist gives me a smile, but I look away and continue to head out the building. My footsteps fall into the rhythm of the next song that sounds through my headphones, by Fall Out Boy, and my feet soon carry me to my desired destination, the elevator. I press the down button and wait a couple seconds till the chrome doors open. I lick my lips, my tongue rubbing against my silver lip ring as I step inside seeing that it was vacant; I press “GF” on the inside elevator button panel in the ground floor. I step back and rest my body against the steel walls of the elevator.

   Moments passed and I’m already out of the elevator, walking to Rob’s bright red Ford Pick-up Truck before I’ve even realize it. I open up the door and climb inside getting comfortable, setting my feet up on the dashboard. I close my eyes and go back to my mental escape, music. But as usual, it didn’t last long.
   “Feet off the car, please.” Rob’s deep baritone voice filled the space, I scoff and rolled my eyes then remove my feet. Uncomfortable and having to sit up, I look at Rob and he’s giving me a stern expression. I take off my headphones,
  “What?” I say irritated.
  “Seatbelt.” he points out. I roll my eyes and let out an annoyed huff before putting on my seatbelt. I give him a sarcastic smile before resting back into my seat, my arms crossed. Rob begins to drive off, the engine roaring as we drive out of the parking lot. We go down a couple of streets and then on to the highway in complete silence. I know Rob wants to ask the obvious question,”How did it go?”, just by the way he continues to grip the steering wheel and run his hand through his dark brown tousled hair. Rob is naturally tan with dark brown hair and eyes, a strong jaw line, straight symmetrical nose, along with always being well dressed for any occasion. He’s extremely friendly, yet has an authoritative filled persona. He’s built for his age, which is thirty-eight, he’s always been healthy and active. Played sports all throughout high-school all the way up to college. He was the golden-boy, everybody loved him. Well, until he knocked up Diana and she had a child.
  That child, unfortunately, was me. And Rob and Diana are my biological parents, I don’t call them “Mom” and “Dad” if you haven’t noticed. They've lost that privilege.
  When I was born, Rob wasn’t in the picture at all, Diana brought me up. Barely. Diana was an abusive drug addict and alcoholic, who got high off of heroin and crushed acetaminophen pills in the dirty bathroom of our crummy apartment. I still remembered the strong aroma of mold coming from inside the walls mixed with various liquors that laced the apartment. Diana would mostly drink Tequila; that was her favorite. She would make me clean, make me stash her heroin under our mattresses or even in a ziplock bag to hide inside our toilet flush compartment. That was only when my Social Worker came to visit once a month to see how I was doing, Diana was caught with heroin before. They took me away and put me in foster care for three months before CPS said that Diana was clean and was able to provide for me. Which was a lie, of course.
   I would get into deep trouble if I showed or explained to my Social Worker that I didn’t like living with Diana. She always said that she was worried about the Child Protective Services taking me away, even though we both knew that she hated me. It got worse when I was around twelve years old. She would make threats and talk badly about me, saying I was a “horrible daughter”, that I made my father leave her, and that she should have aborted me the first time she found out. I would hide in my bedroom closet when she got to the point of screaming her head off. I remember one time she was so drunk that she slapped me across the face cause I “ran” into her in the hallway. And the physical abuse got worse over time. Diana had broken my arm once by pushing me down the stairs for dropping her “candy”. And I would get beaten every single day, over the littlest of things. I used to think that the reason she would hit me was because it was my fault. But as I got older, I realized that all she wanted was to take her anger out and blame someone for her problems, instead of herself. Too bad it had to be me.
   I was fifteen when I finally decided enough, was enough. I grew up as Diana’s human punching bag. And I was tired of it. So, one day, at three in the morning, I packed everything I owned. Which was only a slightly worn jacket, two pairs of pants, a t-shirt, a pair of undergarments, and a prior torn up picture of Rob that I taped back together. I placed everything in a Walgreens Pharmacy plastic bag and put the picture in my pocket. I made it out of that repulsive apartment with ease; Diana was already passed out after another late night high and round of drinks. I rushed down the green stairwell anxious and worried that she might wake up soon and notice that I left. I ran out on the streets of Detroit, Michigan, not looking back once. I hauled a cab and the driver asked me where to go. I said to the nearest Greyhound Bus Station, the drive took a good twenty-five minutes. After paying the old coot, and I headed up the Bus Station seeing the schedules on a large bulletin board. I take the picture of Rob out of my pocket, even after the pictured was ripped up by Diana. She found me, years ago, looking through her old stuff and I just happen to find the picture. She snatched it out of my hands tearing it up in my face, but she didn’t know that after she left; I had taped it back up. But more importantly, on the backside of the picture there was a small note, it read:

Dear Logan,

   My name’s Robert Peterson. And I’m your father, I’m sorry you had to find out this way. I never meant to hurt you or Diana. I just wasn’t ready for a kid. I was twenty one years old when I found out about you. I still remember the first and last time I held you. You were so precious, my little angel, and you still and always will be. Whether you know it or not, I hope one day that I will be able to meet you in person. And I just know that you’ll grow up to be a wonderful, beautiful, strong, independent, young woman.

  Love,
     Your Father

P.S. If you are ever trying to look for me, I’m staying at 4531 Maple Drive, Peterson Manor in Queens, New York City.

  I look for the quickest and non-stop route on the bulletin board for New York City, Bus 6 it read. The waiting period had ten minutes left so I paced the station for a while until I heard the diesel engine of the bus come down the roadway. The flash of the bright headlights making my eyes hurt instantly, my eyes squint adjusting to the new light. The bus door open and people of various personalities and sizes came out, all with the same expression of tiredness. I climb up on the bus, and the bus driver asked me “Where to?”. My answer was “Queens, New York”.

*****

   Two days later, I stepped off the Greyhound bus onto the streets of New York. Its loud and everything, and everybody was moving fast. I uncomfortably shift my feet and take another peek at the back of the photo of my “father”, trying to memorize the address. Once I get it stuck in my mind, I look up seeing the mass people walking up and down the streets of Queens. The crowd looked like a terrifying and famished monster, that was just waiting to consume me. I take a deep breath clutching the picture in my hand… Breathe in, breathe out… Finally, I make my way down the streets of Queens, my body disappearing in the large mass of people.
   I tried to make as little contact with people as possible, every time I locked eyes with someone or brushed their shoulders; I automatically flinched or avert my eyes. Actions like that are triggers to my anxiety, something my “mother” never knew I had. I started gaining anxiety the first time my “mother” physically abused me; even at a young age I knew what anxiety was. Walking a little faster down the concrete sidewalk, my eyes permanently on the ground. I tried to avoid anything and everything around me.  Why did I ever come here? I begin to think. I know that a part of me wants to meet Robert, but another part me is pissed that he left me with that horrible woman. I don’t want to go back to Diana, she such a terrible person. But who leaves a child, let alone a baby, with a person who’s at risk of abusing alcohol and drugs? I don’t understand….. And why does Robert have to live in such a big city? There’s so many people and noises here, I can barely think in this crowded place. Too many noises, too many cars, too many buildings, too many crowded areas, too many people, and just too much commo—
   “Aaaahht!” was all I heard when a black sleek Bentley drove into my body, knocking me up on the hood of the car. My face thrashed against the windshield of the car, the sound of it cracks before the car abruptly stopped; sending my body tumbling roughly to the hard asphalt. Now sprawled on the road, I try to lift my head up, the right side of it now pounding hard and the taste of blood filled my mouth. I lick my lips, my tongue brushing over my silver lip ring, before a fit of coughs rushed out of me. Something muffled sounds through my ears, but I could not make out what it was. I set my hands down on the ground, after my coughing was done; I push myself up to a sitting position wiping my mouth, then notice a streak of red that now stained the back of my hand. Blood. My vision began to blur, and I blink of few times trying to gain back my eyesight. That’s when I realize that muffle sound was someone trying to speak to me. I look up to the person, who I’m guessing hit me with their car, and I did a double take.  I then quickly brought my right hand that was in a fist towards my view. I unclench my hand, noticing the picture of Robert was crushed, but the image of his face was still clear. I look back up at the person who hit me with their car, and my Dad’s face the last thing I saw before I passed out.

*****

  “Beep….Beep….Beep….”, my eyes slowly open and adjust to the colorless white room. I take in the surroundings and notice that I’m hooked up to an IV, and the extra wires that ran under my raggedy brown torn shirt where the heart rate monitors. I’m laying on all white medical bed, with a white bed spread and pillow. The medical tray rests off on the side, and I look at the TV that directly in front of the bed. “Beep….Beep….Beep….”, there’s that beeping again. Yep, I’m definitely in a hospital. How did I get here? I thought. Then something else flashed into my mind, I saw my Dad. My Dad hit me with his car. Oh.
  “I don’t know what happened, she just walked into the street, her head was down so she obviously wasn’t looking where she was going. And I honked at her to get her attention, but she didn’t move, and it just happened.” a deep man’s voice sounded outside my hospital room. I rub my forehead, feeling a little lightheaded,
   “Well, I’m going to check with her, we are not sure whether or not she has a parent or guardian. She’s only fifteen years old, so that makes her a minor.” female’s voice spoke to the man. Soon the two walked in, and I sat up at the sight of them. I hiss, while  pain soared across the right side of my torso,
  “Easy, easy.” the lady said. Her dark brown eyes looked over me expectedly, yet her hand touched my shoulder which such gentleness.
  “I’m Dr. Carter. What is your name sweetie?” Dr. Carter asks. Her voice was soft and patient. Dr. Carter was on the short side, probably about 5’2” or 5’4” and had light caramel colored skin. Her doe like brown eyes and high cheekbones made her heart shaped face, look innocent and friendly. Her light brown hair was pressed and curled resulting to be shoulder length. Her body was surrounded by the professional doctor’s coat and stethoscope that wrapped around her slender neck. Underneath the coat was a light pink fitted shirt and denim jeans, and she was wearing nude colored flats.
  “Logan.” I answer. My voice sounded raspy, I try clear my throat and that didn’t work. The Doctor reached over and picked up a cup that was filled with water, she handed it to me and I greedily drank the entire cup. The Doctor stares me down with a smile, and I scowl at her.
  “What?” I snap at her. She seems unfazed and asks me another question,
  “Do you know why you’re in the hospital?” I lean my head back and scoff,
  “Yeah, cause this asshole right here ran me over.” I answer, nodding over to my father that awkwardly leaning against the TV looking me over. His dark brown eyes lock with my greyish-green ones for a brief second before I tear away and look back at the Doctor with an uninterested expression.
  “Okay, well, you have no major injuries. But, you do have a slight concussion and your underweight for your age. Honey, does your parents know you are out walking around the streets by yourself? It’s not saf-“
  “My Ma doesn’t care where I’m at or where I go, a’ight. So, why should you? You need to mine your own damn business, I can take care of myself.” I cut her off. I’ve been taking care of myself for the last nine years of my life, I don’t need any help. An irritated looked suffused her face before it disappeared, she gives me a tight smile and I return a sarcastic one before crossing my arms.
  “It says here that your fifteen.”
  “Yea.” I say scratching the back of my head. Playing with the strands of my blonde hair as the doctor began to speak again,
  “So that makes you a minor, and by law I need your Mom sign you out of the hospital.”
  “Good luck with that, she’s in Michigan. She won’t travel all the way out here.” I respond, indifferently. Dr. Carter’s eyebrows furrow before looking down at the chart skimming something over, before looking back at me again.
  “And why is she in Michigan?” Dr. Carter questions,
  “We live in Michigan, but I came here to Queens.”
  “By yourself?”
  “No, duh.” I roll my eyes.
  “So, why are you in Queens?” she finally asks the million dollar question.
  “I’m looking for my father.” I admit looking over to my father across the room. He’s tall and broad, he seems mature and holds his head up high. And by the brand of his car that he hit me with and how he lives in a mansion, he must make a lot of money.
  “Why would you travel all the way to Queens by yourself to look for your father, without your mother?” Dr. Carter asks. I hate being interrogated. I bite my lip and glare at her,
  “My mother and my father aren’t on good terms a’ight,” I say and shift in the bed, “ I’ve never met my father, he abandoned me as a baby. Some years later he sends a picture of himself to me, it had his name on it and where he lived if I ever wanted to meet him one day. He said he lived here in Queens and I was hoping to find him, so here I am.” my mouth was gritted together as I stare at my Dad. As our eyes locked again, I saw something click within his eyes. Sympathy, awe, happiness, and overall sadness filled his expression.
  “Logan?” my Dad finally spoke after ten minutes of his silence. I nod my head,
  “E-yep.” I say my tone prominent.

****

  Now I’m in Rob’s truck, two years later, after he hit me with his car. I still had no idea if Diana was alive or not, and honestly, I didn’t really care. Which is sad in a way, I guess. Rob finally asked me the question,
  “How’d it go?”
  “Okay.” I answer shrugging, cause there was really anything to elaborate on that.
  “Well, what did you do?” he questioned,
  “Nothin’.”
  “Nothing?”
  “Yes, nothing.” I say getting a little irritated. To say we were always at each other's neck for the last two years, would be an understatement.
  “I’m not paying a therapist to help you with, nothing, Logan.” Rob says sternly. I scowl,
  “I never asked you to get me one.” I retort.
  “Logan, you need it. From what you have been through, with your Moth-”
  “Don’t you dare say that Diana is my mother! You know damn well that, that sorry piece of trash you knocked up didn’t deserve to be a mother. Let alone be mine. So, don’t you dare ever say she is.” my voice gritted out with hate. Rob took a deep breath, before responding.
  “Logan, you know without Marcie’s help the last two years you’d probably be-”
  “Rebellin’, gettin’ pregnant, and on the streets smokin’ dope, right?” I cut him off.
  “That’s not what I said-”
  “Yeah, but it's what you meant.” I growled out, and our conversation was done. I quickly isolated myself within my music once again. Demi Lovato’s powerful voice blocking out anything and everything around me. I close my eyes and lay back in my seat, hoping that my body would turn invisible and disappear. Too bad we don’t always get what we want.