Daddy's Prey (Pt. 1) | Teen Ink

Daddy's Prey (Pt. 1)

January 19, 2010
By Imjustjess BRONZE, Chicago, Illinois
Imjustjess BRONZE, Chicago, Illinois
3 articles 0 photos 7 comments

Favorite Quote:
Love all, trust few.

The incessant ticking of the wooden clock hung on the blue painted wall was driving me insane. I blankly stared at it; nothing was going through my mind.
Nothing that I wanted to talk about anyways.
Not today.
I didn’t want to talk today.

I’m 21 years old, yet my mother still has full control over me. Although, I guess I shouldn’t complain. I’d be a mess without her.
But sometimes I feel like I could do without this stupid therapist bull***.
Which is exactly where I was,
In Dr. Adam’s office.
An office that she tried to disguise as a family room in order to make her patients feel more at ease.
The couch was comfortable, and large… but it always smelt like doughnuts in there.
I hate doughnuts.
My father loves them.

I had been waiting about five minutes, when Dr. Adams finally decided to walk in.
Her feet dragged on the carpet.
The clock was still ticking.
I wanted a pill.

“Hi, Morgan.” She took a seat across from me on a chair that looked like it belonged on a bad, 80’s film set. She sipped her steaming coffee…

and bit into her doughnut.

I reeeaallly wanted a pill.

“Hi.” I replied.
My face showed no expression.

She took a deep, doughnut and coffee filled breath and smiled.
“Well, I’m glad to see you again. You look good.”

I squinted my eyes at her, and looked down at my outfit.
Grey sweats.
Dirty boots.
And a hoody with some weird drawing on it. It kind of resembled a p****.
I cocked an eye at her.
“Thanks… So, what’s on the agenda for today?” I asked. “I don’t really think I’m in the mood to play any of those quirky “happy” games that you’ve forced me to partake in the last couple of weeks. Nor do I care to stare at ink blots, pretending that they remind me of something.” I cracked my knuckles and laid back on the couch, letting my legs take up its entirety.

She ignored me.
“So, how have you been feeling? You’ve made tremendous improvements in the past few months… so… how do you feel?”
I cringed at the way she asked that question.
She sounded like an evil witch, the way she hung on to the word “feel”, made me feel like I was shrinking.

“How do you feeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeel??????”
Was more like how it sounded.

“I feel fine,” I answered.
Gimme a pill, gimme a pill, gimme a pill.
My teeth clenched.

“Well, now that you’ve stopped taking your Xanax and Prozac… have you felt any different at all?”

“I haven’t stopped taking them,” I thought to myself.

“Yes,” I replied. “But I think I’m okay without them.”
I ran my hands over the pockets of my jeans; I could feel the lumps of the capsules.
I sighed a breath of relief, and then she began to tap her pen on her opened notebook.
The clock was still ticking, and it still smelt like doughnuts.
I forced myself to relax.

She closed the notebook and sat up on the edge of her chair.
“Morgan, I want to talk about your father today.”

“Wait, what? Why?” I sounded panicked.

“Calm down.” I thought.
“Morgan, when your mom first put you in therapy she told me that there had been some drama with you and your dad. She didn’t tell me what about, and she didn’t seem too sure about it herself. But she did tell me that you and your father have never had the closest of relationships. Anyways, she urged me to push on the subject to find out more… but every time I’ve brought him up in the past…well… you seem to steer away of talking about him.”

“I’m sorry… what? My mom told you to find out more on the “subject”?” I raised my fingers, making the quotation signs in sarcasm. “I’m sorry, Dr. Adams, but I am 21 years old, my mother has no business in knowing anything we talk about in here.” I could feel my cheeks turning red.

I shook my head, “Wow…”.

“And she wont,” she began. She crossed her legs and leaned her chin against the palm of her hand, resting her elbow on her knee.
She did this when she was trying to “read” me.

And she continued… “She just wanted me to dig deeper into your depression, and she thought your father might be a good place to start. She had no intentions of putting her nose into our discussions that we have. Her only intent was to help you.”

I hated that word.
What did it even mean?
Unhappiness, low-spirits, melancholy… all words that could describe anyone at some point in their life.

I wanted to be left alone.
And I wanted a pill… no…wait… two pills.

I looked away from her, “What do you want me to say? I mean, my dad and I just don’t get along. He’s not a nice guy and apparently I’m the only one who has come to that conclusion about him.” I crossed my arms in annoyance.

“You mean to tell me you’ve never had one happy experience with your father? He is your father, Morgan. You do remember that, right?”

“What do you know,” I thought.

I scowled at her. “Yes, Dr. Adams, I remember. I remember that he is my father. And no, Dr. Adams, I don’t remember having any happy experiences with him. None.”

She opened her notebook back out and began taking notes.


“Think hard, Morgan. Think about all of those years you’ve had with your father. Just think. Think of one time you’ve been happy in the presence of your father.”

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