The picture’s the first thing to go. I’m sick of looking at that fucking picture. That girl, dancing through the fucking flowers. Fucking stupid. Who does that?
Week after week I’m stuck here, looking at that fucking picture, while she’s sat there, going on and on and on and on about fucking feelings, and why I stole that car, and what was going on for me when I did it, and how did it make me feel, and what am I thinking about when I go out with my mates, and how do they make me feel, and what am I thinking about when I spark up a blunt, and how does that make me feel.
Then it’s all, like, what could you do instead to make yourself feel that way.
I’ll show her what else I can do. Smash up her fucking office, that’s what else. It was easy to get in. Stupid cow keeps her spare keys in the top drawer of her desk. Must think I’m fucking stupid or something.
The picture’s on the wall next to the door, across the room from the two chairs we sit on for our “little chats”. Fucking “chats”. Fucking therapy, that’s what it is. They all think I’m nuts and want to cure me, want to get me away from my friends. Fuck them. My mates are the only people who don’t fucking wreck my head.
The picture’s in a wooden frame, and fixed to the wall by a stupid bit of string on the back, which catches as I pull at it, so I have to really yank it. I hold it above my head, thinking about all the time I’ve spent sat there, looking at the fucking purple flowers in the fucking picture while she tries to get into my head. Then I smash it over her computer screen. The glass shatters but the frame doesn’t break and the picture’s just dented. Fuck it. Even that doesn’t work for me. I grab the computer monitor and throw it across the room to the chairs. It crashes into the stupid little table, with the stupid little plant, and the box of tissues, and it implodes. That’s fucking better. Now we’re rolling.
I grab the keyboard off her desk and break it in two over the back of her chair. The chair joins the monitor and now broken coffee table. I’ll fucking show her. Thinks she can tell me what to do? Who I should be friends with? Thinks she knows me? Fuck her.
I sweep everything off the desk and move to the bookshelf in the corner. It’s heavy, and it takes effort to pull it over. It smashes on the floor, the books torn and ripped underneath it.
The filing cabinet’s next. I know what’s in there. I looked at my file last time. She left the room so I looked and read what she’d written about me.
What the fuck does that mean?
I pull at the top drawer of the filing cabinet but it won’t give. I kick it, hard. Fuck. The pain runs through my foot and settles in my ankle. Fuck it. Look what she made me do now. Fuck her. I manage to push it over, and it hits the wall, chipping paint off.
I spot a marker in all the mess on the floor and use it for the wall where the picture was. I hold the pen in my fist and push as hard as I can, up and down, up and down to make the letters big. I get as far as FUCK YOU BI when the marker runs out. I throw it at the window, screaming, then I sink to the ground and start to cry.