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Remember Mr Crawley?   Our long-suffering school counsellor?

No – I didn’t either.   That’s because I’d tried deliberately to forget him, and it has been working pretty well for me.   Once I’d got bored with stuffing him full of mournful and entirely fictional hard-luck stories, I kept on with the bad behavior in class that had prompted our interaction – I just stopped going to sessions with him.   Conveniently, he found it very significant that I made such an effort to avoid his presence, and was able to draw all kinds of interesting and erroneous conclusions about me from that.

So basically, we’d both been quite happy with the situation.


Then Brix had to go and fuck it all up by having a near fatal car accident.   Of his passengers (did I even mention this?), one crushed his hand into pulp and screamed for three hours until they sedated him entirely, one broke his nose, both legs and three ribs (he was behind Brix), and the last dude has an awesome scar across his forehead and dislocated his shoulder and is counting his lucky stars.   But Brix – Brix fucked himself up good and proper, and there was blood and mangled limbs and gaping flesh-holes and vomiting bystanders and shrieking juniors.   It was riotous.

And that meant all students who witnessed the accident and were thus affected by the trauma were to attend counselling.   Well – I was there.   But other than a certain level of frustration at fate cheating me out of a planned dinner party, I was serenely unaffected.   Naturally.   It’s not like the sight of blood is going to make me queasy, boys and girls…

But some little fucker clearly pointed me out as being there, and I received the summons.   And got out of it.   And was summoned again – and ‘forgot’.   Third time, Mr Crawley came to class today to collect me in person.   Dammit.

Sitting there in Crawley’s office this afternoon, kicking at the underside of his desk, and cursing Brix.   Again.  

So here’s what I was asked…


“How do you feel about what happened?”

Fucking irritable.   Was all ready to fuck this guy over, and fate beat me to it, for fuck’s sake.   Fucking karma – cheating bloody avengers out of their bloody avenging…   What was the question?

“Have there been other times when you’ve seen someone badly hurt?”

Seen it?   Man – I’m usually the one causing it.   Mostly at meal times…

“Has this brought back any bad memories for you?”

Does getting shot count?

“What do you usually do to cope with difficult times?”

Kill things.   Isn’t that normal?


What did I actually answer?


“Well, Modern Warfare 2 is awesome…”

“I failed a chem test the other week?”

“Move on.   Can I go now?”

It was all true.




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