Chapter -
Lennon
Monday came around faster than I had anticipated, and I wasn’t ready for it. I didn’t want to be inside that fucking room without having seen it first. Just a glimpse would have taken the edge off the nerves that were wracking my brain at that moment.
I had about twenty minutes to get to the group, and the walk would take ten. Looking in the mirror, I assessed what I saw.
Bleach-blonde, ratty hair. A thin body that could use some calories, hidden beneath old band shirts and oversized, ripped jeans.
Days-old makeup. A walking fucking trainwreck.
I couldn’t have told the world any louder that I was unapproachable, undesirable, and unfriendly.
Stay the fuck back—that was the message my outfit screamed. And honestly, I was counting on it.
As I made my way toward the hospital where the group met, the weather was gloomy.
Grey skies made the chilly breeze bite harder, but I didn’t mind.
Gloomy days kept more people indoors, thus making it more bearable for me to be outside.
The doom and gloom threatened thunderstorms, and, if I were being honest, I was hoping for it.
There was something about the rain that felt oddly comforting—oddly familiar in a nostalgic kind of way.
Most people didn’t feel that way about the rain, which was probably what drew me in even more.
Wrapping my arms around my chest, holding myself inward, I continued down the sidewalk.
Though fewer people were out, some still moved through their daily routines.
A man in an all-black tracksuit walking his dog.
An elderly woman with a walker, waiting at the bus stop.
So many people, so many intricate lives.
I wondered if they saw me. If they could read my mind and see that I was nothing in this world.
That I was living a purposeless life. Someone waiting to be squashed.
Someone who should just go away. I wondered if they could see through my tough facade to the stupid little girl inside.
The one who couldn’t stand herself. I wondered what they saw when they looked at me.
When I looked at them, I saw hope. Lives filled with it. I bet when people looked at me, they sensed there was none left in mine. Just as I could feel their lives were filled with big dreams and mountains of hope, they probably saw me for what I was.
Off in the distance, I saw the hospital—my destination. I just need to get through this session. Just this one for today, I repeated in my mind. Breaking it down into smaller tasks sometimes made the day more bearable.
Step by step, I closed the distance between me and the large building.
Deep breath in. Deep breath out. I just needed to walk there.
Just a few more steps. Walk through the front doors of the hospital.
I just need to push through the fucking revolving door.
The large enclosed circle slowed until my hands pressed against it and pushed forward.
Off the door went, barricading me for a mere two seconds before ejecting me into the hospital.
Once inside, a wave of relief flickered just beyond reach.
I should’ve taken a seat; regained my composure before the tightness in my chest made it impossible to breathe.
The muscles in my back ached from the tension that had gripped me all weekend.
I was sore, exhausted, and tired. I could hardly fathom having to keep going.
As I approached a bench, I noticed a burly man sitting at one end, his legs crossed while holding a newspaper.
I assessed the open space beside him, weighing whether it was worth the risk to sit next to someone of his stature.
Noticing me standing there, he peered over the paper and gestured with his hand toward the empty space, then returned to reading.
I decided against it. I could keep moving.
Maybe I’d find an empty bench—or maybe I’d make it into the group room and sit in a chair meant just for me.
My palms were sweating, despite the mild weather.
I rubbed my fingers against my palms and clenched my fists, trying to relieve the pressure building inside me.
As I meandered down the hallway, I spotted the room I was supposed to be in up ahead. If I could just make it there and get inside a little early, maybe no one would be in yet. I looked around and saw a clock on the wall. 12:47 p.m. I must’ve walked faster than I thought.
From where I stood, the room looked empty. The hallway was chaotic—people moving in both directions, the steady stream of motion making me dizzy. I hunched my shoulders and made a quick jolt toward the doorway, slipping inside.
From my small, tense stance, I unfolded my shoulders and peeked up through my lashes. A loose circle of chairs sat scattered around the room, with a few others lined along the perimeter. I wondered if I could sit in one of those instead.
Suddenly, a woman moved near a table displaying a sad vegetable tray, some crackers, and a coffee carafe that probably held a weak, shitty brew no one could stomach.
Appetite had been the least of my concerns over the last couple of years.
I’d survived on coffee, takeout, or—when desperation really hit—Ichiban noodles.
The desire to eat well, or even eat at all, had long vanished from my list of priorities. What did it matter, really?
“Hello there!” the woman greeted cheerfully. I gave a quick nod and looked away, heading for a seat in the far corner.
“Oh honey, come and grab some snacks! And we’ll be sitting in the circle as a group once everyone gets here.”
I felt conflicted—unwilling to engage too much with her. I assumed she was the facilitator, though, so I’d need to be at least minimally courteous so she’d sign off my attendance for Rachel.
“I’m not overly hungry, thank you,” I offered coldly, moving away from the chair off to the side and making a beeline for the one closest to the exit.
“My name’s Dana. I’m the group therapist. What’s your name?
” she asked politely. The smile on her face creased the wrinkles earned from years of laughter.
Her eyes were kind, and from the looks of it, this was her calling.
She genuinely enjoyed helping people—people like me.
But unfortunately, she was going to be let down by someone like me.
I hoped she didn’t get too invested in her clients like Rachel had.
“Lennon,” I replied quietly, still avoiding eye contact. I looked down at my hands as some of the other participants began trickling in. Dana moved easily around the room, greeting each person and making them feel warm and welcome.
She offered snacks and poured coffee, cheerfully pointing each person toward the sugar and cream.
Watching her, I had to admit—she was a good host. Her small but stout frame reminded me of someone’s grandmother.
She probably was one. Her peppered hair was styled into a short bob, and her makeup-free face made her approachable.
I think I’d like Dana—as much as I was capable of liking anyone, that is.
“Once everyone gets a snack and coffee, please be seated in the circle so we can begin introductions,” she called out to the group hovering around the table. The dozen or so people collectively groaned.
“Oh, come on—it’s not going to hurt! Might be a bit uncomfortable, but hey, that’s what growth is all about!” Her optimism bordered on comical.
One by one, people began finding their seats, many settling near where I’d already sat.
A wild-haired girl who couldn’t have been more than eighteen dropped into the chair to my right, dressed in cargo pants and a tattered hoodie.
To my left, a man in a button-down shirt and slacks took his seat, clearly out of place but trying to blend in.
A bit uncomfortable? This was torture—and we hadn’t even started the introductions yet.
The scraping of metal chair legs across the tiled floor grated like nails on a chalkboard. I let my eyes close briefly in pure annoyance. Could no one else hear how obnoxious this was? I fought the strong urge to scream for everyone to sit the fuck down and shut up.
But I held back. I didn’t want to draw attention to myself—not this early on.
Dana took a seat in one of the remaining chairs and let her gaze rest on each of us, as though committing our faces to memory and taking a mental picture she planned to keep forever.
“Hello, everyone. I’m Dr. Dana Galloway, and I’m honoured to be your group therapist for the next twelve weeks as we work through Group Therapy for Mental Health Outcomes,” she began.
“Over our time together, we’re going to explore new ways of seeing the world, new ways of seeing ourselves—and we’re going to push out of our comfort zones, at least a wee bit. ”
She spoke enthusiastically, outlining the program and what would be expected of us as participants. Then came the kicker: there would, in fact, be a group assignment.
“But don’t worry,” she added with a grin, “after today’s session, your partner will be chosen on your behalf—by yours truly—so it takes the awkwardness out of that part I know you all love so much.”
Dana chuckled to herself, clearly familiar with the silence that came with groups like this. Not once has her confidence wavered.
Glancing down at her notebook, she ran her pen down a list, checking it twice to make sure she hadn’t missed anything.
“Alright, looks like I’ve covered all the housekeeping.
So, let’s pop right into the fun stuff, shall we?
Introductions! Tell us your name, what brings you to group today, and your favourite activity. ”
Dana was clearly eager to get started, which was more than I could say for the rest of us. The group radiated collective disinterest. No one wanted to be here—including me. But that didn’t seem to deter Dana. She turned to her right and motioned to the first participant.
A woman in her thirties, brunette and visibly tense, gave a nervous look as she realized she was first. A heavy sigh escaped her lips.
“Umm…my name is Ashley. I’m here because my counsellor thinks I’m depressed or something,” she muttered, her eyes low. “And an activity I like is…drawing.”
Her cheeks flushed bright pink the moment she finished speaking, the embarrassment crawling all over her like a rash we were all forced to watch.
Ashley was what I’d call average pretty.
Nothing about her stood out, yet she wasn’t hard to look at.
I wondered what her story was—what secrets she kept buried inside underneath her modest exterior.
I wondered if she wanted to die like I did.
“My name’s Asher,” said the man seated next to her. “I’m here today to hopefully accept new perspectives into my life, since I think sometimes I can be narrow-minded. And an activity I enjoy would be hockey. In fact, I love hockey.”
I eyed Asher carefully. He was confident, but in a quiet, self-assured way.
Unlike Ashley, he didn’t stumble over his words or look uncomfortable.
He spoke like someone used to being listened to.
His hair was cropped into a faded buzz cut, his jawline sharp and defined beneath the soft shadow of stubble.
He was stunning—unlike anyone I’d ever seen before. Beautiful, even.
He scanned the floor, then his gaze lifted and locked with mine. I quickly looked away, abashed that he caught me staring.
My palms were slick with sweat, and I didn’t want to be there anymore.
It already felt like hours had passed since I’d arrived, and the tightness in my chest was growing.
My vision blurred at the edges, dimming as the anxiety wrapped tighter around me, strangling me slowly.
I parted my lips and tried to slow my breathing, counting silently in hopes of holding myself together.
I closed my eyes, visualizing my breathing box. One breath in—one side of the box. Hold—for the next line. Exhale—for the third. Hold again—for the final side. Repeat.
My heart rate began to slow, steadying itself.
I wanted so badly to leave. There was an intrinsic urge deep in my gut telling me to get the hell out of there, and I was fighting against it with everything I had.
My ears, which had been buzzing like they were plugged, started to find their equilibrium again.
When I opened my eyes, I immediately sensed it—every set of eyes in the room was on me.
I inhaled sharply. My mouth watered, and I started coughing as fluid caught at the back of my throat. Embarrassment surged through me as the entire room watched.
Asher stood up from his chair and walked toward me.
“Are you okay?” he asked, crouching in front of me, genuine concern in his voice.
I looked up at him, glaring into his eyes for making me feel fragile.
“Yes, I’m fine,” I said curtly.
He ran his fingers through his short hair, clearly thrown by my reaction. His face twisted slightly—confused, maybe even a little hurt. He looked away, then back again, taken aback.
“Okay, well it’s your turn,” he said, standing up and returning to his seat, leaving me alone with the attention of the entire room still fixed on me before looking at him like he was the good guy.
He sat down, arms crossed, glancing over in my direction. The look in his eyes wasn’t anger—just annoyance. I got the sense that no one had ever told him to go fuck himself before, with that beautiful face sculpted by angels. If I believed in angels, that was.
I squinted at him in open disdain. If he hadn’t been told off before, he sure as shit shouldn’t mess with someone like me. I was unkind by nature, used to being the mean girl—because, let’s face it, what the hell did I have to lose?
Someone cleared their throat, nudging me to speak.
“Umm…My name is Lennon,” I said, forcing the words out. “I have to be here if I want to complete the assisted suicide program, and I don’t have hobbies other than completing this program now.”