C h r i s t o p h e r
"VI. Do not lie, and do no harm to the honor of others!"
(Ten Commandments)
TW: Mention of sexual violence from the past
Forgive me, my God, for I have sinned, my greatest sin being deception.
"Why did she attack the nurse this morning?"
Dr. Aretha's words reach me in bubble form, which pops in front of me, but I don't notice it as the tiny drops fall into my lap.
The drawn curtains only partially let in the light, and the leaves of the tree cast shadows on the table, moving as the wind blows them. I gaze at that, and that's why the next bubble bursts in front of me, carrying the soft tone and weight of the words into my mind.
I glance at Dr. Aretha, who sits in the armchair across from me. She's in her fifties, wearing glasses, and extremely skilled at acting like an ice queen.
"Are you okay?"
"Uh-huh" I smile. "Can't you see I look like shit? Washed up shit, but at least a little handsome."
I can see Aretha would like to smile, but she can't, as female therapists have to hold themselves back. I had a therapist at eight, the very first one, I think we called her Aunt Martha... She had this kind of insensitive style even with kids. Kids who needed a smile, a hug.
After that, I don't expect any of my female therapists to express emotions, in fact, maybe they even taught me a little how to do it. Swallow our unspoken words, suppress the rage that always leads to smearing my suppressed fears, anger, on my skin with glass shards or a razor.
I wonder how Aretha would feel if one of her patients was doing great in therapy that day, only to be found dead a few hours later? Despite that, she has to act like a robot, be emotionless all day. Then when she gets home, she probably stuffs herself with sedatives to keep the nightmares at bay, in which her patients haunt her, and replays the scenes from the sessions over and over again.
I have no doubt I'll be the patient she has to go through this for... But I'll be kind, won't scare her at night.
"Christopher!"
Oh, another bubble.
"Yes?"
"Why did you attack the nurse this morning?" she repeats, her notebook, which was resting on the table until now, is now in her lap. Taking notes. Wow, I'm not doing too well with this.
Chronic absentmindedness. Or what's written there?
"Why? Good question. Maybe because I was bored and wanted to play Freddy Krueger, or because my father was choking me in my dream." I pull my hand out from under the leopard-print blanket, place it on my thigh, and then interlace my fingers. "Guess which one happened."
"Do you like the movie "A Nightmare on Elm Street"?"
"No. In fact! Pff." I snort.
"In that case, please tell me about your dream."
I thought it would be easy when she asked, and I'd respond almost automatically, but no. Not a word slips from my throat. I don't want to relive how he touched me, where, and what he whispered in my ear.
"I've forgotten it, but I'll let you know if it comes to me."
"Do you often forget things?" She probes.
"Yeah. More and more lately. I'm sitting in the dining room, and two minutes later, I'm surprised that I'm there at all." A lie.
"I see."
She writes a lot. Again. What is she going to write this time?
Amnesia. Early-onset dementia!
"But maybe it's because of the medications" I interject and then shrug. "Just saying."
"Do you take them in the order I prescribed?"
"They're always brought to me. Morning, noon, and night. Although... I missed the one from yesterday."
"Missed?" She looks up from her notebook.
"Yeah. I think it ran out or something."
"I understand. So why didn't you contact me?" She places my medication, which I instantly recognize by its packaging, on the table in front of me. "You'll have peaceful nights from now on."
"It's no use if I don't dare to move the whole evening, thinking that something's watching me from every corner."
"Who is it?"
"Well, who?" I mutter softly. "My father. I can almost feel his gaze on me, and in moments like this, I wish I could just disappear, so he wouldn't even notice me."
"I understand," her voice softens. I look at her curiously because, somehow, when her voice becomes tender, I can't help but not focus on the ceiling, scrutinizing it for flaws, shade differences, or how one pattern is much narrower than the other. It was my mother's voice that really taught me to recognize tenderness. "And what else do you feel?"
"Most of the time when I'm alone in the hospital room, reading, or really doing anything... I feel a mere touch on my shoulder, and I instinctively go into a defensive position. That's why I attacked the nurse today," I lower my arms to my lap, "I didn't mean to... She just wanted to wake me up for breakfast, but I saw my father instead," I lean my elbows on the couch's armrest, constantly contemplating why moving on is so hard.
A sudden silence falls, which surprises me. I glance at the doctor, but she just stares with her brown eyes, blinking, so I can catch the flicker of her mascara, showing it was applied unevenly. The left side is thicker than the right. However, the lipstick is perfect. If I were a woman, you couldn't scratch the lipsticks off me because I find them so beautiful. I remember one time when my mother jokingly applied lipstick to me. The joke was that I actually liked it on myself. Perhaps because the red complemented my black hair.
Dad beat me that day.
Quite thoroughly.
And then he beat Mom too.
For making a gay out of his son.
If I had one question for Dad, I'd ask him, "If you hate gays, why did you fuck your son?"
"Did he talk about his dream?"
"No," I answer. I feel my voice getting deeper, the atmosphere becoming tenser.
"Why not?"
"I don't want to revisit that night. I don't want to hear his voice, feel his touch under my skin, or relive the pain that constantly gnaws at my stomach. I just want to put an end to it," I mutter, getting louder and louder. But I bite off the end. "Sorry."
"Why?"
"I was too loud, wasn't I? I'm afraid the whole psychiatric ward will end up knowing what's wrong with me," I smile. "Although I don't really care about anyone else's opinion."
"Whose opinion matters to you?"
"My mother's. And my own."
"I see. Do you have a close relationship with your mother?" She takes more notes in her little notebook.
"Yeah. She's the only one who made me feel like I matter."
A lie. Mother, your son never meant anything. You knew that. You knew it then.
"May I go to the bathroom?"
As a matter of fact, our session has ended.
"Really?" I look at the clock on the wall, which indeed shows noon. "Alright."
"I'll have the nurse administer your medication while you're gone, and you can enjoy your lunch."
---
The sunlight bathes the doctor's face with its rays as she gazes thoughtfully out of the window. The vibrant light attempts to uplift and soothe, but her eyes remain vacant, contemplating the distance.
The wind gently stirs, whispering softly between the trees. The branches sway and quiver with the caress of the breeze. Her eyes rest on the windowsill, taking a moment to collect her thoughts. There's a chair next to the window where she could sit, delving deeper into the gravity of her decision.
Instead, she reaches for her phone, dialing the number with confidence and placing the device against her ear.
"St. Jeremiah's Catholic Institution?" Silence. "I'd like to speak to Dr. Erwin the psychiatrist, please."
There is a photo where Aretha and Christopher talk. https://th.bing.com/th/id/OIG.G8nTkjtZT4stqxnxzWk0?pid=ImgGn&w=1024&h=1024&rs=1