The October Amaryllis

Chapter 21 - March 13th, 1931 - 4:06 P.M.

If you guessed that by food, they meant a disgusting soup that tasted like it expired a decade ago, then you would be correct. I'd actually be more surprised if it wasn't soup. Hospital soup is probably my least favorite thing to eat; they gave me lots of it when I had my seizure at thirteen, which pretty much turned me into the cynical misanthrope I am today. I wish humanity didn't suck so much sometimes, ya know? It's like whenever something good happens, some moron always shows up to ruin it. Only problem is, I'm that moron...

"You look just like my son, young man," a middle-aged man called out to me. He was lying on his bed, and looking at him, I could tell that he had been through a lot of sorrow in his life; I could see it in his eyes.

"Is that so?" I asked, slowly sipping on the awful soup. I would have passed on eating it entirely, but I needed to regain my strength after the seizure. Whatever caused it was likely due to me screwing around with time too much; I was sure of it. I was finally feeling the first side effects of playing God. The Android with the prosthetic hand had warned me to be careful, but I was selfish and ignored his advice. When people tell me not to do something, I often do it anyway just to piss them off.

"You really do. My son is around the same age as you, and last year he and I went to Snoqualmie Falls together. Have you heard of it? It's quite beautiful," he said with a nostalgic look in his eyes. Nostalgia can be so painful at times; nothing is worse than wanting what you can't have.

Of course, Twin Peaks, my friend.

"I have, Sir; it's a wonderful place," I replied with a genuine smile. Sometimes I honestly forget that there are kind people in this world due to constantly being surrounded by so much negativity. I think the biggest negativity we get in our lives is the news; it's not their fault, though; that positivity just doesn't sell. To be successful, you have to give the people what they want for better or worse.

"Please, call me Ron. And your name would be?" he asked, sitting upright.

"David, David Newman," I said smiling.

"David, what a nice name. Pardon me for asking, but what led to you being here?" he asked curiously.

"I had a seizure on the pavement after hitting my head on it. The strangest part is that it didn't even hurt. I had always imagined seizures to be agonizing, but I was barely conscious during it. It was as if I was in a trance. May I ask what brought you here?"

"I had a stroke. I felt this horrible numbness on the left side of my face and felt this unbearable sense of confusion. In fact, it was my son who noticed what was happening and called an ambulance for me," he said with a look of sadness in his sea-green eyes. I wish I had his eyes; I have these dull brown eyes that are the color of redwoods, AKA nothing special. My father has silver-gray eyes, but my mother has medium-brown ones, so I ended up losing the genetic lottery.

"Aren't you a bit young to have a stroke? You look no older than forty-five to me," I said, instantly regretting my words. I have a horrible habit of speaking before thinking; it's gotten me into trouble before.

"Aha... it can happen to anyone at any age, including yours. I just hope that it doesn't become a pattern that eventually takes my life. The worst feeling is for a child to lose their father. Perhaps you don't understand that feeling now, but someday I'm sure you will," he said, sending chills right down my spine. It was as if the universe was speaking to me directly at that moment.

I experienced it once, and I never want to experience it again.

"I agree. The way I see it, though, is that what matters more than how you die is how you are remembered. One of my biggest fears is being remembered negatively. Do you ever get that?" I asked as I finally finished my soup. I wasn't exactly dying for seconds, but I felt a bit of my strength flow back into my body. Slowly but surely, I was on the path of recovery.

"Doesn't everyone? Some fears are naturally a part of our psyche, no matter how much we try to suppress them. Off-topic but have you ever heard of what Freud had to say about the Id, Ego, and Superego?" he said, perking up suddenly. I swear he reminded me so much of my grandfather at that moment.

Sort of, but not really.

"Not in any meaningful capacity. What did Freud say?" I asked, perking up my back. It was stone stiff, likely due to me sitting in the same position for god knows how long.

"Well... it's quite complicated, but the gist of it is that he categorized the human psyche as having three distinct parts: the ID, Ego, and superego. The ID is the part that deals with primitive and instinctual urges such as aggression and repressed memories. I like to imagine that the ID is a little devil. Next, we have the Superego, which I picture as a little angel due to it dealing with your conscience. Morals and societal values are concepts that are a part of it. Finally, we have the Ego, which is essentially the decision-making part of the psyche. The way it works is that it tries to solve the problems of the ID realistically and sensibly. The way I picture it is as a judge. The Ego is simply explained as a combination of your conscious, preconscious, and unconscious mind. I know that was complicated, but I hope you understood it," he said, chuckling at the end.

Grandfather, you're officially amazing.

"I understood it, and I was quite fascinated by it. Where did you learn all of this stuff?" I asked, laying back down.

"College, I wanted to be a psychologist once, but I realized I didn't want to be one halfway through my courses. It's funny; you think you want something so much until you realize that you never wanted it that much at all," he said with a pained frown. College must have felt like so long ago for him. Time itself appears to be relative. Some minutes feel like years, and some years feel like minutes. Sometimes, it honestly feels as if I was born yesterday. Yesterday all my troubles seemed so far away. Now it looks as though they're here to stay. Oh, I believe in yesterday.

Tell me about it, friend.

"That's what's funny; you can be good at something that you don't even like. I don't have any specific examples off the top of my head, but I have plenty of things that I hate doing that I'm oddly good at. Have you ever had that happen?"

"Well, sure, I'm good at writing, despite finding it immensely boring. It's difficult to explain, unfortunately," he said, frowning as one of the doctors went over to him and asked him how he was feeling. They talked for what felt like hours but were really a couple of minutes.

My memory blanked out during all of that time as if it took a vacation until another doctor came over to me and told me that I had a visitor who was around the same age as me.

Oh no...