The Silent Sound

Blood Red Lipstick on the Page

Chapter Two

"Good morning, Francis," Dr. Caulfield asks as I enter into her office.

Her bright red lipstick is the first thing that catches my eye-no doubt, she, like many other women, has chosen that lip color only to attract attention-and since my wife, tired of being a silent spectator of these two hour long sessions, hasn't accompanied me, I feel free to stare directly at her lips as she speaks.

She seems to notice as well, given her sudden change of demeanor, which suddenly a lot more shy and reserved, but I don't understand why she finds it uncomfortable for me to look at her lips. It couldn't possibly be because she feels embarrassed or because the notion of a strange man, who she assumes is as lost as Alice in Wonderland, pointedly staring her lips is unappealing. Could it?

"Good morning Dr. Caulfield. It's a lovely day today," I say in a cheerful attitude.

Judging by her elevated eyebrow - it's quite an amazing talent to be able to raise an eyebrow like that in a-it is quite obvious that my change in mood has confused her. She seems suspicious and is most likely wondering, "How in the world am I going to be able to diagnose him? He changes attitudes more often than a chameleon changes colors."

To that my response will be a simple smirk. This is all part of the game, but of course, she doesn't know that. She was, is, and will be oblivious to this game because, otherwise, she will be able to get a somewhat accurate reading of me, diagnose me with some bullshit, arbitrary, mental disorder, and send me away to be a sleeping buddy of some lunatic. I don't know about anyone else, but I rather not wake up in the middle of night to the sound of mechanical, childish, laughter and find a chainsaw wielding lunatic lying next to me.

"Have a seat," Dr. Caulfield says, gesturing to the same seat I had previously occupied during similar sessions.

I cannot help but wonder, "Who has occupied this seat before me?" Was he like me, a misunderstood, lovable, man or was she a schizophrenic with a multiple personality disorder? It is a valid question and one that I will happily answer and discuss if Dr. Caulfield asks me, but sadly, she is more concerned with more boring, straight-forward, questions.

"So Francis, how are you feeling today," she asks me.

And that is exactly what I mean. How am I supposed to answer that question? Is there a proper way to tell someone how I am supposedly feeling? And what if I simply was unaware of how I felt or was unable to distinguish my emotions? So many potential holes in this question, but yet she sits there, with her straight-face, her lips bright and plum, waiting for me to answer.

"Well ... I'm feeling terrific, now that you ask me. The sun's shining, the clouds are coloring the sky with their varying shapes, and the wind is blowing everyone's hair to and fro," I say, leaning back against the chair, placing my arms on the armrests.

"It's nice to see you being so open today. How about we talk about the Event," she says, pulling out my folder, placing it open in the middle of her table.

She just does not understand me. For a psychiatrist slash therapist, she is awful at understanding how to approach a subject subtlety. Like I will not just randomly barge into a stranger's house and ask a widow, "Tell me how your husband died and don't leave out any gory detail. I'm a big boy, I can handle it."

Exactly how the widow will most likely slap me across the face for even asking her to recall the painful memories and kick me out of her house, I feel the urge to strictly remind Dr. Caulfield that she was lacking in the social etiquette department. She just can't ask me to talk about the Event. It is like impossible to even think about it. Especially, since it's only been a year. The wounds are still fresh-so fresh that I think they are still bleeding. Or rather, they haven't stopped bleeding.

"Excuse my language, Dr. Caulfield, but I don't think I'm bloody ready yet," I say, leaning forward until my body is completely upright in the chair.

Body structure is a great asset when it comes to displaying superiority over others and height doesn't hurt either. It's similar to how a bully in a playground will often find it necessary to push his victim onto the ground and tower over him because the height difference is the one thing that makes him feel that his actions are justified. Now, of course there are other variables in that situation, but...

It's like how we, humans, are born to walk on our two feet. It is our advanced body structure, frame, and height that gives us precedence over the animal. Of course, in a battle between a human and an animal, a human would win seventy percent-that is a completely arbitrary number chosen at random-of the time simply because of his bodily advantage. Now, with me and Dr. Caulfield, perhaps it is her feminist nature that will not allow her to bow down to males, or maybe it is her position as a doctor, but either way, she doesn't cower away from me. I did not expect her to, either, but it was worth a shot.

"Is there anything else you wish to talk about today," she asks, crossing her fingers and placing her clasped hands on the table.

I take a minute to calm down the anger I know is silently boiling inside of me. It's becoming more difficult with each passing day to keep my rage inside of me. This was probably a good thing to tell Dr. Caulfield, but I simply have not warmed up to her enough to be able to share my emotions freely.

"Why, yes!" My head bobs up and down, down and up, excitedly.

"Well..." she drawls, waiting for me to share, but I simply stare at her with a goofy smile playing on my lips.

I wish I can say that that I am simply doing my job of riling her up and waiting for her to explode, but like an average human, who is liable to stray and wander from time to time, I simply lost my focus thinking of the story I wish to tell.

"Oh, I'm sorry," I say, an apologetic grin plastered on my face, "I was about to tell you a story."

She nods, an action which obviously shows her interest in what I have to say. I don't analyze this for the moment as I am too lost in my thoughts now.

"It all started with Adam and Eve," I say, my knee bouncing up and down in excitement.

"And so begins the story of humanity," I say, concluding my story, and leaning back against the chair with a smug expression.

Dr. Caulfield is at loss of words.

"That ... that's it," she asks, an incredulous expression lighting her face.

I nod.

She breathes and nods as well. I do not know why she chooses to imitate my action, but I let it slide this time.

"Okay, Francis," she says, rummaging through her table cabinets, "Let's try this again."

She pulls out those dreaded cards-the ones that make my blood boil, my stomach churn, and my mind sad.

"What do you see," she asks me, but all I can think is, "Ah damn! Not the inkblot test again!"