The Young Therapist

Part One

If you stay at a hospital long enough, you begin to notice things. You notice the staleness and sterility that looms in each corner. You notice the lingering of detergent in the air, as if the detergent could somehow wash away death itself. You notice the knotting of the faces, each with a unique thread, the doctors' faces asking: "Can she be saved?" and those of the families asking the same question: "Can he save her?" Can you? Can you truly save someone? What you notice most, is yourself. Sitting in the orchestra of the living and dead, you are most fragile, vulnerable and bare.

I didn't want to be here. Time after time, I sat opposite a new therapist, as they tried to unlock the puzzle that was my life. They all failed. I didn't even have a question to be answered.

This office was different. It had no paintings, overflowing table of papers, or tacky sayings. It was sparse and clean. It was no bullshit. My hands began trembling in anticipation. I caressed the damaged skin that remained unaffected on my left wrist. Each line brought memories of darkness that caged me in my own prison. Right on time, the therapist glided in with a clipboard in her hand. She looked too young; the hospital must have run out of real therapists.

She introduced herself. "Mr. Adelaide, I am Cassandra, a new therapist in this clinic." Her voice dripped out of her mouth like honey. Her eyes remained focused on me like I held real importance. I didn't.

"Your chart states that you have suffered from depression in the past. Is this true?" She glanced at my wrist. The scar was barely recognizable in the light. "That is a mistake," I mumbled. Her pen clicked and she began writing. The look on her face when she looked up turned my face rigid. "Mr. Adelaide, you chart shows that you have had several therapists. Let's skip the introductions. Tell me about your mother." Perhaps it was her bluntness that I found appealing, but I couldn't stop the wave of warmth that spread when her face glowed into a smile. She wasn't supposed to care. "You can read about my mother in your file," my voice shook. "She died when I was four and I watched it happen."

"It was my father who killed her." I wavered. But the truth of the matter was I didn't remember. I spent years searching for him, trying to play the part of the protector. She watched me as the implication of the statement sunk in. "Mr. Adelaide, you know your mother was murdered. And yet you still go to various therapists to confirm it. There is something blocking your memory. Tell me how did you get your scar?" I had no clear response.

"I don't know," I whispered. Her eyes held me captive. "It's not a question of will I help you, but will you help yourself?" She sighed.

"Mr. Adelaide, close your eyes and see," she insisted. And so I did. There was an eerie silence that teased me like it always did. I felt a hot air of breath reach my right ear. "Mr. Adelaide, have you made your mother proud? Does she look down at you with love and forgiveness?"

There was a pause. A throbbing pain spread through my head, like the breaking of a cage. My mind lost the war with the dark force that hide in the shadows, waiting to strike. I couldn't take it anymore. My eyes tightened from the silence that shouted, "You let her die!" I felt Cassandra stand from her chair and make her way closer. She placed her cools hands around my face, which settled my flaming cheeks. My mom used to hold me like that...

In that silence, I was transported back into my childhood, into my nightmare. I was hiding behind the wall next to the door that swayed back and forth. My parents stood outside my door, with my mother drenched in tears and my father shouting at her. We were losing our house. My father was shouting, I watched from behind the wall as he pushed her. "You bitch! Meeting you was my worst nightmare. And I can't even leave because you got pregnant!" His hand rose. My father was an ugly drunk. Despite her fragility, my mother remained fierce, "Don't you dare blame this on me! You are the one using all the money for alcohol. The only reason I am here is to protect our son, from turning into you!"

In slow motion, I watched in horror as he slapped my mother. Her head twisted in an angle that was not suited for the head. She staggered back holding onto her cheek. His hand's imprint colored across my mother's face. That mark told her everything she had, everything she was belonged to him.

"Dad! Stop it! Dad!" No matter how much I screamed, he didn't turn around. Most times, I was grateful to be ignored. However, this moment, being a spectator to your own nightmare cut through me. I wanted to do something. Help. Not hide anymore. I was done hiding. I was done being afraid.

"Dad! Leave her alone! Mom!" I shouted. My throat burned. I willed my legs to move closer but they didn't bulge.

I watched from the door as he dragged her up like a rat doll. He never went this far. "You gave me a coward who can't even help his dear mother," His face turned in my direction. His dead grey eyes watched with no compassion or feeling.

"Jason! Get out here and save your mother!" His monstrous voice echoed. My mom's tears brimmed down her scorched face but she smiled at me. It was an ugly smile. The salty water streamed down and made a river in my mouth.

"He does not need to see this! Don't you dare hurt him, spare our son. Calm down, I'll get you another drink," she consoled him. It took all her strength to wrap her arms around him. My body worked against my mind, and I stepped out into chaos. Mom had barely gripped him to prevent what happened next. His fingers wrapped around my left wrist and squeezed tightly until blood bubbled out. A scream ripped out of me as the scorching hot sensation continued. I looked at the strip of red, and distantly thought of the scar I would have. There was a flash of movement that ripped the fingers from my skin. To block the pain, I pretended my mother and I were at the beach. We would sit in silence and watch the waves wash away all the pain and start over with each tide.

"No, you whore! You will pay for this!" My father's howl seeped into my reverie. I heard the thunderous impact of his hand on her face again. I heard her head falling on the marble floor. I heard the crack.

I heard the shot.

I heard my mom's piercing scream.

I heard her last gasp of air.

I heard the silence.

I opened my eyes to a nightmare. My eyes wouldn't register all the redness. My dad stood over my mother with a gun and a filthy bottle in his hands. I wanted him to be the one lying there, blood soaking him. He didn't notice me but I watched him, his irises expanding until there was only darkness. He gave my mother one last cursory look and left. He killed my mother and he just left. Like she didn't deserve two more seconds of her time.

I stood and I waited.

And waited. And waited. And waited.

I tried to stand and slipped on a liquid, which sent me straight to my mother. She didn't respond. "Mom, please wake up." I tugged her. She didn't respond again, her eyes remained shut. "Mom, please wake up. He is gone." I said hoping that would be all it took. Hoping I was good enough for her to come back. But she remained still. I hugged her and my hands turned sticky. She was cold and red. "Mom, he won't hurt you now... please wake up".

"Mom, why aren't you waking up?" My body shook as she remained limp under me. Grief gripped my heart and twisted.

My mom was dead.

"Mr. Adelaide, Mr. Adelaide," Cassandra continued to tug on me. "Open your eyes." I opened my eyes to clarity. I was drowning above water. She took a napkin from the table and gently wiped the tears away from my eyes.

"Welcome to your first therapy session. Should we begin?"

My hands were stained red.

"Yes."