Daisies

The counselor understood the immense weight of the world—the way in which it steadily rose up around its people like a consuming, clouded tide. For all the kicking and stretching of necks to try and breathe that last bit of air, their strength would always falter, their limbs would become still, and they would accept the long inevitable sinking toward the unfamiliar depths. He knew this because it was his job to know. It was his duty to understand the human condition; to recognize any extra burdens that may drag down his subjects.

"How would you describe these...voices, Mr. Riksom?" he asked his newest patient.

Mr. Riksom did nothing, his body still and rigid against the black leather of the wingback chair. His head was tilted downward toward the rich mahogany table between them, his eyes appearing to be locked halfway between the thin fingers he kept folded in his lap and the subdued reflection of the windows atop the newly oiled table-top. His mouth hung partly open, the greying black stubble across his broad chin contrasting his cracked lips. His hair still tried to keep to the very precise way in which it had been combed for all those years, but a few loose, spidery strands that draped down beside his ears displayed Mr. Riksom's clear loss of motivation towards keeping a well kempt coiffure.

There were only two of them present inside the dim room, but the tension of words yet unspoken sat between them like a third. Steam coiled up from the pine-green coffee mug beside the counselor, the white string from the earl-grey tea bag draped over beside the handle. The counselor kept his legs folded out in front of him, a writing pad rested carefully across his thigh. The thick, wooden fountain-tipped pen rolled slowly through his fingers. The light tapping rain against the two narrow windows in the brick wall beside them laid a subtle trance across the room. Opposite the windows, two logs smoldered in the stone fire-place, their occasional pops calling out in reply to the rise and fall of the wind-conducted tempo of the rain.

"Mr. Riksom?" the counselor asked again. "I am only here to help."

Mr. Riksom's brown-black eyes lifted from the floor. The interrogator returned the favor with a practiced smile, several lines forming across the clean-shaven skin of his thin face as he lifted the corners of his mouth, but kept his lips pressed tightly together.

"Who told you about that? About the voices?" Mr. Riksom replied, an accusatory tone riding atop his hushed voice. His anxiety caused his voice to tremble and he quickly turned away toward the window. He wanted to leave the room and never come back, but the mistakes of his past required that he stay.

The counselor continued to smile, his head tilting slightly to one side.

"I think we both know the answer to that question, don't we?"

Mr. Riksom's eyes fell once again toward his lap. The counselor's smile faded as he took a deep breath and reached his left arm across his body, gently lifting the tea from the table beside him and bringing it back just beneath his chin. He closed his eyes for a moment as he took in the rich scent of the drink, the narrow lenses of his glasses fogging slightly within their wire-frames, then he took a small sip and twisted his body once again to place the mug back upon its coaster. He then leaned across the mahogany table and said:

"You know, freedom is still a very real possibility, Mr. Riksom, but it cannot be granted until you speak. I cannot help you, and neither can anyone else, until we know the truth about what happened. Your cooperation is the only thing that now stands between you and your condemnation."

Mr. Riksom's fingers continued to shuffle against one another in his lap, and he took a long, somewhat strained breath.

"Do you remember anything, Mr. Riksom?" the counselor asked, leaning back and pulling the wrinkles from the black button down shirt across his narrow chest, straightening his crimson neck-tie in the process. "Anything at all?"