Therapy:
“Look Doc,” I pleaded, easing into the stereotypical leather chair in the small stereotypical office, “I don’t need this place, honestly! I am completely mentally sound!” The lie tasted bad in my mouth but I hoped it was convincing enough. He stared at me unmoved by my fabrication.
“Mr. Blake,” He said dryly leaning forward toward me in the cramped space; “You are here because the court has ordered it after you almost killed yourself and another person in a mental breakdown, you do need to be here son.” He said I know he was trying to break the ice; but I kept getting caught on the word ‘son’, why do old men call me that?
Doctor Shall wasn’t that old a man but he wasn’t as young as he used to be. He had thinning white hair on head that was just too small for his chubby little body, he dressed well in a button down and tan trousers and he had a single ring of gold on his fat sausage fingers. He reminded me of some of my high school teachers and not the good ones. He shouldn’t get to call me son.
“Yeah, I broke but I’m not broken now see?” I smiled and pointed to my temples, “So if you could just sign off that I’m okay, I can leave and you can go on treating crazies and we never have to speak again, agreed?” I was practically begging, the last thing I wanted was therapy, talking about my life would only make it worse. I hated to remember things.
“Mr.Blake, It’s here or prison for reckless endangerment and thats 5 years of your young life, now I don’t want to see that happen to you.” He said, he had a bit of an accent, I couldn't place it. I would take prison over therapy any day but there I would just be alone with my thoughts and that scared me more than any headshrinker with a leather couch.
“I suppose sir, that you're right...” I accepted, I leaned down into the couch and closed my eyes, at least it was comfortable.
“Alright, Mr.Blake,” he said sounding almost proud of himself, “Let’s start with something simple, what do you do?” He glanced at the clock on the wall, this was not his normal hour-to-hour session, this was the first session; the one that took all day until the patient walked out either set to be cured or even more broken than when they entered.
“Mr.Blake is dead,” I said staring at him, I severely disliked formalities anymore. “My name is Alexander and I am a writer,” I said dismissively, I sat up in the chair, with my elbows on spread knees and my head in my hands.
“What do you write?” He said scribbling some illegible scrawl on a stereotypical yellow legal pad. I frowned at him.
“Poetry mostly, some fiction now and then, I was working on a novel.” I said.
“You were? What happened to it?” He pried dryly, I was starting to think he was paid not to show emotion or speak in anything other than a monotone slightly accented voice.
“Nothing, I just became uninspired by the subject matter.” I tried to be dismissive but he wasn't having that.
“What was your subject matter,” He asked, his voice stayed dry but there was a spark in his eye.
“Love and Happiness,” I said smiling at the memory of the creation to be.
“There is no love or happiness in your life now?” He prodded.
“No.” I said plainly, it was ungodly amounts of hot in this dull little room.
“Alright...” he said, more illegible scribbling, “What are your religious views...Alex?”
“I don’t have any,” I said slowly, “I used to be religious a long time ago, but no god creates life like this,” I spat, I did not want to debate religion with the old man.
