Elvis Presley Imagines

Also sprach Zarathustra.

|| So, ready for some intriguing love story? Well, I've been studying Sigmund Freud lately and he spoke about the "transference" which is how the patient falls in love with their therapist, then there is the "countertransference", which is the opposite thing; the therapist falls in love with the patient. Okay, besides all of this, in this story Elvis isn't famous. He is the assistant of your psychoanalyst, but pretends to be the psychoanalyst because the main man is ill and can't come to work. You are "crazy" and you don't know who Elvis really is - not until a certain point. I even decided to add Nietzsche in all of this, but just on the title - you may also imagine why... THIS IS NOT DONE TO DISRESPECT ELVIS. Love you all! Enjoy! ||

1957.

You look at yourself in the mirror, your hands are shaking while your eyes are letting out many tears. You have been feeling like this for two weeks now, you don't even know the reason. You have some happy times, then, all of a sudden, you can become angry, sad, depressed... Your employer told you to see a psychiatrist, but you feel as if he is thinking that you are crazy or something. You are not crazy. You are not a fool. You just have some strange and weird mood swings. 

You stand up from the stool and move away from the vanity desk, walking to the window and looking at your garden for a moment. How beautiful that is. Trees, bushes, flowers... Those are your favorite things when it comes to nature. You walk to the bathroom and wash your face, then you decide to put on your red coat and walk downstairs to the entrance hall. You wear your red high heels and step outside your house. You head to the garden and sit on the grass, not caring about anything else. It's just you and the nature. You in your home. You and God. 

Suddenly, you get up and run through the open gates of your house, heading yourself to the best psychiatric studio in the town of Memphis. Your mother used to go there before your parents divorced. You then lost all contacts with them, your father ended up in jail for attempted murder on you. You look down at your feet, you still feel as if there's someone inside your house, waiting to kill you. You sigh softly as your eyes widen at the thought of it.

You see the signboard of the psychiatric studio hanging over a big, brown door. You ring the doorbell and wait for someone to open. Once you see the door opening, you look at the person. A very handsome man, must be in his 20s, looks back at you: he's tall and thin, even if his body doesn't show much muscles. His skin is a bit tanned, not so much, though. His lips are quite plump and pink, the classical lip color of a man. His nose is thin and super straight, almost too perfect to be human. His eyes are blue and a little down-turned, decorated by a beautiful pair of slightly thick, dark brown brows. They don't match his hair color, because you can clearly say that he dyed it black. His hair is too shiny to be of a natural color; his roots continue down his high cheekbones with a pair of short sideburns. Then, you notice his clothes. He is wearing a beige shirt and black trousers, all covered by a striped grey jacket. You look down at his shoes, black and white slip-ons. 

"How can I help you, ma'am?" He breaks the ice by speaking in his deep, soothing voice. His southern accent rumbles in your ears, you feel as if someone just stabbed you in your stomach. You shake your head and look at him. "I need help." You say, almost whispering. He opens the door wide and lets you in. You follow him inside the big studio where he offers to take your coat. You take it off and hand it to him, who hangs it on the rack. He then stands near a chest of drawers, his head being supported by his fist. You lay down on the couch, him still staring at you with his mouth slightly open as he slowly blinks.