Broken Game

Prologue

  My alarm goes off, its 4 o’clock in the morning.  I make my bed, make sure the rug on my floor is not ruffled for I wish not to trip.  I go to the bathroom I take my shower, sustaining 74 degrees in my apt. or I’d get chills.  I wash my hair, turn the shower head off, thus now I'm looking at a reflection.  I find myself somewhat decent.  It is now 5:30 and I’m eating my breakfast.  Usually breakfast consists of a breakfast burrito or eggs and bacon.  No cereal... Nothing sweet in the morning.  I’m putting on my cloths, I’m now turning the heat off.  Open the windows, watch the news with a hot cup of coffee.  Don’t finish the rest, grab the keys, put on my jacket, tie my shoes, walk out the door- with my coffee I must add.

    I’m driving now.  Currently navigation a 1943 Navy Blue Durango.  Turns on my radio- gets annoyed; highly annoyed. “Move the fuck out the way.”  Red lights, red- they are red.  Keep... Getting stopped… I look at the time.  Calms down gets on the highway.  Shaves a whole 7 minutes.  Gets off on my exit as a semi-truck swerves into me.  I slow down, flips off the driver as I get closer to my destination.  I start to count the seconds in my head at the red light.  It’s now 6:43.  I park in the parking lot, takes deep breath and walks into the building.

     I walk in a hurry toward the closing elevator, squeeze thru a few awkward strangers.  I start to place my hand in front of my mouth.  I’m smiling again.  The third floor; 1- 2- 3.  My room number- 301- 302- 303- 304- 307- 308- 308.  I look at the door and place my hand on the name plate; Oliver Moore.  I place my hand on the door knob, takes a few deep breaths, calms down, release my smile, while whipping off sweat and... The door is… Already… Open… Not routine… 

 “Morning Doctor.”  Routinely placing my jacket on the coat rack seems appropriate.  Taking off my shoes at the door seems appropriate.  Sit in the same seat, smile with the same smile, and grin when it seems appropriate.  “Good Morning… … … …”  As part of routine, the strange man sits in his same seat, smile with his same smile, and grin when…   It seems appropriate.  He marks yet another day on the calendar, just keeping track of your visits he would say.  Then he takes a second to stare into my eyes, as if he waits for me to tell him how I’m doing. 

     This strange man sitting before me is what we call- therapist; T-H-E-R-A-P-I-S-T.  He is supposed to help me.  To be honest, I treat him as a friend.  What I would do every day at 7:00 A.M on the exact hour, is walk thru the door with routine placement of my items, station myself in the routine sitting area, and talk to this strange man about things.  We talk about a lot of things, like about the past, the present and… Other things.  But reminiscing my routinely schedule with my strange friend does not change the fact- he is sitting before me... And he is dead. 

     Walks over to his notebook... Takes a pen from his blood stained pocket protector.  Looks at the dead body lifeless in the chair. Im currently writing as of now:  "02-03-1996, Happy Birthday to me.  Save."   It is now 7:01...