Welcome to Paradise*

We meet our main character and see where he is at. We also meet another character who tries to helps him.

So I’m here. It’s come to this. With all I've done and been through the situation has erupted. I have reached the inevitable stand off point where it is necessary for me to be here; in a therapist’s office, on a couch, staring at walls plastered with degrees upon degrees informing all who walk in how great she is. How Extraordinary Dr Diana Grant is. Fine, I shall be the judge of that. If she can help me with all of my issues, it’s possible that all of her letters on the wall will mean something. As of now all I can think of as I sit here and stare at them is, she needs to show how good she is. Like a peacock presenting itself for courtship, she expects a glorified response; we’ll see if she deserves it.

I sit there across from her, meeting her gaze; I’ve no intention of breaking it. Five minutes, 10 Minutes, 20 minutes pass and not a word is spoken. She shatters the silence and asks, “Mr Cloud, or Andrew if you prefer, May I ask, why have you come to see me?” I sit in my place on the purple couch and ponder her question. I smirk as I watch her wait for the answer, an answer I already have. I refuse to give on her terms; no, I’ll remain stoic for a few minutes. “Well, Dr Grant, or Diana if you prefer?”

“Dr Grant is fine Andrew, thank you," She says with a half-smile.

“Well Dr Grant, someone believes you could help me with what some people consider to be my issues,".

“Some people?” she repeats

“Yes, some people. You see, I’ve had what some people may say is an unconventional upbringing and still have a messy life. I have written 2 novels, graduated from a prestigious University and mastered the violin all before I turned 18. I’m now 21 and I’m stuck. Things are getting in my head. Issues are spiralling”

“What issues?”

“My inability to get words down. The constant episodes I get when I remember events I think are painful. The darkness around me. Issues like that. Worst of all my writing is being hindered. I can no longer allow this to happen. I need it to be what I am, I need it to be… me. It’s what I’ve got, it’s what I cling onto; with all I do not have I cannot lose what is me. This is where you enter. I need you to help me transition past all of this so I can be myself. I need all those around me to not suffer from my blackened, tarry aura and being. So can you help me?”

“Well, Andrew this is all great, but I can refuse to help those who will not accept my help. Are you willing?” She asked.

“Yes. Yes I am,” I reply in a sullen tone.

As I sit on this couch I feel less claustrophobic. I need to get what I need and to do this I must identify why I have been the way I have been. I may not trust someone who boasts about their feats on the walls they live in, but I accept as true that she may have an insight into what I need. So I will bide my time until I trust enough.

“Andrew, can you tell me about you?” she asks “By you I mean who you are. Not what you are.”

“Sure, sure Diana. It would be my pleasure.” I say in my droll tone.

“As I mentioned earlier I have gone through quite a bit in my life. I am a certified genius with an IQ of 170. That’s higher than Einstein by the way, in case you don’t know.”

“How interesting,” she says while writing in her notebook. “Go on.”

 So I do, “When I was 16, Arcane University accepted me; the youngest age anyone in my family has been accepted and I graduated top of my class at 19 with a Major in Literature. I play the violin excellently, as my mother did; in fact all members of my family have a classical instrument they are proficient in. I have published two books, both best sellers and I’m writing another. Sutter, London, that was where I was born, but I left and never went back the second I left for university; I now live in Paramour and it’s delightful.”

“That’s nice Andrew, but give me something more about WHO you are,” she asks.

I reply, “Well I know who I am. I am an introverted guy, with a low sense of emotions.  A genius, who is a bit arrogant about him-self and has a love for literature.”

“If you know, why did you not start with this explanation of your-self?” she says.

“Well, to be honest I assumed you would already recognise this. It’s not as though I try to hide it. I assumed it’s obvious. Obviously I was wrong.” I say implying the tedious nature of the question in my speech. I lean forward and meet her gaze, “Are you sure you can help me?”

She purses her lips, flares her nostrils, flips her hair and shifts her weight to the other side of her chair and says, “Are you sure you want to be assisted?”

I stare at her and lean back slightly, smirking as I do so.

Time passes and silence has been our friend for quite some time. She shifts her weight from one side of her chair to the other; inhales extensively and says, “OK. So tell me what has triggered your is-sues as you put them? What’s caused your problems to make a more announced return?”

“It began a few nights ago. I woke up in a sweat and my pulse was high. I remembered this sensation and though I was drowning in it. So I did what I always did, I wrote down what I felt on my wall. Here is a picture of it.”

She gives me an odd look, a look that implied a lot. An expression of curiosity.

“Don’t give me that look.” I express, “I take pictures of new additions to my wall to always have them with me. I believe they give me a sense of sanity as I work through the day’s troubles.”

She reads them and looks puzzled; puzzled but also with a hint of sadness, like she knows something is up and it needs to be looked at. As she reads I recall the words I had written in my head.

It's back. I can feel it, its back. The everlasting never-ending darkness is back and I have no will, nor can I muster any will to over-come it. The shadows are rolling in, the dark dreary shadows, and so I do what I always do when pressed with the notion of this pain; I look back to the first moment I felt happiness, the first moment I felt fulfilled, the first moment I felt accomplishment.

Dr Grant shifts her weight back to the other side of her chair and looks up at me. She inhales again, slightly heavier than the last and says, “You express here a state of darkness and dreariness. From this little passage you have written here I can see you have a lot of demons inside you. Nevertheless, you sit there on my couch, slouched over, eyes glazed over, but with a sense of nonchalance. This moment of happiness you remember is a great one. Can you please tell it?”

I sit and wait. Staring at her walls; at her big letters; at her pictures of family; at her comfortable office; at her and think what a life she must lead. I look down at my hand and see them. The scars on my fingertips, but as I do this I feel it again; the darkness creeping its way back to my and so I do what helps; I rub my fingertips slowly and in a soothing way, I can feel the deep indentations and it all comes back. As I rub my fingertips I begin to tell Dr Grant my memory; my happy memory; the moment I read my first novel.

“I remember being high, high off the ground. My feet dangling, I could see over Father’s head but, I was seated. I was locked in, a tray in front of me, clear. White. Spotless. Food was being placed in front of me but I was none the wiser. I was looking at something else. It was a small leather bound book. I was so intrigued. Father picked it up and looked so calm; at ease turning the pages, brushing his fingers on the page. It looked amazing. I was hoisted before I could reach for it from my seat and placed in my play corner.” I pause for a moment to steady myself and then continue with my story.

“Later when I was three my curiosity had exploded and so I went searching for this book, I never forgot it or the look on Father’s face.

I walked around searching, chair legs seemed like tree trunks, piles of pillows were bushes; this was what I could best describe as a tiring mission. However my mission came to an end when I eventually found it. Placed carefully on the desk in my father’s study was the book; I was euphoric. I ran towards it, climbed the mountain that was my father’s study area and took the book. I sat in his chair, stared, stroked and smelled its leather cover. Only when I had thought I had taken in the auspicious moment did I decide to open it. It was hard, the book was almost the size if my head, but no matter. This was something I knew I had to do. Once opened I caressed the pages as Father did, I looked at the word as father did, I began to read; I began to read A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens and my God, what a read.

Looking back I thought I had never read before, but it felt so natural; it felt so necessary; it felt so needed and never-ending. The words flowed. Danced. Glided. The pages amazed me, so much so that I believe I was smiling the entire way through, down to Tiny Tim’s line, “God bless us, everyone.”

The book engrossed me to the point where I hadn’t noticed mother and father were standing right in front of me. I froze. I expected anger to show on their faces; I was in fathers study and it was known that that was a place we could not go, but no it wasn’t anger I saw but what seemed to be shock and what I know now was pride. Father hurried towards me and picked me up, spun me around and kept on saying, “Fantastic, absolutely fantastic.” Mother stood by the chair and smiled her warm mother smile. I didn’t understand why they were so happy, I was simply reading. Father explained that I was special and brilliant.

Not until a while later did I realise a three year old is not meant to read so easily, let alone a Charles Dickens book, but hey what can I say… I like to read.”

As I finish telling Dr Grant the story I can see my fingers have stopped moving and I’m staring directly at her; waiting. Finally she shifts her weight to the other side and inhales and begins to speak, “This memory you’ve shared with me is a great one. I can see why it helps you. You seem to have a lot of love for your father the way you talked about him in the memory; the way you described his reaction to your admittedly amazing reading feat. What is your relationship with him like today?”

I sit there feeling my body squirm, my fingers begin to rub again; the darkness once dispersing is now regaining its strength. “An-drew, I asked about your relationship with your father.” She says.

I look blankly at her. If my eyes had lasers the heat would melt her skin. She continues to stare at me but I refuse to budge. The darkness continues to mound.

She looks down at her note pad, then back up at me and says, “You know Andrew, you say a lot when you keep your mouth shut.”

I look at her with a bit of contempt and then notice the clock, it’s 4:45pm. “Oh look, time’s up, Thanks for this session, see you next time Diana,” I say emotionlessly.

“Alright Andrew, your right time is up. However, this is not the last we will speak on this. I will figure out what’s going on with you and eventually you will want me to. Under all this doom and gloom and emotionless facade there may be something there. I’m going to help you set it free, because as we have established your work is you, and if you can’t get back to it, you will no longer be you and we can’t have that now, can we?” She says.

“No Diana we can’t,” I respond.

“Alright, I’ll see you on Wednesday. Also Andrew, it’s Dr Grant,” she says with authority.

I look at her, put my hands in my pockets and leave.

As I leave the building, I pull my headphones out, place them in my ears and begin to play some music. It helps me feel at ease as I walk to around town. As I walk I begin to think about today and my session and all that I have done today. Nothing. Nothing is what I am feeling. I pause and begin to rub my fingers, then continue to walk until I reach it, my home away from home; The Marley Café.

Author's Note

tell me what you think. tell if i should add something. give suggestions. thanks.