Describe Loneliness.

 

 “Describe how loneliness feels.”

“Who says I’m lonely?”

            He shifted his weight, making the red leather of his chair squeak beneath him. Then, he pushed his glasses a little further up his crooked nose. He was an aged man; in his fifties if I had to guess…not that I really cared by any means. He was wearing a maroon colored suit; I made a note in my head that he probably had some freaky obsession with the color red. His eyes were small and strangely close together. I couldn’t really see the color and made no effort to. The room was dark; a way every psychiatrist’s office I had seen was like. I never really grasped the concept of it. Why? It made me feel like doc was going to run to the door, lock it, and start removing his clothes...His eyebrows hung solemnly over his eyes like lamp shades, and his skin was crested with wrinkles. He was also very irritated, and since I was the only one in the room, I guessed I was the lucky winner.

            “No one says you are, October, but could you please describe how you think loneliness feels.” He pronounced ‘feels’ with a certain emphasis, as if he were talking to a child. A very stupid child, in my case.

            “Do I get to phone a friend?” I smirked at my joke. He looked over at me, holding his clipboard like a shield.

            “Excuse me?”

            “Ask the audience…?” I knew I was just asking for trouble, but I had never taken a shrink seriously and I wasn’t going to start now.

            “Pardon me?” He leaned forward, as if his ears were betraying him. My smile faded. Did he never watch TV? Was his life that utterly pathetic?

            “Have you never seen ‘Who wants to be a Millionaire’?”

            “No…I don’t believe I have.”

            I sighed nervously and bit my thumb nail. I leaned slightly forward to let my red curls fall around me, my safe domain.

            “You are not taking these meeting seriously, October, and if you are not; then there is nothing I can do,” he was angry and annoyed. I wondered if he had to deal with attitudes like mine everyday. And, though I had no regret or compassion for treating him the way I did, I thought of my mother; my mother who was only really trying to make me a happy ‘normal’ child, as she had put it. My mother, whom the last time I saw her had looked at me with such disappointment.

            “Sorry,” I mumbled, “What’s the question?”

            “No question, my dear, just describe the feeling of being lonely,” he was cheerful that he had won the argument.

            …what?

            I shifted my eyes nervously, and cleared my throat.

            “Well…loneliness is…bad…er…”

            He nodded and wrote something down.

            “…and it feels…”

            Lonely?...I knew that wouldn’t satisfy the old fart. How do you explain the concept of ‘emotions’ to a robotic man such as this? He crossed his legs impatiently. There was a long awkward pause.

            “Alright, I want you to compare loneliness to a physical feeling.”

            …huh?

“As an example, happiness feels like riding in a car with the window open, the breeze blowing in my hair,” he closed eyes and grinned as if he was imagining it. How could the breeze blow in his hair when he, in fact, had none?

            Don’t laugh. I can’t laugh. I bit my lip to hide a smile.

            “Do you understand?”

            “Yes,” I thought of what answer would make him satisfied. “Uh…choking, it feels like…choking.” His hand flew across the paper. Every few seconds I would hear something like ‘very interesting’. I guessed it wasn’t a good thing, it never was…but at least I had pleased him for the time being.

            This had to be a fairly new psychology test because if it wasn’t I would have already known about it. I had read many books on studies of the human mind, most truly sick people have…I smiled a bitter smile after he had finished a few pages on my obviously intricate mind.

“Well, you are free to go,” he stated. He helped me put on my coat, and I was in much disgust by the smell of his breath and his closeness. This was the second time I had left the doc’s office annoyed and disgusted…this was actually the second time I had left his office period, which meant the future was looking a little grim. Though, last time I don’t think he had helped me with my coat. I hated psychiatrists of all kinds, but I could see their fascination with the profession.

            “I’ll see you next week,” he said cheerfully, and then, shut the door. I imagined to him I was one big fat pay cheek. This place looks more like a jail cell than anything else, I thought as I walked quickly down the hall. I thought maybe, if I walked fast enough I could leave my problems inside that tiny room with the maroon curtains and the arrogant little excuse for a human being. The thing I hated most was the waiting room. Every time you walked through, the people would look up at you and blush sheepishly; then watch you out from under magazines and newspapers, as if they had just peed on the carpet and are hoping you will blame it on someone else.

            Then, the workers at the counter would look up at you sympathetically, like saying ‘I’m so sorry you are insane’…and you can’t even tell them to mind their own f*****g business because that means you are ‘emotionally unstable’. Besides, once you sign your name and pay the cash you are their business and there is nothing you can do about it. They have freedom to dissect your thoughts all they want, and look at you in any way they choose.

            You. Belong. To. Them. Good job, October, you allowed your parents to sell your soul to the devil. I smirked, harshly.

            I made my way across the parking lot, and then I recalled the voice inside the dreams I had been having lately. It was so warm, so…comforting. All I truly wanted was someone to understand. Someone to say ‘yeah, I know what you’re going through, it must suck’; or, maybe, they wouldn’t have to say anything at all. I just wanted someone, beside me, who truly wanted to be there and it would make everything okay.

            I pushed the ‘unlock’ button on my keys of my van. I had inherited it from the family. It was about twenty years old, used for a long time, and then tossed aside like yesterday’s garbage. I pulled myself inside and glanced at the empty seat beside me.

            Maybe loneliness did feel like choking…like someone coming up behind you with a plastic bag or a rope, fighting to win your air until victory was theirs and you lay motionless on the metaphoric floor. And all this time you wiggling and shaking, ‘Just a little bit of air,’ you think, ‘Just a few seconds of air, then I can go on the rest of my life without it…then I will be strong enough.

            “Wanna stop for a milkshake?” I asked the empty seat beside me, and pulled, silently, into Steak and Shake.

Reviews

[J.Black]

Wow this was fantastic! Into my favs it goes!

[Adam Greenfield]

Choking. Yeah, that about sums up loneliness pretty well. Great intro. More, please!

[Benarsi]

Suberb...You captured the sensation of 'loneliness' perfectly. Congrats!

[O!]

FANTASTIC!!!....WHAT A GREAT WRITE!!...WHAT A STORY!!......I cant tell you how enthused i am!!!.........

Your description was just fabulous........your story-line AMazing!!!........and somehow You knew just TOO WELL how to capture the feeling of "the insane" ..........

I cant PRAISE you enough!!....Just a fantastic job!!
not one moment i was taken away from the piece.....

THere's a lot i could quote about what uve written so instead im giving it all 5 stars...u deserve 7 really!!.......its going to my faves.....

these meeting (s)
pay cheek (cheque)
there was one more tiny thingie..but cant find it no more......

Really Great!!!

Thank you.

O! :-) :-)

[Ebby]

October, this is really very different to much of you work on the Cafe, and it is much, much mor interesting. Your talents are developing and your writing is reflecting this. Good work. :)
Thank you for inviting me to read this. Kind regards.

[Llysofar]

I think you are an really talented writer. Your writing is up there with people like J.D. Salinger, as far as I am concerned, and I'm sure you will have a lot more to write, if you carry on at the rate you're going.
Goldie