Chapter Four: Too Close

My first session of therapy was dull, just a review of my documents to ensure that they were correct. And a little bit of getting to know each other.

Her name is Camilla Derringer, she spent her first several years of adulthood volunteering for people and animals in need, she has never been married, has no kids, her favorite color is blue and she is a fantastic cook. (Though she didn’t say the last one, I deducted that myself after trying a piece of her coffee cake which she had cut into little squares and placed on a plate on her desk with a little sign next to it with “Have A Taste!” written in beautiful, looping cursive.)

Her friendly, warm personality invited me in. I can see why she’s a therapist, she’s one of those people you just want to talk to. You want her to understand you and comfort you. Like what a mother is supposed to feel like. But I can easily control myself, and despite her alluring personality, I managed to keep it curt. My name is Lionel Soldner, I am an assistant to a man in a dull, gray office. I’ve never volunteered for anything in my life due to medical conditions. Not in a relationship, never have been. My favorite color is white, and I am a bland but efficient cook.

She explained how this therapy office works, too. It’s a little different than most other ones; it’s a tiny, clockwork place that has only three employees, all therapists. She introduced me to each one briefly;

Clinton Kirsh, a scrawny, pale, hateful looking man in his forties, straight brown hair swept to the side and a pathetic chin-strap. His narrow, thick-brimmed glasses made his eyes look even more squinted in an endless glare than they already were. She explained to me that he was the therapist in charge of delusion, mostly. He’s the “logic based, cold slap in the face of reality” some patients require.

Cliff Kizzee, a young, enthusiastic man with short hair and dark skin. He was hardly five years older than me and at least a foot shorter. He was a therapist specified for “Artistic therapy” which was essentially an alternate way to understand the “inner minds” of their patients. He orchestrates painting, sculpting, and even songwriting sessions for his patients.

And finally, herself, Camilla Derringer; She was the rehabilitation therapist, basically. Emotion based, calm and gentle. She’s there for the weaker patients; PTSD, Abuse, depression... or just the ones too stubborn for Mr. Kirsh and too uninspired for Mr. Kizee.

Apparently each patient gets a session with each therapist at least once, though they like to alternate, to “take these puzzling people from different angles.” Sounds like a study for insane asylum patients. I would be starting off with a week of Ms. Derringer, and then get to “explore my other options a bit.” Which means being moved around a lot. At least they’re all in one tiny building.

I’m here in the waiting room now, attempting to entertain myself while Ms. Derringer is occupied with another patient, sitting in one of the uncomfortable chairs to the side of a bench. That man with the green hair is sitting next to me, chewing on an unlit cigarette and leaning back. His hands crossed behind his head in a pose of relaxation, to prop his head off of the wall behind him.
Wow...
What?
Look at his body! He works out, clearly. Do you see his biceps? They’re the size of your waist!
Hey! No comments on my girly waist!
Not like that, Lionel... You’re just skinny.
Phht, besides, do you see HIS waist? He’s obviously not that strong, it’s the bodybuilder type. All show no strength.
Way to disappoint, Lionel.
It’s my specialty-
“Hey!” The man turns to me. Oh no. He has a heavy Irish accent and a big, convincing grin. “What’re you in fer?”
Goddamnit. Out of all of the insane freaks here, why the one with green hair?! “I’d rather not share such information with strangers. But it really is a big misunderstanding. I really am quite sane.” I state in a calm, factly tone. He laughs.
“‘Course yer sane! Most of us are! Me? I’m in ‘ere fer research on my role in a film! I’m an actor, y’know. Yep. Gonna play a therapist!” With hair like that?
“Oh, really?” I reply, showing little to no belief or interest. I bet he’s delusional.
“I see it, ya don’t believe me. Well I don’t like sharin’ with strangers either, y’see...” He turns his whole body to me now, placing his hands on his knees and leaning uncomfortably close. Which, to Lionel, is within two and a half feet. “My name is Lochlan! Lochlan Finbar! What’s yers?!” He’s getting too excited over this. I heave an uncomfortable sigh.
“Lionel Soldner...” My shoulders are beginning to arch up, visible signs of my discomfort that will continue to go over his head. He thrusts a big, tan hand towards me with overenthusiastic force. I shake it tentatively. He has a firm, warm shake.
“Now we’re not strangers anymore!” He smiles with juvenile glee. He opens his mouth to say more when Cliff pokes his head out of the door to his office.
“Lochlan!”
“Ach, that’s me...” He sighs, getting up. “We’ll talk later, yeah?” Hopefully not. He enters Cliff’s office and it’s quiet again.

About about ten, twenty minutes of patiently waiting, Ms. Derringer’s office door opens and an enormous man with untidy hair and beard exits timidly. He’s not just heavy -a thick coating of fat and muscle wrapped around his sturdy frame- but tall too. The build of a tree trunk, solid and powerful. But he walked as if he were a five year old who just accidentally knocked over a toddler, or a freshly kicked puppy. Slightly hunched over, shame filled, sad. He looked so gruff and  massive but he had the rounded, sad eyes of a child. The face of a good man. I can tell. Ms. Derringer waves goodbye and turns to me.

“Lionel, your turn.” I get up and walk quietly into her room. I settle into one of the far-too-comfortable chairs and she sits across from me, smiling softly.
“Hello Lionel, how are you today?”
“Fine, fine. Same as Monday. My life isn’t particularly thrilling.”
“And yet people accuse you of having schizophrenia?”
I cringe.
“That is an awfully big accusation, Lionel. Why would anyone think that? You seem awfully stoic and sane to me.”
“It’s just a misunderstanding.”
“Care to elaborate, dear?”
“Not particularly.”
“Why is that?” She tilts her head a little, I have her full attention now.
“Because last time I spoke to a therapist honestly, I had to endure a year of pointless medication and mind-numbing questions. Because no one will ever believe me.”
“How do you know I will not believe you?”
“Because if someone else told me this story, I wouldn’t believe them either.”
“Then how do you believe yourself?” This catches me off guard, I blink. I have no ready answer. This was what she was waiting for.
“Because... it’s... the truth...!” I feel indescribably idiotic, fumbling for my pathetic vocabulary, continuously failing me time and time again as I grasp helplessly for something more comprehensive to say.
“Define ‘truth’.” Damn. We’re getting into philosophy now? I can see that glitter in her eyes. What is it? Competition, perhaps? Belligerence? The drive to get this out of me, And goddamnit it looks like she’s winning.
“I hardly see what that has to do with whether or not Lenore exists!”
LIONEL!
“Lenore?” She calms down, settling back into her chair and sipping at her sweet-smelling tea. The steam drifts upwards and outwards like a poem, meandering into nothingness. Evaporating into the air. “Who’s Lenore?”
My head is pounding with her angry cries GODDAMNIT LIONEL HOW COULD YOU DO THIS? DO YOU WANT TO GO THROUGH THIS AGAIN? DO YOU? GODDAMNIT, LIONEL!
“Please no...” I bow my head forward, applying pressure to my aching temples and mutter to both of the women expecting me to talk. Ms. Derringer leans forward and places a hand on my shoulder. THIS IS IT LIONEL SHE’S GOING TO TELL YOU YOU ARE CRAZY AND YOU’LL HAVE TO DO IT ALL OVER AGAIN, SAY GOODBYE TO YOUR CAREER AND YOUR- I brace myself.
“You don’t have to say it if you’re uncomfortable, we’ll be seeing each other for a long time and if you want to save this for later, that’s okay.” What? That’s... that’s it? I raise my head to her, heavy with the weight of an equally stunned Lenore. Quiet for now. “Okay?” Her lips pull aside in a warm grin, inviting me to relax, to breathe.
“Okay...?” I shake my head.
“Okay! So Lionel, what would you like to tell me? What do you feel comfortable talking about?”
“I don’t know...”
“What about your family?”
“Oh, sure. They have nothing to do with anything.”
“Still important to know! Siblings?”
“...Only child.”
“What about your parents?”
“Yeah, sure. What should you know?”
“Well I’ve been told your mother is in a mental institution, correct?”
“Yes.”
“Care to elaborate?”

Reviews

[Astro MacGuffin]

I am completely hooked. With that said, I think you could have played with the emotional tension, and the relief, a bit more here. That's just a thought, but if I had bought this as a book, thus far, I would count myself one very satisfied buyer!

I'll do more actual reviewing after I've read the whole thing.

[Ivy Navillus]

Thank you! And thanks for that advice, I'll keep that in mind next time I edit... I have a nasty habit of rushing through things... I'm glad you enjoyed it nonetheless!

[Ras Fish]

As I said about chapter two, Beautiful fluent descriptions about characters, Great Dialogue and the more I read the more I want to see what happens, Awesome.

[Ivy Navillus]

Good! I was hoping Lochlan would be a good pull for the readers. A nice way to entice you with more insanity. XD