A Prelude to Closure

Prologue

I snap some smelling salts and hold it under the giant’s nose. His head jerks back and bobs to the front, back and side to side as he tries to shake off his grogginess. I sit down in my strategically placed chair directly in front of him. A high powered construction light is placed directly behind me so all that he sees is my silhouette. He is still very drowsy from the injection. I might have drugged him too much. I’m not a doctor, so when I stole the tranquilizer from my neighboring town’s local vet, I wasn’t exactly sure how much to give a six foot- eight inch, two hundred and sixty-five pound man. After I stripped him down, I duct taped his naked body to the metal chair. Both wrists are taped firmly to each arm rest and both of his ankles to each of the chair’s front legs. Since he is a big man and I now know his strength, I taped a couple layers around his torso to the back of the chair. He’s not going anywhere. I wait as long as I can for the giant to wake up; within the last five months I’ve become very patient in my approach to all of this.

I stand up and walk toward him, breaking some more salts. All of a sudden I ball up my fist and slam it against the side of his face. Oh that feels so good! My inner me is out. I can’t hold him back any longer. He knows this is his night. My inner rage wants to play, but I have to tame him and make him wait. If I don’t, he’ll get right down to the killing part. I make myself walk away, gather my thoughts, talk it out and take some deep breaths. There are so many things I want to do. If I don’t relax and enjoy them, then it will all be in vain. I sit down again with adrenaline pumping through my veins. He finally raises his head and I follow his eyes as he looks at his own naked body, then to the floor where I have my gym bag zipped up waiting to be opened, then finally his eyes roll up to me. For a split second it looks as though he was looking directly in my eyes, but I know all he can see is a black shape of a person.

What…what’s going on? he says in a groggy panic. He looks around at his surroundings trying to grasp where he is.

"Why am I naked…who are you?

Oh… we’ll get to that I assure you. I say in a calm cool tone.

Where am I?

Oh this? I make a circular motion pointing around at the old dilapidated barn.

This is just an abandoned barn that I found. You will never believe how long I searched for this place, just…for this…particular…night. I think it’s what’s left of an old hay barn, but I don’t know. I just know that there is no one around for miles, I say as I sit in my chair with my right leg crossed over my left in a nonchalant manner. I was trying to play it cool, but on the inside I was begging to be let out.

I’m just kidding, it wasn’t that long, about two weeks or so… can you believe that? As soon as I saw it I just knew. I wanted it to be perfect. I mean for everything that you’ve done for me, the least I could do for you is to give you your own special place too.

What do you mean? Who are you?

You’ll figure it out…are you scared? I say.

Let me go.

You don’t want to play? I say as I point to the floor, to the mysterious gym bag between us.

I don’t want to play with you, you freak! What do you want from me?! he yells at me as he tries to escape the tape.

Well….I’m sure by the end of the night, you’ll know who I am and most importantly… you’ll know exactly what we’re doing here.

Chapter 1

The doctor’s office isn’t exactly what I imagined it would look like. Of course there are book shelves, stuffed full of books. The study of Psychology. Check. The Theory of Counseling and Psychotherapy. Check. The Male Brain, The Divided Mind. Blah. Blah. Blah…typical shrink reading.

The walls are an uncomfortable grey. I mean… really? Your profession is to talk to people about their problems and she picks the color of gloom and depression to do it in? Of course, all of her degrees are framed and hanging everywhere. She wouldn’t be a full fledge doctor without showing those off. Oh, and don’t forget the huge Rorschach Test painting. You know, the black and white ink splattered pictures the doctors hold up and ask you to describe what you see? Well, she has the one that looks like a beat up vagina and ovaries hanging above her head behind her desk. Surely she isn’t going to ask me what I see. I’ll tell her something ridiculous if she does.

Seriously, who came up with that test? I think it’s horse shit. Everyone thinks and sees things differently. What makes the doctors’ answer correct and ours the crazy one? What the hell am I doing here? Why did I even make this appointment in the first place? What am I going to do, tell her I’m angry and pissed off all the time? I’m sure she hears that every day.

The office door opens and in walks an old woman. Long straight grey hair to the middle of her back and oversized black circle rimmed glasses. Again, not what I was expecting.

Hello, I’m Dr. Cochran, she introduces herself as she walks around her desk with her head down writing something on a legal pad. She pulls out her chair and begins to sit down. I reach into my jacket pocket and take out a travel size bottle of hand sanitizer. I squeeze a dime size portion into my left hand, fasten the top and begin to rub my hands together.

Hang on just one second while I complete this thought she says.

I sit there wondering if my time starts when she walked in the room or when she actually looks at me. She drops her pen and looks up with a stupid shit eating grin.

Holy shit what is going on in her mouth?

Sorry about that… had a brainstorm and didn’t want to forget it.

That’s fine. I say.

So, what’s on your mind today Mr. Naismith? I sit there for a second.

Why did I really come here? I didn’t even give her my real name. What did I think she could do for me?

I really don’t know to tell you the truth. I say.

I guess I feel like I need to talk to someone.

Ok, so what’s on your mind?

I look down at my hands in my lap.

It’s hard for me to talk to someone I don’t know.

I understand, she says.

I look up and there was that smile again. A smile that could literally make angels cry. She had the most jacked-up grill I have ever seen. I couldn’t stop staring at her mouth. All her bottom teeth where in tack, but they were twisted up like a roller coaster. As far as the top row, she had four of the six front teeth. She was missing her right canine and her left incisor. Plus the fact that they were tar covered didn’t help at all. I assume she was a smoker because of the tar and the fact that she has a deeper voice than I do.

I hope she asks me what I do for a living. Even though I don’t sell dental insurance anymore, I’ll tell her I do, maybe it will drop a hint.

How long have you been a psychologist? I say.

I’m a psychiatrist.

What’s the difference?

A psychologist primarily aids in depression patients by counseling and psychotherapy and they hold a PH.D. I do the same, but I’m a M.D. and can also perform ECT’s which is electroconvulsive therapy. Plus I can prescribe some kick ass meds.

She laughs out loud bearing those hideous teeth to the point of the smokers cough almost choking her out. She stands up trying to catch her breath and walks over to the water cooler in the corner.

Sorry, I’ve been a little silly today. Would you like some water?

No thank you, I’m fine.

What do you do for a living?

I sell insurance.

Oh? What kind?

Life, cancer, critical illness, accident, vision and dental.

I look back down at my hands when I say dental, trying not to stare into the abyss which was her decaying, festering mouth.

Really? I could use some new chompers, I just need to get these ripped out and get some dentures.

Oh yeah? I say while still looking down.

I just lied to my new therapist about my job and my name. I sell cars now, but that’s not that big a deal is it? It’s still sales.

So how long have you been a psychiatrist? I say quickly, trying to avoid the awkwardness of the teeth situation.

Going on twenty nine years now.

So…you’ve pretty much heard it all then, heard some pretty messed up things?

I was trying to feel her about this whole confidentiality thing.

I’ve heard and seen some things in my time.

What do you mean…things?

Well you know I can’t divulge on any of my prior client sessions, let’s just say the human mind is a complicated thing. Sometimes we don’t know why we do the things we do and feel the way we feel. But that’s my job, to help you find your way, and if it’s a chemical thing going on up there, (as she points to her head) then that’s why I have my script pad.

So I can just say anything? Anything at all and it’s just between you and me?

Yep, she says with a grin.

Chapter 2

I sit there for a while contemplating what it was that I want to say. We stare at each other. Neither one of us breaking our gaze. I take out my hand sanitizer again for another application.

Do you have a hard time trusting people Mr. Naismith?

I guess, I reply.

Why do you think that is?

I’ve asked myself that question many times. Do I really want to bring my childhood into this?

I guess you could say, I pause.

My father didn’t love me. Or he was just an ass.

Go on. She leans back in her leather chair and picks up her pen and starts to scribble.

I really don’t know what you want me to say.

Well, start by telling me why he was an ass.

He was just selfish I guess. It was all about him and what he wanted to do. He didn’t care about his family. After my parents divorced, he was always promising my brother and I things, making us feel like everything was going to be fine. Always promising us that he was going to get us this or get us that or take us here or there. We never even asked for any of those things, but you know as a kid you unconditionally love and trust your parents and what they tell you… and time after time the promises were broken, birthdays were forgotten and the time in between visits got longer and longer.

How did you feel about that?

Like crap I guess. Like I wasn’t wanted or something.

What about your brother?

Johnny? What about him?

How does he feel about your dad?

I don’t know. He’s five years older than me, so I guess he kind of knew our dad was full of shit before I did.

Did you ever say anything to your dad about how you felt?

No, I skipped school one day and drove to see my brother in college and we got drunk and started talking about it. He told me that our dad isn’t who I thought he was and that he was really just an asshole that we should just forget about.

I shuffle in my seat feeling awkward having said all these things out loud for the first time.

So it seems like you have some pent up anger and resentment towards your father?

That would probably be a good assessment.

Surely I don’t need to pay this broad a hundred and fifty dollars and hour for her to tell me I’m angry with my father. Hell, I already knew that, but I guess I did feel kind of relieved to have said it out loud.

Do you ever feel yourself getting angry in your everyday life?

Sure, people piss me off all the time. I say as if it were a stupid question.

Like when? Give me an example.

I don’t know.

Sure you do. What pisses you off?

The decaying festering hole you’re speaking out of for one thing. How hard is it to brush your fucking teeth? You make me want to go brush mine right now.

I can’t stand stupid or lazy people, I’m not saying that I’m the smartest guy in the world, but man, some people don’t have any common sense.

I can see that, she says with little hesitation. She looks at the clock on her desk.

Let’s stop here for today and we’ll pick up where we left off in a couple of days.

She stands and walks over to a small file cabinet, reaches in and pulls out a little black notebook.

I don’t do this with everyone because obviously everyone’s situation is different, but I want you to use this journal. Just log some of your thoughts throughout the day.

She tosses the journal over the desk and into my lap. I pick it up and start thumbing through the empty pages.

Now you can do this a couple of different ways. You can write in it like a journal of how your day went and your thoughts or you can just write words or statements that cross your mind during the day. There is no right or wrong way.

I take out my hand sanitizer for yet another cleaning session. Squeeze another dime size portion and began to rub.

Alright, I say while putting the small bottle back in my pocket and grabbing the journal off of my lap. I stand up to make my exit.

You can arrange the time with my receptionist. I think I might have this time on Thursday open, but she’ll know for sure.

I walk out and pay cash to her receptionist and make the next appointment for the same time on Thursday.

Her receptionist was a cute enough girl. Probably twenty- five or twenty-six years old, shoulder length blonde hair with blue eyes. It doesn’t matter though. It’s not like I can ask her out or anything. How messed up of a girl do you have to be to date someone that is seeing your psychiatrist boss.

Chapter 3

It’s been two days since my first appointment and I haven’t even opened the journal. Not a word or a doodle. My next appointment is tomorrow afternoon and I haven’t even started my homework assignment. Am I going to get into trouble? Is she going to lecture me? I go through my normal morning routine. I wake up at 5:00am and do my hundred push-ups and hundred sit-ups, then knock out my four mile run. I live in a retirement community in the northwest part of the state nestled in the Ozark Mountains, so there are a lot of hills for a great leg workout. After I get back from my run, I take my shower and fix my breakfast. My breakfast consists of three eggs over medium, two pieces of toast cut into triangles with strawberry jelly and one small bowl of hominy grits with a teaspoon of I can’t believe it’s not butter and a packet of Splenda.

I can’t remember eating anything else for breakfast. My mother made me the same breakfast every day when growing up, because it was my favorite. I continued the tradition ever since I started making it myself.

That began the morning after I walked into the kitchen and my mother tried to change it up. She made me scrambled eggs, three pieces of bacon and one whole piece of toast with grape jelly. I picked the plate up and threw it against the wall. That was the last time I remember missing breakfast. I don’t know why I did it. I just wanted my breakfast. Rage just consumed me.

While thinking back on those events, I realize that I have been brushing my teeth excessively. Seven minutes in before stopping to apply more paste. Images of Dr. Cochran’s mouth were seared into my brain. After breakfast, I make my bed, clean the skillet, plate and utensils I used to make my breakfast, swept the kitchen floor and sanitize all the kitchen counter tops. Then it’s off to work for my seventeen minute commute to the job I absolutely hate. I don’t hate what I do, I like to sell and I’m good at it, I just hate the fact that my boss has never sold the cars that he is managing us to sell. Not just our brand of cars, but any cars at all. He’s always making statements like, When I used to… or how I did it was… but I know for a fact he hasn’t done any of the shit he’s says he’s done.

After an unbearable meeting with our sales team, where absolutely nothing was of any use, I take my lunch break at my usual spot. I go to the nearest Barnes and Noble bookstore. I walk up to the counter and the girl behind, recognizes and greets me with a nice smile and a small wave.

The usual?

Yes ma’am.

I go there every day or at least Monday thru Friday. I make my own chicken and cheese Panini at home on the weekend. Actually mine is better, but I don’t want to drive home and waste the gas during the week when Barnes and Noble is a couple blocks away from work.

The barista calls my name and I walk to the counter to receive my order. A chicken and cheese Panini, small bag of Barbequed Baked Lay’s potato chips and a White Chocolate Cappuccino with a shot of caramel. I take the table farthest from anyone, and take a bite of my sandwich while the cheese is still hot. The cheese stretches out from my lip to the bite mark in my sandwich. I wipe my mouth and look down at the journal. I’m still not comfortable about writing in that damn thing. I feel stupid, like