“Come on in.”
I walk into the
therapist’s private office – well, I think it’s his private office; his name
was on the placard outside in small, bold black letters. This therapist was
supposed to be one of the best around, at least according to my friend Sig.
Then again, Sig still thinks I wanted to see a therapist for mild trauma. When
I’ve told people about my… condition in the past, they didn’t react
very positively.
“It looks like you’re
drifting off.” The therapist’s voice cuts through my thoughts, startling me
slightly. I look back at him, a rather kindly looking middle-aged man, with a
presence that seems to have patience beyond measure.
I breathe in, and
speak: “Sorry about that. I-I’m fine now.”
The therapist paces
around, observing me. I self-consciously straighten up a bit, and he smiles.
“You don’t need to tense up, Mr. Jackson. Please, sit, and tell me what’s going
on.”
I sit down on the
leathery couch provided, and the therapist seats himself on a wooden chair.
“Um, I’m not sure how to say this, but, well, I see things.”
“What kind of
things?”
“People,” I
reluctantly reply. “I see people who… aren’t there. They’re usually very nice,
friendly even, but, well, they aren’t real.” The therapist makes a move to
speak, but I blurt out “but they feel real! I know they aren’t real – my
family, the doctors, they tell me they aren’t real – but they seem real to me
until someone points it out. Then, well, they disappear over time, and someone
else always seems to appear.”
“And how does that
make you feel?” Oh come on, I think, first the couch, now this cliché?
“It makes me feel, I
don’t know, um, upset?”
“Are you asking me
how you feel, Mr. Jackson?” The therapist’s face glows with a half-grin.
“It makes me feel
upset,” I state firmly.
“Or does it make you
feel alone?”
My heart skips a
beat. How could he possibly know that?
The therapist looks
at me, chocolate brown eyes piercing through my inner being. “Irony of ironies,
yes. You envision friends and acquaintances, a veritable parade of people in
your life who are kind to you, but you feel empty and alone. These visions are
temporary, unfulfilling.”
He’s hit a nerve, and
he knows it. I don’t like it. “No, it makes me feel upset!” I shout, but I know
he doesn’t believe me. He’s just waiting for me to calm down a little so that
he can tell me… wait.
Those brown eyes
soften into a smile again. “Yes, Mr. Jackson, you’ve almost grasped it.”
“Y-you’re saying –
but I saw your name outside! And why would you help me end the hallucinations
if you’re one, too? Won’t that make you cease to exist?”
The therapist sighs
wistfully, looking beyond me. “Existence is a tricky thing, Mr. Jackson. As
you’ve pointed out, people keep appearing and disappearing to you, but none of
them display the typical symptoms that a therapist could diagnose you with – no
anger or paranoia, only a desire to befriend.”
“You – they – are
driving me insane!”
“You’re doing that to
yourself, Mr. Jackson. We embody the void you refuse to fill, trying
to offer you advice along the way. Open yourself to the world again, and you’ll
be fine.”
“What do you mean we
– no, no no no no no, is Sig a hallucination too!?”
The therapist stands
up, and motions me to do the same. “Your time is up, Mr. Jackson, and I believe
mine is as well. Don’t wait for others to come to you – seek them out
yourself.”
I slowly walk out,
blinking the wateriness from my eyes. The door closes behind me, and I turn
around suddenly, hoping for some confirmation that it was real, that I wasn’t
crazy. To my disappointment, the bold black letters spell out something else:
“FOR LEASE.” I try the door handle, but it’s locked. Maybe it was always locked.
I go outside to the
busy street, and signal for a cab. When I turn around, I accidentally bump into
a pedestrian.
“Hey watch it!” she
huffs, crossing her arms and glaring at me.
“I’m so sorry! I-I’ve
just been a little distracted today.”
She looks like she’s
going to say something, but then stops, the corners of her lip twitching
upward. “You’re just lucky that you’re cute.”
For the second time
today, my heart skips a beat. “Oh, um, well…” This time, she grins at me. Why
is she smiling?
“How about,” she begins,
before getting interrupted as a taxi pulls up to the curb, “how about you make
up for it sometime?”
I’m not sure how many
beats my heart has skipped now. I start to duck my head and move towards the
cab before the therapist – no, the memory of today’s hallucination – pops back
into my mind. Don’t wait for others to come to you – seek them yourself. I
turn back to the girl.
“Sure, I-I’ll try to
do that. Um, this sounds a little weird, but… how do I know if you’re real?”
She smiles at me,
then pulls out a slip of paper and a pen. “Oh, you’re good. If this doesn’t
magically disappear by tonight, call me, okay?” She folds the slip of paper in
half, then hands it to me before hopping into the cab.
I unfold the piece of
paper. Ten digits, two dashes, and a name at the end: “Anna.”
***
From a small window
in his office, the therapist watches the scene unfold. Content with his last
patient, he walks back to his desk and presses a button, swapping out the name
signs again. A few minutes later, someone knocks on the door.
“Come on in.”
