Therapy Session

Things couldn’t possibly get any worse. I’m not even sure how we got to this point, to be honest. I mean, we've never been the perfect couple by any standards, but then again… what couple is? Yes, we fought a lot, and sure, there’s no denying that both of us had done things to piss the other off --it was a vicious cycle, but we always worked it out in the end; even if it was usually for just a week or two before another issue arose. I never thought we’d end up here though, sitting on polar ends of the waiting room. There's such a wide gap between us that we may as well have been sitting in different rooms. Neither of us is speaking, barely making eye contact as we wait for the receptionist to call us back.

The tension in the air speaks volumes; everyone knows that marriage counseling is the last stop of a train wreck marriage before a divorce. Oh god, if we got a divorce, I would lose everything, and not to mention the humiliation; Craig would never let it go if Michelle and I got a divorce. I can’t blame him though, she was his high school sweetheart, and I was his awkward, geek of a little brother, but that was years ago, so he can’t still be that upset...right?

“Mr. and Mrs. Krane?” 

“Oh, yes, right here. I’m Theodore Krane, and that is my wife, Michelle.” I reply, motioning toward her as I stand up to greet the man calling for us. He’s a man of average height, with caramel-toned skin, a balding head of straight black hair, dark, beady, eyes, and a warm, yet seemingly forced smile. He’s dressed in a black suit, accented by a starched white dress shirt, and a golden Rolex on his left wrist. Nothing was out of place, not even a speck of dust adorned the thick frame of his glasses.

“Hello, I’m Dr. Bell. I believe we spoke over the phone last Friday. I will be working with you and your wife." He said, shaking the hand I had been holding out for him. 

“Oh yes, Dr. Bell! It is so good to meet you! I have to tell you, I’ve always been a bit skeptical when it comes to therapy, but my wife thought it would be for the best, and whatever the wife wants, she gets, ya know, heh?” I say, shaking his hand a little too vigorously. 

“Come on Ted, the man doesn’t want to hear any of your pathetic attempts at comedy, we only get an hour with him today, and I don’t want you wasting it on anything unimportant. Actually, why don’t you just let me do the talking? Hi, Michelle Krane, it’s a pleasure to meet you.” Michelle says, standing up and shaking the doctor's hand, all while smiling and batting her eyelashes as if she hadn’t just scolded me like a child. 

“Mrs. Krane...I see that we have a lot of work ahead of us, so let’s get started. Please follow me.”

Bang. Click.

“Did he just lock the- you know this is your fault, right? He probably got sick of the bickering, once again your fault, and locked us in here for it! Ugh, I am so sick of-”  

Attempting to drown out the horrid noise I have come to know as my wife’s voice, I glance around the room we've found ourselves in. It's smaller than average, pristine as if no one had entered before us, resembling one of those rooms that they put mentally disturbed people in, yet, instead of padded white flooring and walls, it had these slightly glossy, sunshine yellow ones. In the center of the room stands a shiny, stainless steel table with- 

“Wait, are those guns?” I asked, not meaning to speak out loud.

“I have locked you in this room to-” sounded throughout the room through an unseen speaker system.

“Bell? Is that you? I swear to God I will sue you for everything you-”

“Ted, Ted, let me finish. Now, as I was saying, I have locked you in the room to work out your marital issues. Throughout our sessions over the last year, I have tried many interventions. However, it seems that traditional counseling methods have had no impact on your marriage. My last attempt at fixing you is this: you must either find a way to resolve your issues or, if they are too extreme to resolve, then one of you must shoot the other. No exceptions. I will handle all of the complications, and no charges will be pressed, if it comes to that of course."

“Why the hell would I ever shoot my wife?” I yell as I hear Michelle scoff behind me.

“Ted, both Michelle and you have suggested both hypothetical and serious desires to harm, or even kill one another; actions speak louder than words….so let’s see if you’ll act upon them.”

“Oh, come on Teddy, we all know that you don’t even have the balls to shoot pool, let alone me.” The words slip out of her mouth like venom, as her pale, manicured hand grazes the table's smooth edge.

She's not wearing her wedding ring, my mother’s ring, she hasn’t since she suggested we see Bell. Her blood-red lips turn upward into a relaxed, yet smug grin with a hint of arrogance sparkling in her eyes. Looking at me suggestively, she grips one of the guns the way a falcon grips its prey.

“How...vintage,” she purred, staring down at the weapon as she spins the cylinder. “If only we had sought out marriage counseling sooner.”

I slink against the cold plastic wall, slowly attempting to find somewhere out of her range of fire, but of course, no such place exists. I feel the anger boiling inside me as I take note of my situation. I'm trapped in a room with a vile woman. A woman that I had once loved more than anything, who had latched her greedy claws onto me the minute she learned that I -- in her often-stated opinion-- was wealthy enough for her to overlook my bad genes. This same mistake of conception, who also had a lovely habit of using fists and other objects in place of words to express herself, has now obtained a loaded weapon and by now has probably thought of at least twenty good – yet delusional – reasons to use it on me. Pushing these thoughts out of my head, I begin to walk towards her. 

“You’re right. You’ve always been right Chel, that man you married six years ago? Ted? He is a terrible husband, he’s passive, needy, jealous, and all those other things that you’ve complain- humph mentioned in our therapy sessions. You deserve so much better. I see that now.” Taking her hands into mine, I removed the gun and looked at her, attempting to plead solely through my gaze. Her bottom lip began to quiver as if her look of enraged seduction was a dam on the verge of breaking.

“But I, I am no longer that man, I am Theodore, a whole new being of your creation, from years of taunting and abuse, and you have no idea of what I’m capable of,” I say as my expression shifted from one of pleading into one of pure, passionate hatred. She reached for the guns, but my reflexes were faster, knocking the closer one onto the floor with my elbow as I grab the other. She fell to her knees with a defeated thump and proceeded to beg me as she backed against the door,  

“Teddy- I mean Ted, sweetheart... Theodore, please,” she cried, “there's another way darling! We- we can work this out I’m sorry!” Her speech was as broken as the beautiful marriage we once had. Tears streamed down her makeup smudged face. She was a Picasso, but this work of art was all mine. Cocking the hammer, I aimed it towards her forehead. 

“There’s no use, Michelle, I am no longer passive, and I am done being your puppet.” Then I pulled the trigger – three times.

A pathetic sigh of relief exited her trembling lips as the mangled brass doorknob landed with a clang, allowing the door to creak open slightly. I dropped the gun as I approached it, smirking as my closing in caused Michelle to flinch. Standing in the doorway, I looked down at the sad excuse of a woman who was my wife.

“The divorce papers will arrive at your office at some point next week, sign them.” And with that, I was free.