Mental Pictures

Okay, so the bold italic parts such as this means that this is what our main character is thinking, his reactions and statements he is giving out to himself as he is reminiscing the scene. And the normal letters are his memory of the scene or the story.

Anyways, enjoy. ^U^

It was 2 years since my parents divorced, 18 hours since my last drink, and 5 minutes since I snapped back at my therapist talking about moving on and how transference is healthy for me, so yeah, wound’s still fresh. Fresh until 2 years of moving on, actually. 

I usually don’t talk about this; even it’s already been 4 years since that happened- not how I snapped back at her, mind you, I’m a changed man- but I think it’s time I get it out of my system.

Now, back to the therapist, since I can’t seem to get enough of that scene. Don’t get me wrong, I love therapy sessions, it’s sometimes soothing, emphasis on the sometimes. It usually depends on the topic, the homework, and what she wears. It was all good; until I snapped back at her, obviously. Well, I can’t exactly remember why, but I remember I had a really bad day that time. Maybe it’s some spilled coffee on my thesis, burnt fingers because of the toaster, or me in detention.  But either way, me snapping back at a 28 year old woman just because I had no control over my anger issues is not a good way to cope, I realized the day she terminated service, so I looked for another one. This time, someone a bit older than me, no, that’s an understatement, someone way older than me. A 53 year old man, divorced, and is retiring actually, although I think it’s still a bit early for him. I asked him this and he said, “Never too early, never too late as one might say.”

And I liked him directly after that, kind of gives me a fatherly feeling, one I never had since I was sixteen. Looking back at it now, I didn’t think snapping back at my former therapist was a bad thing after all, sometimes things are better pushed away to make way for the better ones, in other words, my former therapist. Not that she was a bad thing, not at all.

Home works were more fun too, although I never admit it to him. Lots of sketching and illustrations, something I was very good at, and forgot that I’m good at it. I felt at ease when I’m with him, as if he was not a therapist at all, as if he was my father.  But everything changed.

I was looking for a book he asked me to borrow from the local library- there was one book he never returned because it was written by his favorite author, and because it was limited edition. I scanned through the nonfiction section, eager to find that book for him and to get out of this eerie silence. By the time I found it, I grabbed it quickly and turned around, knocking another person’s book to the ground- it rhymed, I know.

“Oh, I am so sorry.” I said, trying to sound sorrier than I was when I destroyed my mom’s makeup palette to make galaxy slime.

“Nah, it’s fine” he said, bending over to pick up the books. I helped him of course, carefully trying not to mix my book with his. I gathered the books quickly, not noticing how annoyed I looked, plus the silence and his stare is really making me uncomfortable. I feel like one in one of those soap opera thing where you meet someone by bumping them and then, well, you already know what will happen next.

“In hurry that much? You don’t have to-” I cut him off; placing the books I stacked onto his hands.

“No, it’s fine.” I get up, we both do. My backstage mind is panicking right now; I’m not that good with conversations, especially with strangers.

“So, you come here often?” he asked, placing the stack of books on a nearby table. It was a good thing he didn’t sit down, if he did, I would have to for courtesy and this would another soap opera scene.

“Uh, no, actually, just needed to pick up a book for a friend.”

“Oh, nice.”

Silence. That moment was exactly why I wanted to keep my mouth shut.

“Well, see you around, I guess.” he said, bringing his stack up to the librarian, not waiting for my response.

That could’ve been better. I waited until he was done checking out, I don’t want to strike another awkward conversation. It felt like forever for the librarian to stamp that damned date stamp onto those books. I tried to look busy, taking the books in and out the shelves and scanning them, knowing I look like an idiot but still.

I never felt so embarrassed of myself, giving that standoffish vibe without any valid reason.

The moment he turned toward the door, I started to walk towards the librarian slowly, almost dragging my steps to keep up with the slow moment I feel like I’m in. He turned back the moment I took my second step and smiled, which I smiled back nervously. I don’t know what in the world he was thinking, smiling at a stranger like that. The way he did it made me feel giddy and understood at the same time, as if he saw all of my struggles through my eyes and tried to comfort me by smiling. I continued walking and attempted to raise my hand as if saying goodbye, I could’ve done that flawlessly if I was looking where I was going, and no, I didn’t bump into anyone this time. A book caught my feet that made me stumbled, today must be my lucky day. I looked up to see if he was still there but it looked like he already walked off, I couldn’t blame if he stifled a laugh. I dusted my pants off and picked the book that caused me my humiliation.

It didn’t looked like it was part of any of the shelves, more like a journal somebody left or something. I took a bit of a peek inside and a lot of pictures slipped out, mostly negatives. I felt a bit guilty of barging in other people’s diaries and things, but my curiosity got the best of me. Most of them were family pictures, birthdays, christenings and reunions. I tried to skim through the pages for any names but they were empty, seemed like the owner tried to use it as a scrapbook. I skimmed the second time, making sure there were no notes or other hidden pictures. Thankfully I did. On the fifth to the last page there was a note in hasty written bold letters; much like my therapist’s when he gives me my prescription. I didn’t read it, knowing it was none of my business, anyway.

No, it was his; I should’ve realized that sooner.

I gave it to the librarian right after she stamped my book.

“Someone must have left it here.”

“Strange, this is the first time for our lost and found section.” She said, placing the book on a small shelf beside her typewriter.

I didn’t notice myself staring at the book, as if it was telling me not to leave it behind. I turned my back, took my mind away from that journal. Every step felt heavy, the same way when I tried to walk out of my stepsister’s funeral. That feeling of guilt and regret when walk out on something you are attached to, even though you’re not supposed to feel anything towards it.

I attended a funeral the next day. The sky was surprisingly calm, the sun not too hot. How ironic. A perfect weather for a dreadful event. I always knew my therapist was bad at lying. The time he asked for a vacation for seven days, along with his frequent visits to the bathroom to cough got me thinking. I stepped in for a peak the moment he went outside for a smoke. It was the second time I saw blood since my father got home drunk and from a fight. I thought about asking him about it, gave off questions related to tuberculosis and coughing up blood, but he never showed any sign of telling it to me. I never had regretted something so badly in my life.

I knew I should have asked him about. I should have asked him right in the face if he was okay or not. But I didn’t. All I have now is regrets. And the knowledge that there will be no more therapy sessions.

I came back the library the next day, and the next. Trying to stay busy, trying to take my mind out of everything around me. Being in the library makes me feel the world stopped turning, as if time passes by slowly, and it calms me. The next day I sat at my usual table beside the window, it was raining hard that time. My mind flitted back to the day of the funeral, with all its black clothes contrasting the weather. This weather should have been perfect for that day. As I continued my staring outside the window bit, the librarian approached me and handed something.

“I guess this is yours.” She said, handing me a journal. The one in the lost and found section. The one I stumbled upon.

“No, sorry. As I said, I just found it-” she cut me short, opening the center page with my name on it on the side, written in the same hasty, bold manner.

“You should have you eyes checked, dear. Must be those cellphones you kids are addicted to.” She placed the journal on the table and turned back to her desk.

“Yeah” I said to myself, dumbfounded. How could I have missed that?

The pictures weren’t there anymore, it must have slipped somewhere. I craned my neck up and traced the librarian’s steps, but there weren’t any pictures strewn across the floor as I expected. I scanned each page slowly, not making the same mistake. I came to the page where there was a note on it, tucking safely a negative film. This journal isn’t mine, I’m sure of that. But it has my name on it. Why? I proceeded to read the note, hoping that the owner must have the same name as me so- no, that wouldn’t make sense, if he did he might be a lost sibling. Or someone completely unrelated to me.

It has been five months since I knew I was sick. I would be lying if I say I’m not scared of dying. I’ve done many good things in my life and that makes me proud, but that doesn’t compensate for all the sins I committed. So I tried to do therapy, if I can’t forgive myself, why not help others instead. But deep inside, I knew it would never work. Every smile I fake is always noticeable; I was never good at lying. So I made a promise to myself. If I could just have one last client before my funeral, then I would die happy. I never knew why I made that promise, but I knew it was just me being selfish. Trying to help others, thinking if I did, I’d feel better. I was doing it all for myself. Until my last client. I never hoped he’d improve, but he did. He treated me like his father, the one thing I never got to be. My sickness never bothered me, knowing I deserve it and it never did. Until he came along. He made me want to live, to see his progress as if I’m his father. But I know it wouldn’t be possible. By the time you read this, I’m probably dead. But I know you’re the one thing that made me regret dying. And I thank you for that.

Goodbye and I hope I’ll still be your therapist in the next life.

It had been 4 years since that happened, but I can still see myself sitting in the table by the window, crouching down and crying. From where I look at it, I was thankful for that librarian who made people sit a table away from me at that time. I can still see myself by that seat, crying and sobbing, making the people nervous around me. If they only knew, they would think my emotions would only be temporary since he was just my therapist; just another person destiny introduced me to. But no. He was a father to me, someone I never had and someone he never got to be. I didn’t look at the negative that was tucked between the pages, I don’t have to. I always remember his beaming smile whenever I come for therapy. I didn’t care if he faked it or not, if it was all for show. I didn’t care if he used me and his other patients as a tool to make himself feel better, to forget his guilt. I didn’t and never will. All I cared about is that I met him.

And that’s all it matters to me.