“9/11 was in 2001, it’s also the year I turned 5. Followed by a series of pain and anguish I endured from my father, most of whom I am still unable to process and deal with. I’m battling demons that feel like they’ve got a pickaxe attacking my brain and I have no light at the end of the tunnel for which to aim for or keep me going from day to day. I’ve tried a lot and succeeded at none. Every time I’ve worked a job, tried a hobby, hell even a friendship, they all seem to crumble eventually and I’m left with the bottle most Sundays dreading the start of yet another week. Please doc, you gotta give me something.” I said to the guidance counsellor.
He thought internally over the exact words for which to bring forth. He emphasised this with both hands as well as the failure to produce a single word for a solid ten seconds.
I cringed in the inclined chair and almost began pulling the last of my hair out. The cringe was unbearable and I regretted speaking. Or maybe I just regretted paying the wrong person for this service. Perhaps they were just incompetent, that’s possible too, right? My cringe began to creep into anger and in words burst out from within.
“C’mon you pompous twat, give me something. I’m laying here pouring my heart out, and you just stand there like incompetent imbecile that you are!” I bellowed.
As if taking the piss, the shrink further emphasised his bewilderment with further frozen hand gestures and his mouth moved silently as if sounding out words. His eyes hidden behind thick reading glasses.
“You want something to write about? Put in my notes? I’ll rip your heart out you lousy prick!! Go on, write it down! I need you to write it down, so I can get those pills and go about my merry way in my fucked up life and all it’s filth.” I was out for blood.
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The doctor surprisingly did as I wished, he scribbled his notes down and outstretched his hand.
“It’s been a pleasure working with you.” He grinned at me warmly, but his hands were cold and brittle.
After we shook hands, he spoke to his lab coat. Soon after a large elephant sized goon hauled ass into the enclosure and dragged me by the feet despite my kicking. They strapped me in a chair. I liked it since I had a bondage kink. But that was a fleeting thought. After I saw the lobotomy tools and the miniature hammer I began to resist the cruel endeavour for which was certain for me.
I’ll do anything, ANYTHING, give me a paper I’ll sign it, give me a book I’ll read it! Anything just not that! I’m human! I screamed in blatant and excruciating terror.
The doctor smiled and outstretched a contract to sign. Given quill in mouth I signed the contract with great difficulty. The doctor read the contract. Then examined a photocopy of my driver licence signature
Checks out. He said.
He then proceeded to inch closer with the tool and I uttered my last deathly words.
But I signed the contract.
He presented to me the contract, or better stated my death notice consent form. With my signature scrawled around in a tangled mess at the bottom.
You snarky, slimey, slippery, son of a snake pit. You’re a snake, I’ll never trust you or any of you again you cuck. I’ll fuck your wife until she loves me you disgusting, deceitful, undesirable, unintelligent, unforgivable excuse of an ugly man. Go jump off a bridge and survive and get hauled in here yourself and get subjected to this treatment you treacherous tyrant. I can’t stand the way you super sadist inclined operatives of the night in a sewer of filth sleep at night, with all the pure fuckery that goes on here. I was going to be a movie star. I was going to be Hendrix's best friend. Do you know that Hendrix and my dad were best friends in a past life?! Do you know who you’re talking to? I’m the prodigal son of the son of Christ! I’m a miracle to be worshipped and praised and you don’t give me flowers!? You better give me my flowers you…
THUNK!