The Ceiling Fan gyrated off-kilter, making an irritating "clank" on each pass, syncopated with every second tick of the Therapist's watch. thatcher kaid on the couch, mind locked on the loose threads coming out of the leftmost seams, where the tag once resided.
The Therapist leered through Thatcher's ambivalence with an icy, focused stare, absent of remorse or any sign of empathy. thatcher hadn't said a word since the appointment started, and already the Therapist knew so much about Thatcher. the body language, as if the appointment was trial for a shameful act Thatcher didnt even commit. The appearance, long, bushy hair, rough, abused jeans, an acid-washed shirt depicting a band that gave up long before the wearer did, and the pain and torment those darkened glossy eyes failed to hide. Thatcher Freeman was a classic juvenile delinquent. The Therapist finished scratching fleeting sentences into his moleskin tumbler and his hands in his lap. He inhaled softly, and asked in calm vibrato,
"You can tell me what happened. I know it might be hard to think about, but I'm Here to help you. Let's start back to beginning of freshman year. What feelings were most prevalent?"
Thatcher wasn't exactly paying attention, but he had comprehended everything that Dr. Fjaskar said. Thatcher had grasped the concept early on not to trust grown-ups, but something in the Doctor's voice contradicted Thatcher's belief. Thatcher found a level of comfortably with Dr. Fjaskar that he never saw in anyone else. Thatcher turned to face the doctor. This man deserved his due of attention. Thatcher nervously opened his mouth to speak.
"I was fifteen at the time. I remember I didn't have much of a choice for my elective courses on account that I couldn't make up my mind. I had no drive, no interest and, most of all, no friends. I hung around the outside of the school, I felt... Scabbed-over. It was like I was An immigrant, fresh off the boat... Except instead of having no belongings, I had no dreams. No Push. No... Mind..."
Thatcher paused for quite some time. He had just opened himself up more than he ever had to anyone, to a man he had never met. Dr. Fjaskar finished scrawling i his tumbler and asked a very deep question.
"So... When did the drugs come in?"
Thatcher's heart stopped and an icy, sharp feeling swelled across his figure. Thatcher paused for a seeming eternity before answering.
"About a week after registration. I got in with a group of crazy hippie kids and they showed me a world of enlightenment through substance. We never called it "Dropping acid" or "slinging E", we called it "Enlightenment through substance,"
Thatcher felt naked after explaining, divulging what the last six years of his life was like. He had nothing to hide behind anymore. The doctor frantically scrambled to smush everything into one page. There was an awkward silence that felt endless. No patient had ever been that open with Dr. Fjaskar before. The doctor poured over the diagnostic the Attorney had given him earlier. He asked another question.
"After experiencing these changes, did your ambitions change?"
Thatcher felt more confident about his past suddenly, as he slowly sat up and said
"I began to see life differently, I found my destiny through substance, I became more loving and open to most things! but..."
Dr. Fjaskar dropped his pen and his eyes met Thatcher's.
"But?" The Doctor inquired
"...I became addicted." thatcher admitted, his voice cracking, like a dam that sprung a leak, now pouring years of regret, "my many loves and passions becoming pipe dreams with every door that slammed in my face."
Tears were welling in Thatcher's eyes. Dr. Fjaskar felt a familiar burden on his shoulders. He didn't want to destroy Thatcher's mental threshold, but the hurting was mandatory for the healing to begin.
"What did you end up doing?" the Doctor asked, his voice leaded with reluctance.
"I became crushed, working a full-time, souless job, in order to fulfill my disgusting habit, When it became too much I-..."
Thatcher stopped. As if there were a rock in his throat. Tears were almost cascading down his face, but his expression remained neutral.
"You... What?" The Doctor asked, knowing full-well he was steadfastly disintegrating Thatcher.
"I resorted to a life of crime!" Thatcher burst out. "I lied, cheated, stole, beat all to fuel the blackened husk of what I had become!"
Thatcher dropped to his knees, crying deeply. He had fully realized what had happened. Dr. Fjaskar closed his tumbler. "Now the healing can begin," he said.
Dr. Fjaskar saw a rebirth for Thatcher. It would take time, but this dried husk of a man would live again and rise from the ashes, living out his dreams.
...Can anyone believe i got 100% on that?