Kill Your Darlings

Chapter 1 - Umbrellas are for losers.

There is a young girl sitting on the loveseat, picking at her painted nails. A nervous habit. You watch as the polish chips and fall against her lips, but refrain from telling her about it. The last time you did, she threw a fit.

You're looking past your last patient to the clock above her head. Two more minutes. She has said little to you during this session—or any other session, for the matter—but she still comes in anyway.

She’s too young to be sitting in that chair, you think. She should be out with people her age watching movies, shopping, partying, or even dating. She shouldn’t be sitting in your office, lining chewed nails on the coffee table like grotesque artwork. It’s almost unfair. Anger stirs in your heart, so you stop thinking about it.

The girl rises from the seat abruptly, grabbing her worn out backpack. “Think we can cut it early today?” she asks you. There is a slight trace of panic in her voice.

“Is something wrong, Amber?”

“No, nothing’s wrong.” She’s already moving to the door, causing you to hurry after her. “It’s just...I need to go home now.”

“Would you like to talk about it first? I think that would help.”

A small smile teases her lips, but she covers her face with her hair before it slips. “Don’t worry; I’ll be fine. I’ll call you if anythin’.”

“Please do.”

She leaves then, and you are left alone in your office. You stand at the doorway for a moment, savouring the sweet silence. There are few moments nowadays for you to do so. It seems as if the entire town is falling into the gloom, and they all rely on you to pull them out.

But who will help you?

You get behind your desk to work on patient files, eager to stop the thoughts running through the alleys of your mind. David has night terrors. Halcion or Restoril? And what about Anna? It seems like manic-depression...Zoloft for her? Seroquil, Prozac, Celexa...

The words on the pages blur your eyes for minutes, hours—just enough time to feel the threat of a migraine at the corners of your brain. After a long while, you decide to take a break, reclining in your chair and looking at the clock. It’s midnight.

Spinning in your office chair, you take in the town drowning in darkness. There isn’t much to look at other than one or two drunken men professing love songs in the night sky. A flash of lightning startles you, painting your office stark white for less than a millisecond. Once the low rumble of thunder kicks in, you spot something—or rather, someone—in the darkness.

It almost looks like...a boy?

The silhouette frightens you to the point that you jump to your feet, shoving files haphazardly into the leather briefcase by your desk. You slip on your spring coat and grab the umbrella from under your desk, racing out the office door with fear controlling your feet.

It cannot be Spencer. Or can it? You haven’t seen the young boy for several weeks now. He quit coming to your door with no warning or hints to his future whereabouts. Once the worry became hard to ignore, you asked around town about him. Spencer Crest? There ain’t no Spencer Crest ‘round here, was usually the answer you got.

You don’t want to think of him as a liar, but you know that would be the most sensible explanation. He seems like the lying type; a silver tongue bastard that can smile his way through anything. Half of the things he confessed during your meetings were probably made up.

Your minds met head-on, one deranged while the other struggled to stay sane in its midst. During that time, all you could do was keep chasing after him because he was always running. Running, spinning, and jumping to his own tune and ignoring everyone else’s, forcing everyone else to want to find his beat as well. He was a madman, a delirious soul that continued dashing towards nothing in particular. At least, nothing you could see.