Time After Time

6

I shift uncomfortably at the sound of my full name. “Alistair is fine.”

Seifert’s head is still turned to me, and I awkwardly direct my own towards the ground. “Please don’t smoke, Mister Beaufort. You’re going to stink up my room.”

Even though there’s no point and he can’t see me anyway, I glare at him. “Well I can just leave this room and go smoke because no offense, Doc, but I’d rather go out and have a good smoke than have some therapy session or whatever.”

The therapist sighs. “Predictable. Your mother did say you would present some…attitude problems.”

“Yeah, well, she wasn’t lying.”

Seifert nods, absently petting Seven’s head. “Now will you just toss that cigarette out?”

“No.”

He sighs. “The rebellious spirit of our youth,” he says, more to himself than me.

“Like you weren’t like me when you were young.”

“I wasn’t. No one liked me,” he replies, pointing two fingers at his eyes. “You need accomplices if you want to be bad.”

I take a long drag of my cigarette. “With all due respect, I’m not a bad person, Dr. Seifert.”

The therapist gives a small, weary smile. “We’ll just have to find out if that’s true, won’t we? That’s the only good thing about being blind, I guess,” he sighs again, “That I cannot judge with my eyes, only this.” He taps his left temple gently.

“Don’t say you haven’t made assumptions early on.”

“I won’t lie to you, Mister Beaufort, but I have,” he answers, “Your mother told me a lot of things.”

“My mom did, huh.”

Seifert raises an eyebrow. “I’m assuming the relationship between you and your mother…?”

“Yeah, it isn’t that great,” I say rather bluntly, eyes narrowing, “It never has been, anyway.”

His words are suddenly slow, careful, meticulous. What, did mom feed him some more horseshit about my so-called fucking “explosive anger problems”? My eyebrows furrow, and I stick the cigarette back into my mouth, taking a good draw. It calms me down a little, as the cigarettes always do. “Even… before that… incident with your…father?”

At the mention of my father, I’m suddenly up and out of my seat. The plush chair I had been reclining on is drawn back across the tiled floor with a loud squeal of complaint. Hearing that, Seifert rises to his feet as well. Even Seven’s changed from his sitting position to a standing one, ready to go as soon as his fucking owner says so.

The man’s smiling. Smiling. “Ah, so we’ve hit a nerve.”

We weren’t just having some idle conversation after all. He was just reaching, searching, looking for some place to hold on to. Someplace he could get me at, to unnerve me, just like he had said. No wonder. No—fucking—wonder. He probably requested for my mom to write up some biography or crap about me so he would know every single thing there is to know about me. My mom didn’t volunteer the info on her own. That much I know.

My voice shaking a little—the thought of Dad’s still got me—I say to Seifert, “With all due respect, doc, you don’t know fucking shit about me. Me or my dad.”

“Now, Mister Beaufort,” he begins calmly, “I know that you and your father were as close as you could get, but what he did was completely and utterly his own fault—”

“No!” I shout, so loudly and with such a forceful tone that I can hear Seven whimper at the sound. I ignore the dog though. I couldn’t care less, in this moment, about some dog. I just don’t want to hear anymore of this about Dad. “It wasn’t his fault. It was yours. People like you, all educated pricks and know-it-alls, telling him what to do and why this and that happens and shit. It was all their wrongdoings. Dad didn’t bring it upon himself. The only ones who are to blame are all—you—arrogant—smartass—little—fucks!”

For the first time in the entire session, Seifert looks taken aback by my sudden outburst. I feel a bit smug seeing his expression. If—if!—I’m ever forced to come back, I should just resort to shouting. That should shut him up. The man doesn’t know a damn, he doesn’t know crap. I try to stare him down, even though he doesn’t know we’re having a fucking stare-down. Still, neither of us divert our attention from each other, until after a full minute of silence, he slowly sits back down. Ha.

Sick of this already, I say wearily, “Sorry about that. I need to cool down. Lemme go to the restrooms for a sec.”

Seifert nods. “Very well. Ask my assistant outside for the keys.”

Not waiting a single second, I leave the room, slamming the door behind me loudly—on purpose, throwing my hood back on so it covers most of my face while I’m at it. But when I reach the front desk, I just stick my Marlboro in my mouth, shove my hands into my pockets and storm out, head down, without asking for the keys to the restroom. I can’t believe the doc fell for it.

The elevators take too long, and, not wanting to stay in this fucking building any longer than I have to, I walk all the way to the end of the hall and run down the stairs. I throw out my cigarette along the way. Then I continue on my way home, without even stopping to think that maybe—just maybe—that arrogant little fuck of a therapist is right.

Present

“Dr. Seifert’s offices called,” Mom says with a pinched, angry face. She stomps over to the answering machine. I tentatively follow her, at a five-feet distance. I watch as her finger literally stabs the fucking play button.

“One new message. Tuesday, five fifteen p.m.,” the machine says in a monotone. Then there’s a soft whir and the message plays.

“Hello, this is Maria Benitez from Dr. Seifert’s office calling,” a smooth female voice says, “I’d just like to report that Mister Alistair Ryan Beaufort, whose therapy session was scheduled at four thirty p.m. today, did in fact appear at the session. However, at approximately four fifty five he requested to go to the restrooms and was granted permission, though he did not return. Nonetheless, Dr. Seifert wishes to see Mister Beaufort next Tuesday at the same time as scheduled today. If any one of Mister Beaufort’s guardians can respond to this message, please call me as soon as possible at eight six—”

My mother presses the stop button and looks at me, arms crossed tightly over her chest, eyes flashing. Oh fuck, she’s real pissed.

“Alistair Ryan Beaufort,” she says, “Explain that.”

Oh fuck.

*~*~*~*

A/N: Might seem like a boring chapter, but the therapist man will play an important role in Alistair's story... 

I hate to sound immature, but I can't look at the word "therapist" without thinking "the rapist'....

Starting on Monday, I'll only have weekly updates from now on, since spring break's gonna be over -.-

Dedicated to Tithi, because she's my bitch. I miss you so much xxxxx

And...ciao~ xx