Therapists called the children fruits and distributed them into groups; good fruits and bad fruits. They were set to find what each fruit tasted like and why, with each result a dollar success rewarded. I used to like phsychological studies, always wanted to be a therapist. Things changed when I happened to be the one sitting on the other chair.
He looked at me with calculating eyes and asked questions which boggled my mind. My story was quite plain and simple; Mommy died and I couldn't bring her back. I took Dad's gun and killed the monster underneath my bed, which now lived inside of my head. This therapist though, was out to drive me mad. He kept asking stupid questions such as, 'What is she to you?' or 'What is your relationship like with her?'
I frowned, confused and slightly agitated, said that "Mommy is Mommy, she's my mother. Check my birth certificate. I see you have it in your brief case"
He nodded and scribbled on his sheet of notes. Mr Therapist asked another one of his many idiotic questions. "Do you love her?"
I sighed out the very same answer I did on our first meeting. "She is my mother. I love her"
As time passed by, I dreaded the days spent with him. His gaze had the disturbing effect of making me jump out of my skin. It was completely clear he didn't care about my answers, although he did claim to care about my well-being.
Later on I started to cry about my worries. I cried about what that monster did to Mommy, what it did to me. I vented how my Dad wasn't there for us when we needed him the most and how the monster should've taken him instead of my mother. Then I wondered in between sobs, what sort of things he wrote in his fat note book. Every stroke of his ball pen, matched every beat of emotions spilled from my heart.
He nodded about this and nodded about that. "Do you miss her?"
I glared at him and imagined various ways of popping his sockets out. He stared back at me and didn't even flinch!!
He asked another question. "Would you like to see her again?"
The monster inside of my head bombarded my brain, it fought to be released. Why did he keep referring to Mommy as her?? She has a name. She's Mommy. Not her.
My hands cupped my burning face as I tried to calm myself down, so it wouldn't come out. It scared me. I shouldn't have killed it. I should've left it there and pretended to have never seen it. Dr Therapist scribbled down more notes.
"When will this end?" I already knew the answer to that but I had to ask. I couldn't take it anymore.
Tired eyes filled with blind judgement stared back at me before he answered. "When I am done helping you"
He clicked his tongue in annoyance before he repeated his previous question with more demand and a heavy frustrating sigh.
I told him the truth.
Told him. "No. I never want to see her again"
For the first time ever, he looked at me. Really looked at me and not just another assumed-to-be-mentally-unstable-individual. Dr Therapist stretched towards me and offered a tissue to wipe my tears.
"Will you walk through it again with me? That night, what did you see?" His voice sounded genuinely concerned as he pulled my hands in his.
When I didn't say anything but stared at him in surpise, he hesitated for a second before he urged on. "Only if you want to"
It felt thrilling despite the situation. I wished to be noticed. I wished to be taken seriously. I needed someone to talk to who'd really listen. That monster haunted me by day and night. I was sick of it. I needed someone to help me get rid of it. I needed a good friend.
"It killed us, it ruined everything." My voice was hoarse and croaky.
The face of the intruder who killed my mother flashed inside of my head. As if it was only yesterday, I could still feel it's cold hand grabbing my ankle before it pulled me under.
Dr Therapist soothed me out of my thoughts then nodded for me to continue. I was going to tell him until I caught a quick glance at his notes. He had written 'Study 1: Invalid subject, no progress. Experiment to proceed to stage 4. Noted** Patient unstable, inject white sedative level 6'
The monster inside of me decided to spare me the trouble and introduced himself. The Doctor's pen, the pen that scribbled non-stop and drummed my mind to madness ended his notes. With a quick swift, slice of dried gullet. I stood up and gently pulled out the bloody pen from the Shrink's throat.
The door opened. Dad extended his hand to me and I took it, leaving the room painted in red.
