Script

Chapter 2: Empty Images

2: Empty Images

There are times in your life when you're completely alone, lonely enough that only your memories of not being alone can suffice for the companionship you so desire. This is that time of life for me. You see, I'm not saying I'm not grateful for the efforts put forth by my...mother, I'm just stating that even though I may be surrounded by people, I don't really belong. Not amongst these fast-paced, imploring people. Not amongst the concrete monsters with glass eyes. No amongst the crowds of silver, white, black, green, yellow cars. No. I don't belong. So for me, my memories were the only thing I had to keep me not so alone as I felt.

Imagine my despair when the doctor told me my memories weren't real. They were figments of dreams that I had when I was asleep. They weren't supposed to make me feel so strongly. To him, the only words to describe my memories, empty images.

After I'd fallen unconscious in the car, I'd awoken to the slight drip of water from the cloth on my forehead. Sandi's brow was furrowed with concern and her eyes were slightly red from what I presume was crying. She smiled softly at me from the chair next to the guest-bed.

"Hey," she sniffled, "how're you feeling?"

"I'm fine," I croaked weakly pulling myself up so I could lean against my elbows, "how long have I been out for?"

"Two hours," she replied numbly, stroking my hair that was slightly wet from the dripping washcloth. "I don't think it's a good idea to go places for a little while. But-uh-you have to see a psychiatrist every week so...the doctor said for you to eat a lot more. You're way underweight, and not in a good way either. The extra food should help you with your energy and..."

I zoned out. Sandi kept rambling on and on until I  interruppted. "Can I have some water please? My throat feels inexpicably dry."

She nodded before hurrying off into the kitchen to fetch me a cup of cold water. I sat up slowly. Sandi came back in the room with the water and some crackers.

"Saltines should fill your stomach, and it's bland too so your stomach can accept it pretty well. Anything else to make you feel better?"

"No thank you Sandi, thanks for this," I held up the cracker box in one hand and the water in the other as if to show her what I was thankful for. I took a sip of the water, welcoming the wetness it offered to my parched throat. I took a cracker out and looked at it, examined it. It was this off-white color that had small salt crystals stuck to it. I brought it up to my nose, smelling it. It had no scent. No differentiating  taste either. Sandi was right when she said it was bland.

"Anything happen in your sleep?" Sandi pressed further. "Anything to explain why you have this distant longing look on your face?"

"Nothing, not really. I just miss my old life."

It was a lie. I had had a dream. A flash-back really.

---{}---{}---{}---

"So Leyla," the black-haired man announced as he closed the door to the oddly calming room. "I'm Dr.  Jon Fitzgerald. I'm your psychiatrist. Call me Jon, Dr., Fitzy, anything you choose."

His smile was friendly and his stance was gentle. He motioned for me with his hand to take a seat on the soft green couch. I sat hesitantly  and looked back up only to find him sitting across from me in a large leather chair. He had a notepad on his left knee and a pen in his right hand.

"So," I started, "what in the king's name is a psychiatrist?"

He laughed for a second, thinking that I was just joking with him, but then he looked at my face. I in all seriousness had asked him an honest question.