Script

Chapter 2: Empty Images

"A psychiatrist is someone who analyzes your thoughts, dreams, and emotions. Basically, I'm a member of your audience and you are the storyteller. So talk, tell me anything."

"I was in a coma," I blurted out not really thinking but acting on rash impulses. "I was in a coma for thirteen years and I grew up in my dreams. Now, I'm living with a mother I don't know and memories that are only empty images to these people."

"I can see that," the man mumbled as he checked over my information sheet before quickly jotting down some of the thing that I said. He looked up at me expectantly and in wonder. "Tell me more about this dreamscope of yours."

"It was...nice. It was home. I lived in the palace with my father, we were housed in the north tower. The scribe's tower. My father, Arley, was the royal scribe. I lived alongside the prince and the princess and the knights' sons and daughters."

"You do understand that you're describing a world of such similarity to that of the world in the King Arthur tales?" he questioned and looked back up at me with a look of curiosity and amusement. A look of genuine interest in my apparent non-existing life.

"Yes, that's what my mother says, Sandi, thats her name. At least that was what she told me that one time I tried to explain to her what I went through when I was in a coma. " I explained, my tone a bit dissappointed that my own mother wouldn't listen to what I had to tell her, "She also told me that my father used to read me fairy-tales. Of kings and queens, princes and princesses, of knights and peasants, of my world."

He nodded and we sat in silence for a bit. A tolerable silence that would've been unbearable had it not been of the calming effect the room had on me. I leaned back against the couch, letting it suck me in into it's soft hold and gentle caress. This place was unnerving yet soothing. Jagged yet curved. Crowed still lonely. I needed someoned, or something. I closed my eyes, trying to conjure an image of my past, of him, but nothing came to mind immediatly.

I shifted my neck to it's upright position to face Dr. Fitzgerald again. And once more he had an unreadable expression etched upon his well-aged face. I could tell he'd been a very handsome young man, like the knights back at home. With their sharp jawlines and their chiseled faces, the wrinkles and light hair only seemed to add a sense of wisdom and expirience. He had a slight salt-and-pepper stubble linging his face and a messy array of black locks streaked with grey in some areas. His eyes were a soft hazel and his aura emitted empathy and kindness.

He rested his head in his hand that was supported by the armrest. I looked at him in earnest, waiting for the next question, or statment.

"Can I ask you something?" he said, not louder than something more than a whisper.

I swallowed and nodded. "Yes. By all means."

"What was the first thing you remember? From your world I mean."

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I was four. The first thing I remember from that world, I was four. I was four and I was in the librabry. I was four and I was in the library sitting on my father's lap while he read to me. And that was the first thing I can say that I fully remember. The tall musty library walls encasing me and my father in a warm embrace as he read the stories of knights and their valor. Of princes that were frogs, of forbidden romances between a peasant and a royal.

These stories were perhaps the solid foundation of my life. As was my father. The gentle man. He was tall and lanky, his brown-blonde hair straight and messy with small roads of grey paving through them. The slight stubble left on his jaw beacuse he forgot to shave for a few days; he was always wrapped up in his work. The wrinkly state of his dressings and the soft smile he wore, everything about him screamed gentle man.