#its like hm. today i will think about how paul doesnt remember half of his life but is still haunted by the events that took place there

[fiendishartist2]

she's gonna be a lot like me; but i don't wanna be at all like me- petscop

Once again, Paul finds himself in a waiting room. The room is quiet, but filled with the low murmur of anxious ambience; mothers kill time by tapping aimlessly on their phones, patients waiting to be called shuffle and tap their feet impatiently, the man at the front desk clicks the keys on his keyboard, on and off, as he fills out paperwork. In the corner of the room, a clock on the wall ticks.

The longer Paul stared at his shoes– how readily they met the carpet, laying flat against the ground– a horrible twisting in his chest began. His heart started to beat just slightly to the left; lungs trapped underneath it as his breath grew shallow.

Paul felt the anxious energy, eyes glued to the carpet. It is coarse and green with pinpricks of blue sewn in. He scrapes his old sneakers against the carpet, adding to the noise. It’s a soothing action. Spurred on by his own boredom, Paul tapped his feet and the thick clomp it makes is disconcerting, like the sound of running barefoot on grass.

Paul should not be this tall. He should not fill the chair like he does. The quiet ambience should be louder, obtrusive; office workers click away at their keyboards, children chase each other through the halls, squealing all the way. A paper shredder bursts to life across the room, teachers walk through brusquely without a word of acknowledgement, adults chat and laugh above him. He stared at his feet, hands pulled close in his lap, clutching a thin children’s book. Paul’s feet dangle past the lip of a faded red chair, lifeless. The sight of pink sneakers, scuffed and stained green and brown, makes tears spring to his eyes. They’re ruined. She ruined them, made them disgusting and ugly and it’s all her fault.

The door separating the waiting room from the rest of his therapist’s office creaked open. A nicely dressed woman with a wide smile stood in the doorway.

“Paul? Paul Leskowitz?”

“Um- that’s me.” Paul answered. He rose from his chair slowly as the unfamiliar woman beckoned him. Fog swirled in his head and obscured his memory.

She nodded, smiling again, “Come on through then.”

Paul followed her through the hall. It’s somewhat uncomfortable; not quite small enough to squeeze, but claustrophobic all the same. He would hate to pass by another person in there.

They came upon a door, painted a warm yellow. It stood out against the sterile white walls of the rest of the place. Although, he supposed it matched the eclectic blue and green carpet of the waiting room. On the door was a plaque, engraved with the name “Dr. Patricia Miller” and below it, “Psychotherapist”. The name didn't spark any recognition, but her title did. Paul is often taken out of class to see a counsellor, so he must be having another session.

Dr. Miller held open the door for Paul, motioning him to sit. There’s a long, grey couch on one end of the room, facing an armchair. A neatly folded blanket hangs over the back, covering half of the couch. Paul sat on the other end, but worries one of the blanket’s tassels between his fingers. It’s soft and fuzzy; Paul was grateful for something to look at while Dr. Miller got herself sorted.

“So, how are you today–” she checked a paper in her clipboard, “Paul?”

He was struck by the silence in the room and almost felt too awkward to speak.

“Uh-” Paul started, voice reedy with disuse. He cleared his throat before trying again, “Sorry, where am I?”

Embarrassment flooded him when Dr. Miller’s eyebrows rose. Paul knew he should remember the significance of this place, but right now he was drawing a blank. Dr. Miller’s laugh-lined face and curly auburn hair didn’t strike him as significant and neither did the softly lit office he found himself in.

Still, she recovered from her surprise quickly. Her features softened to a look of gentle concern.

“I’m your new therapist. You booked this appointment last Friday, I believe. Here, I can give you…” She drew out the last syllable, rummaging around in the purse sat by her feet. Dr. Miller procured a small card and handed it across the coffee table separating them.

Paul breathed a sigh of relief when he read the information on Dr. Miller’s business card. Recognition sparked at the long address of the “ClearView Wellness Center”; Belle texted him multiple times over the past week with the location, even calling him this morning to make sure he got there without any issue. Ironically, the issues started after he had already arrived.

Dr. Miller uncapped a pen, holding it poised to write on her clipboard, “Don’t worry about this, by the way,” she said, kindly, “I only take notes to better understand you and your situation. Anything you say will not leave this room and I will be the only person reading these.”

He nodded wordlessly.

She started simple, “Do you often forget your surroundings?”

He met her expectant gaze, before shifting back to the blanket. Paul cleared his throat again.

“Um- sometimes, yeah. I guess.” He bit the inside of his cheek, “It uh- it used to happen a lot, I think, but it kinda stopped after I left highschool.”

She nodded, taking a moment to scribble down a few notes. As she wrote, she asked her next question.

“Does it still happen to you or do you believe it’s fully gone away?”

He shifted uncomfortably. The blanket is pilling.

“It- I think it’s back, kinda?”

She looked up at him, “What do you mean by that?”

Paul couldn’t answer. His jaw was locked around the words he couldn’t articulate. Nothing was trapped in his throat, he just– didn’t know what to say to that. Dr. Miller let the question hang between them for a minute before changing her trajectory.

“Is there a reason for this behaviour?” She posed clinically, “Any sort of strenuous situation or pent up stress?”

Anna was waiting for him at her house. He left abruptly last Thursday, after his latest session with the game left him drained and afraid of… whatever unseen threat lurked behind his screen, surely. Paul chastised himself for forgetting what exactly it was, but Belle understood. She hadn’t let him answer Anna’s incessant calls and encouraged him to talk to someone– even a one-off appointment like this– to mitigate his stress. Still, his hands itched for the controller and he’s sure he’ll be back in that horrible house sooner or later. The family knows how to break someone down like that.

“There’s a um…” He said, voice crackling. He knew he couldn't mention the game, but he wanted to talk to her, no matter how discomforting this place is.

“My–” How does he explain to her who Anna is to him? She’s not his mother, not anymore. He decided to start somewhere else, “I cut ties with my blood relatives a long time ago, but I uh- I- I’m talking to them again. Um, I’m actually partially living with my biological mother.”

Before Dr. Miller can cut in, Paul elaborated, “I don’t know if I really want to be there? I don’t– I don’t want to be there.”

“Why is that?”

Paul paused, deliberating. He knows why– the family is awful and he doesn’t like them. But, articulating that is difficult. His head hurts.

“I think um…” He shifted, slouching over to pick at his hands, “I think it’s making me paranoid.”

Scratching pen on paper fills the room. When it stopped, Dr. Miller gave him a reassuring smile.

“It’s easy to feel intimidated when in an unfamiliar situation, especially when your relationship with whoever you’re living with is strained. What do you feel makes you paranoid at your biological mother’s house?”

Paul swallowed thickly.

“I don’t… uh- I don’t really know? I just feel like- like something is waiting for me there.”

“Waiting for you? Is it something physically waiting or a kind of negative interaction?”

“Both? I don’t like talking to Anna, but I’m not um- afraid of her, or anything. Being there just makes me get all… jumpy and- and irritable, I guess. Sometimes…” He trailed off. Part of him didn’t want to put words to this particular fear– it was irrational and fleeting. Saying it out loud gave it merit.

“It’s alright, you can continue.” She encouraged.

Paul drew in a deep breath, “Sometimes I… when I have trouble sleeping, it feels like something bad is going to happen. It’s not as bad in the daytime, but I just- I don’t like sleeping at her house.”

Dr. Miller nodded, “Do you feel like this all the time or only at Anna’s house?”

“Recently, it’s just been at Anna’s. I remember being a really light sleeper as a kid, but uh- that’s really it. I stopped being afraid of the dark a while ago.” Paul tried at a joke, laughing weakly to fill the empty air. Dr. Miller spared him a pity smile.

“Right. You said you don’t like talking to Anna, why is that? Is it related to why you don’t speak with her anymore?”

Cold sweat beaded on Paul’s forehead, in stark contrast to the red-hot spark of anxiety under his skin.

“I- I don’t know.”

“… You don’t know?”

Paul’s hands tightened in his lap.

“I don’t- I mean, she’s overbearing and intrusive and I get- I get kinda um…” He drew his shoulders, “I feel weird when she’s around. She– and the whole family, I guess– they’re uh- they’re dismissive. And she’s really emotional. I feel like I need to make her feel better when I’m there, but I don’t really know her?”

Dr. Miller looked up at him quizzically.

“We left when I was a kid. I don’t really remember why anymore, just that um- my- my mom– sorry, my adoptive mom, Lina– she took me away to live with her and my sister, Belle. There was family drama, or something like that…” He refuses to think about the game and it’s fucked up story– it’s not real, just the backwards revenge plot of a distant relative in his backwards family. It doesn’t mean anything.

“Do you know what that drama was?” She asked simply.

Paul didn’t answer.

“Was there perhaps an incident where your mother felt the need to remove you from Anna’s care? Any sort of mistreatment or neglect that–”

Paul drifted out of the conversation and into another. The consistent rumbling of Lina’s new car on gravel road drowned out the dulcet tones of Dr. Miller. They hit a bump and jumped a few inches above their seats, squealing all the way down. Glitzy pop music streamed through the speakers and Lina turned it up loud enough to hear over Belle’s singing. Paul joined in, quieter than Belle, always quieter– but singing along nonetheless. He dug his fingers into the thin plastic bag in his lap, watching it warp around his tiny fingers. It’s filled to bursting with his belongings, but gives easily. When he pulled away, he noticed the angry red cuts trailing up from her fingertips to the backs of her hands. They hit another bump, and this time she screamed.

“-aul, are you okay? Paul? Can you hear me?”

A woman with aged olive skin and copper hair is leaning towards him across a low table. She must be important, because she is dressed in a crisp blouse and slacks. The woman’s face is contorted into a thin-lipped smile. Paul felt sick.

“I’m sorry- I- I need to make- I need to call someone. Ex-excuse me.”