Young Writers Society

Something was amiss. Dan could conclude as much as he sat amongst the quiet of his room, having just seen a patient out. He wasn't sure what to make of his day thus far, but it left him with a vague comprehension that something was wrong.

It started with Elaine early that morning after the two had finished breakfast. He noticed she was intending to leave for work without her crutches and this stirred up an argument between them. She claimed to have had lost her crutches, which left Dan searching all throughout the house to find them. He knew she hadn't really lost them, but had merely hidden them, and Dan's assumption was confirmed after locating the crutches in the laundry room behind the dryer.

This occurrence caused the couple to be late for their consecutive jobs. Dan looked obviously hurried when he arrived to his office that morning with unbrushed dirty blond wisps sticking up in all directions and an unshaven face. Even so, he had been confident the rest of the day would flow smoothly.

Dan uneasily stood from his seat and walked across the room to peak out the door and across the hall. He couldn't help but stand there, certain Weston would shortly emerge in happy clamor, but nothing happened. He knocked lightly at Weston's door, probably too much so, for he could hear music wafting from the room even at a few feet's distance. There was no sound of movement from inside, and in realizing he hadn't once seen Weston's room before, Dan opened the door some and peaked in. When Weston noticed he had company he jolted upward in his seat, lowering the book he was reading (which Dan thought typical to be Lindsay's novel) and following that he quickly removed his glasses, rubbing the arm of his suit across his eyes. In his mind, Dan was willing to dismiss this incident as Weston's (possibly nonexistent) allergies acting up, but Weston immediately shakily confessed "Sorry, this part really gets to me—" and returned to rub his tears away. "Every time, every single time!"

Dan entered, glancing about the room. It was the same general layout as his, yet Weston had set his desk facing the door, as opposed to Dan's desk which sat facing its side. There was a large blue couch that sat across the room and a few chairs behind it. Everything seemed quite normal aside from the edge of Weston's desk, which was littered with all sorts of small toys and knick-knacks. The speakers next to his computer were lulling a melancholic tune, and Dan noticed Weston hastily minimizing Facebook.

"What's with all this?" Dan picked up one of the toys.

"Oh, those, well," Weston returned his glasses to cover his eyes and reached over, lowering the volume of his music to a soft whimper. "I know kids find this kinda atmosphere a little less threatening if I've got all these on my desk."

"Haven't had the chance to test that theory?"

Weston stirred uncomfortably. "Ah, don't remind me! Parents are picky about therapists for their kids!"

After successfully locating his bookmark, Weston placed the book aside and watched Dan fiddle with the toys around his desk. The lines that normally frequented his stressful brow had disappeared, and instead he wore a grin that was barely existent. Weston, who still thought it abnormal to see Dan smiling in the smallest, waited some time before finally questioning his presence.

"Anyway, not to interrupt, but I assume you need something?"

He quickly returned the toys to Weston's desk, hiding his amusement as he wracked his mind for an answer.

'Well, you didn't greet me this morning, so I thought I'd...'

Not a chance! The honest truth may not bide well, especially with Weston involved. How about...

"Well, I needed that textbook back, so I thought I'd drop by..."

Perfect!

"Oh, is that all?" Weston's features relaxed from their distressed contort and he opened a drawer of his desk, digging about it as he laughed. The inside of his desk didn't look nearly as organized as his desk top. "I was sorta worried something had happened! I mean, you came in late and you've got the hobo hair going on—where did I put that—"

"Christ! Is it that bad?" Dan patted his hair down but it did no good. "I didn't get the chance to brush it after I washed it and now it's gone mad."

"Woke up late today?"

"I wish! Elaine must find some sort of amusement in watching me search the house after she hides her damned crutches."

"Why would she hide them?"

"She's awful about it! She really hates using them, so she tries to get away without them but there's no way I'd let her just—the doctor specifically said she's got to—"

"Found it!" Weston held up the textbook. "Why does she hate them so much anyway?"

"Ah, great." Dan took the textbook without appearing much relieved Weston had located it. "She says they're hard to walk with and I can't disagree there, but she's got a similar issue with her pain medicine. Refuses to take it, and I can't even begin to understand—"

"She refuses to take meds for a femoral fracture? I've heard those are rough to deal with..."

"It's pretty damn bad, yeah. She'll probably need some kind of surgery soon, we're looking into it. How did you know it was a femoral fracture?"

"Err, well I came across a few news articles..." Weston turned to face his computer, eyes glimmering curiously, alit as he opened one of the articles he'd found. "To be honest, I didn't know anything about this accident. Seems like it was a pretty popular subject around here at the time. I went to school out of state, so this is news to me."

Weston clicked onto a few other articles without noticing Dan had moved closer to the desk, anxiously eyeing the screen. The accident had been news worthy at the time it happened, and the reporters continuously emphasized that the culprit who caused the accident had fled—something viewed as considerately immoral. Weston couldn't agree more.

"...And the bastard fled the scene, how cold hearted can someone be? He should be in jail, not out roaming around until he crashes into yet another helpless victim!"

Dan could find no words himself, his thoughts scrambled as if in a whirlpool. He was facing his own frustrations from the initial aftermath, and Weston's rant only sounded like hundreds of others that were his own. Dan's intense anger towards the man who had fled had died down significantly, but in times he was reminded it was reignited, and this time Weston's rant served as the gasoline.

When Weston finally looked Dan's way, he saw him as he had only once before—pale, a little bit clammy, and appearing uneasy. He thought to shut his fat trap then, and stood to approach his ill-at-ease friend, carrying a soothing air. "Hey, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to, I—"

Dan backed away from Weston. "Oh, no. No, I'm fine, it's fine."

He paused as he was asked, only a few feet from where Dan had backed away to and agreed cheerily. "Right, fine!"

"Yeah, I'm alright..." he replied solemnly, rubbing his eyes with the top of his hand. "Just a little…dizzy."

Weston returned to his desk as if Dan's panic hadn't happened and reached over to his speakers, turning the volume up so that the music surrounded them. "Hear this? What do you think?"

"Erm...."

"Doesn't it sound just like the book?" Weston had already closed the articles and had reopened Facebook. "Just listen to the lyrics. It's like it was based on Lindsay's book, don't you think?"

Dan tried to listen. The alternative ballad blared, stinging his eardrums. Atop of the distress he felt, he knew he couldn't honestly make a correlation. He listened regardless, and the song became off-putting as a faint ringing began to play during the chorus. He assumed it part of the song, but soon Weston had shut the music off, making it obvious that it was merely his phone begging to be answered.

Weston apologized for having to stop the song at the best part before swiping the phone up to his ear.

"Weston Moore speaking...Oh, Dan? He's right here." he glanced up. "...Sure thing, I'll send him out. I've gotta ask, though, are you still wearing that cute little—what? ...Flirting, really? Me? I would never!" Weston laughed and lowered the phone, covering the receiver. "Sorry, the secretary is saying Dr. Simmons is here for you in the lobby."

As Dan left the room, he could hear Weston continue on with the secretary, and when he arrived in the lobby he saw her looking flustered and slightly irritated, unable to hang up on Weston. Dan reached over, pressing her call to an end. She looked onto him thankfully.

"Where's Dr. Simmons?" he asked her.

"I saw her go back outside—I suppose she may have left."

Dan knew she hadn't, however. When he wandered out the door, cold enticing his dry skin, he saw her standing with her back against the wall, under the sign for his office. Her gaze was fixed ahead, and Dan caught sight of her inhaling a lit cigarette before she noticed him in the least. Carly tried to hide that she had one lit, lowering her arm so that it was out of sight.

"And I thought you stopped smoking those a while back—shame," Dan's hazel eyes were traced with disapproval, lips parted in a small grin, entertained by his friend's predictability.

"One won't hurt." Carly shrugged and took in more of the intoxicating smoke as Dan arrived by her side, pockets aiding him in protecting his frozen hands. She wore a grave expression, contradicting the appeal the sun gave to her dark skin. He immediately recognized that something was wrong, even from a distance. "One's enough, actually. Did you have a fight with your daughter again?"

"Sort of."

"She's at a rough age, huh?"

"She's barely 13 and it's already a catastrophe."

Dan chuckled and silence followed it. Carly Simmons didn't appear entirely present, her eyes thoughtfully zoned out at the street where her place of employment sat. There hung white, tattered clouds glimmering across the sky like soft icicles across the ocean-top. The sun sat lingering patiently behind bundles of clouds, waiting for the time it seemed to adore most wherein it could bask upon human skins below. The scene helped ease Dan's cluttered feelings of anger and anxiety, and like Carly, he appeared much more relieved after appreciating the outside world that faced them.

"I love the view from your place," she commented, taking in another whiff of smoke. "My place doesn't have nearly the same appeal—strange what the difference of a street can do."

When he didn't reply to this, she struck forward another topic. "Everyone's talking about how your Moore guy tore Colin a new one. Made him look like a pretty big idiot, so I hear."

"Huh?"

"What, you don't know?" Carly laughed. "He went off on Colin for hitting on Elaine—poor thing, does she really need Colin all over her whenever he sees her? And then Moore accused him of being jealous of you, which is pretty much spot on."

Dan heaved a sigh, concluding the situation to be the root of Elaine's sour attitude. "Great, I guess I can hate Colin more than ever now."

"Just avoid the little shit. I don't understand how he managed to be one of the head psychiatrist's at my place while being a prick who's accomplished next to nothing..." she looked to Dan and slowly eyed him over. She pointed to the textbook he had tucked under his arm, which he'd earlier retrieved from Weston. After asking him what it was and receiving an awkward slew of stutters as an answer, she reached over and snatched the book from his possession. He let loose another sigh as she flicked her cigarette to the ground and opened the textbook to flip through it at high speed. "I knew you had more of these filled out. How many of these have you filled to the brim?"

"Dunno."

"You've got enough notes in this to fill out a couple research books."

"I suppose so."

"Alright, I get it. You don't want to publish more. But how about a research paper?"

He scratched his thinning scalp, irritated then by those who were so frequently insisting he submit something. No matter what he said, they'd always be back to question the matter again and again. Dan was certain Carly could read his frustration well, and it must have been so, for she dropped the subject and brought forth a new one. "How's your new patient?"

"Ah," he was more cooperative of this topic. "She's an interesting one."

"I'll say. I saw her in the parking lot on my way over here, actually—the lot beside your place." Carly pointed. "I take it her session's today?"

A slight frown fell upon his ragged, unshaved face. He had been partially expecting such an incident, and yet his expression still bestowed a sort of indifferent surprise. He sauntered off, leaving Carly behind holding up his textbook, announcing her intention to borrow his notes.

After rounding the corner to reach the vacant parking lot to the side of his building, he saw Lindsay Roland pacing in place. She would take a few steps forward, and then turn heel to tread the same path backwards, nibbling at the end of her sleeve. She wore a green turtle-neck shirt that was so baggy, it fit as if a gown and flattened any features she possessed, making her appear like a stick all the way down. Her legs were covered by thin black stockings, and she wore the same ratty, torn sneakers he had seen her in the week previous.

When Lindsay saw Dan approaching, she started a little, and the first thing that came to him about her reaction was that she resembled a squirrel.

"Oh, hello..." Stopping her pace, she greeted him slowly. Her limp blonde hair was shorter than the week previous, now only an inch or so past her chin—had she cut it? Her bangs were trimmed to flutter gently above eyebrows that rounded her golden lashes. Up close it was easy to see that she'd dressed pleasantly than the worn outfit she'd thrown on to attend therapy before. Dan jumped to the only conclusion he could make based on her outfit and questioned "Are you here to see Weston?"

She turned a slight bit pink. "No—no, I'm here for our session."

"Nearly two hours early?"

She tinted an even deeper pink and returned to apprehensively bite her sleeve, beginning her pace once more as she disregarded Dan's existence. There was nearly a minute of her nervous pacing before her thin, pale lips opened to falter out an apology.

"I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have lied about his name—I was afraid you'd know him since he started majoring psychology after he gave up on writing—hell, he switched school's completely to go to some fancy school out of state!" Lindsay paused her back-and-forth pace, facing Dan as her distress dribbled away, replaced by unmoving irritation. "And it turns out he works with you here, hell! I knew he'd return to his hometown—this disgusting place where you can't even breathe right, let alone—"

"Woah, slow down there. I don't even have my notepad out."

Lindsay giggled at his joke, tucking a bit of her hair behind her ear as she looked down to her feet. "I suppose he's mentioned me?"

"All the time. Are you planning to kiss and make up?"

"He's not with someone else?"

"Doesn't seem that way, though he's been nagging the secretary all day about the skirt she's wearing."

She smiled, and dimples adorned the ivory skin around her lips. "That's just like him."

He led her inside and she was grateful as the heat of the lobby drowned the cold from her icy hands and cheeks. With each step closer to their destination they took, Lindsay reluctantly walked slower. Dan opened Weston's door without knocking, interrupting his phone call in the process. When Lindsay edged into the room past Dan who generously held the door, Weston's phone call fell down several levels in priority. He let the person on the other end continue to ramble as he locked eyes with Lindsay's. Within seconds he was swiftly ending his call.

"Sorry sir, but can I get back to you another time? ...No, that's fine, tomorrow will work!"

Dan smirked before leaving, and the sound of the door shutting behind her confirmed that she was alone with her ex-lover. Weston spent a few short minutes trying to end his phone call while slicking his hair to perfection—his patient had too much to say to let the call die. These minutes ached Lindsay's insides and felt like hours.

When the call finally ended, Weston saw his adoration still standing across the room near the door, fumbling to open a very creased rectangle of paper. His smile faded upon noticing that as she successfully unfolded her letter, it was several pages in length. She began to recite its content without providing eye contact to her single, wary audience member.

"Dear Wes...I know it's been years, and I have a lot to say to you. I was surprised to see you so suddenly last week, and after it happened I knew I had to tell you how I really felt. I wasn't—"

"What's all this supposed to be?"

She blushed, tips of the letter lowering to semi-reveal her annoyed expression. "Shit, Wes, let me finish."

"Oh, fine. But at least come a little closer, I can barely make you out from all the way over there."

There was no doubt that this caused her to become unnerved, but she moved closer until Weston was satisfied, which left her directly in front of his desk. She avoided his dark-irises and their striking gaze awaiting her to look onwards to him with equal appreciation. She didn't meet his eyes, as difficult as this was being mere feet from his face, and instead she turned eye back down to her virgin white letter that embodied her curly handwriting.

She was nearing the end of the first page when he leaned forward and snatched it away. This was when she finally met his eyes, glaring profusely as she grabbed the page back from him. He wrenched it back from her a second time moments later, an arrogant smile crossing his face.

"You're such a child!" she shouted. "Give it back and let me finish!"

He held it far from her. "Come off it, I hear enough of these garbage letters in my sessions every day. I don't need you doing it too."

"Give it back!"

"It'll cost you a kiss."

"It's not funny Wes! Give it back, I mean it!"

"I mean it too!"

"I'm not kissing you, asshole!"

"Why the hell not?"

She frowned as she folded the letter back to its original rectangular state, tossing it aside on his desk. "Listen, I'm trying to tell you that I'm not sure getting together again is a good idea."

"Not a good—? You really don't think so?"

Lindsay was incapable of answering. The duration of her morning—no, of her entire week she had been letting the question arise amongst her daily thoughts, unable to come to a reasonable conclusion.

In recognizing the inner turmoil that boasted her tensed expression, Weston struck forth a plan. He suggested that instead of jumping into things so quickly they should at least have a date together. Saturday would be the best day, he said this with certainty.

"Just one date, alright Wes?"

"Works for me!"

She scribbled down her phone number, ignoring Weston's persistent requests that they ought to at least hug. Finally she leaned in and kissed his cheek, leaving him more than content. She swept away before he could steal a kiss in return and left the room to spend her remaining time in the lobby.

When Dan appeared an hour later to begin their session, Lindsay was buried in yet another novel and there was a pile of surveys in her lap. He was quite happy that she'd filled them all out and not a blank answer box remained. They entered his room and began the session.

For at least 30 minutes the session went smoothly. Dan thought her more intelligent than most of his other patients, and this attribute alone made her the most refreshing aspect of his job. In the back of his mind he was debating searching for more of her kind as opposed to boring, irksome couples that wanted therapy.

That session she spoke of her job at a local cafe which she despised. Having to wait on customers all day who were anything but thankful was exhausting. After briefly speaking of Weston the discussion took a hard turn and she began to discuss her nightmares.

These visions were vivid. How often, she confessed, she was plagued by dreams of grotesque nature. It was the same dream that haunted her constantly; the same she had mentioned during their previous session, and yet occasionally details within the dream would morph.

He assumed this to be different bouts of grief she possessed, altering to display themselves in her dreams as her guilt heightened. She went into great detail about her dream's odd evolution.

It started out the same. She was alone, running through darkness, unsure what she was running from. Then there was that same earsplitting bang that Lindsay still described as the sound of a bullet, and all she could see in front of her was the body of a man

Her dream did not startle him at first. He was used to hearing patients' dreams, and he'd heard many violent descriptions of dreams in the time he'd been working as a therapist. Regardless, this one left him disturbed.

The body of the man in her dream was mutilated. His skull was snapped away from the layer above his brain and the excess bone remained hanging as if on a hinge. The man's face was swollen, his nose partially cracked and his bottom lip busted. Some bone around his eye had been slammed inward, no likely disabling his eye-socket from proper functioning. Along with several broken teeth, sideways and accompanied by a mouthful of blood, the damage to his face made him unrecognizable to Lindsay.

Dan's handwriting grew somewhat unsteady as his notes trailed onwards. He felt his heart rate become erratic and his vision corrupted by a veil of grey. His face fell into his hand as he attempted to ward off his tainted emotions. Lindsay became quiet, waiting uncertainly

It was impossible for him to fight it any longer. His time had come, and he was dying. But no! He couldn't die! It was more than his wife's reaction that overwhelmed him, but his own. To his disbelief, his mind was fretting through all he had yet to do with his life thus far, even though he normally wished his life to be over. His unconscious mind was letting it all leak to his consciousness. He wanted to be respected amongst his peers, he wanted to publish more of his work; he wanted to see Elaine happy, and he wanted another child. But now that he was dying, none of it would matter. There was the sound of Lindsay's raspy voice, tone lowered in concern, words muffled to his ears. The grey that fogged his vision became vicious until he could see nothing but blackness.