Oh-boy....someone hasn't written anything decent in a while...
eh?
Well...
I hope this makes up for it.
The streets were ghostly quiet, surprisingly lonely, and disturbingly distraught. Only litter stirred there, shifting uneasily in the wind, while the sky was as pale and mild as a newborn.
It was cold, too.
The wind was only the tiniest of breaths, as though the voice of its bearer had weakened, but for some reason it had chosen to be icy and piercing today. There was no snow to admire, thought the doctor bitterly, as he fumbled with the frozen key between numb fingers. All around him dark buildings sprouted as dominant as any mountains, sporting leering, shiny faces. Many of them were skyscrapers. He always hated how they stared down at him angrily with a myriad of glittering windows. Each one could hide a face, a witness. Not that he was doing anything wrong of course; he just liked to be secretive. Finally, the key found its place as it turned perfectly in the lock with a subtle creak and Doctor Crombie entered the building at last.
This particular building was much like all the others around it. A gargantuan great block, like a dark tower, was embedded deep in the ground and it was filled with thousands of office-like rooms. Some offices were minuscule, others occupying entire floors. The doctor’s room, was at the very top of the building, and counted as one of the largest there. Luckily for the doctor, there was an elevator.
This was always the way, thought the doctor. He held his briefcase tightly; he was always enthusiastic, but he was weary too. He was always here, before a single soul stirred, ascending in the elevator to meet patients’ needs. His patients were strange, unpredictable folk, and even he had never counted their numbers. It was because of these patients that he had not got much sleep as of late, what with all the forwarding of appointments, which was rather deteriorating on a man of sixty-eight. Soon, he was in his room, placing his briefcase on the table and tearing his gloves off. He adjusted the light. After he set the windows, he gathered a pen, a paintbrush, and a piece of paper. Then he was fixing the chair, a velvet recliner where the last patient had rested, and he was all but ready.
He looked once around the room, for atmosphere was everything in this sort of job, and then, content with it, he sat down on his leather chair and opened his logbook. Doctor Crombie was a rather tall man, and it left an impression on most people. His eyes were deep set and dark, ringed by withered creases, and his skin was like papyrus, emphasizing the dusty plain grey of his hair. Mostly, it was his voice that would be remembered. The doctor had been gifted with a powerful and soothing voice that seemed to shake the very air. It was reassuring, like a gentle giant, but always in control. With a voice like that, coupled with his vast intellect, the doctor could have gone far, but he was content in his work. No one could replace him, and he was quite certain that without him the patients would be rather 'different', which meant the world would be 'different’ for neither better nor worse.
The pages of his logbook crackled like dead leaves as he turned them, and Crombie wondered, certainly not for the first time, if his work had any impact on his well being, his opinion, and his sanity. He flashed a lonesome and quite rare smirk. Yes, that would be ironic; perhaps the cure imbues the curse. Thoughtfully, he arrived at the present day’s page, and took a while gazing at it.
Date: September 15, 2005
Room: Six
Time: 1:30 pm. --Moved forward to 5:20 pm.
Duration: Three hours plus.
Patient: Mr. Jack Leer.
Session no: Twelve
Notes:
-Item confiscated 06/05/05, considered detrimental to patient in several ways.
-Tread carefully, use subtlety, eye contact.
-Amber, book, painting, cat, jellybeans, weapons, Loki?
-Paintbrush?
-Remove dangerous and/or provocative objects.
Yes, Leer. He was one of his more colourful patients and surely the most fascinating. The doctor was always exactly twenty minutes early, for atmosphere of course, and Jack was always exactly seven minutes late, for, perhaps, the same effect. The doctor sat there pondering silently for a while, mostly in the dark as the only lights were the bright ones in the center of the room. They rested right above the recliner, and, for all their clairvoyance, only illuminated the seat just below them. It gave the rest of the room a sickly glow.
Mr. Leer arrived, and he was greeted at exactly five twenty seven. He quite promptly seated in the velvet chair, and lay back, silent at first. In mere minutes, however, the patient would turn from a quiet, introverted man to a vivaciously outgoing specimen. Doctor Crombie paced around him, taking notes with paper and pen, and occasionally taking up his paintbrush.
“Well, Mr. Leer. It's been a while. Have we had any....progress?” asked the Doctor, his voice lurking in the air for some time after he spoke. Jack had in fact closed his eyes, and he hastily opened them and looked almost innocently at the doctor.
“None what-so-ever. In fact, it has worsened.”
“Ahh...”
The doctor held back a sigh. He knew exactly what troubled the man, but he wished to be subtle, and so he began to discuss the more generic problems that Mr. Leer suffered from.
“How is your painting then?” he ventured.
“It's changed. Dramatically, in fact, it seems that when my mood changes, the focus also changes, so it's almost like two paintings, on one canvas...”
Jack had a calm, yet strangely smooth way of talking that was often betrayed by his unemotional, tortoise like behavior. He may have seemed unnerved in voice, but his body language and expressions seemed to tell a different tale.
“Is that so? Fascinating,” the doctor drawled, making a quick note, and once more tried to avoid 'that' topic.
“Is the cat eating again?”
“I assume so. It's possibly the only creature alive that can abide me, other than you doctor, but you're quite non-conforming, more of a wraith than a man.”
On saying this, Jack turned and smiled, which under the effect of the light, had quite a startling effect. Jack was one of the youngest of his patients, still in his early twenties, yet still, perhaps, the most troubled. The main problem was that he didn't immediately strike a person as odd. He was a tall, well built person with a perfectly ordinary dress sense, and polite enough mannerisms. The most disarming and indeed misleading feature of Mr. Leer, however, was that he was also, in fact, quite handsome. He had pale delicate features, angled dark hair, and piercing green eyes that seemed to dominate his entire person. He was consistently witty and clever despite his introverted and antisocial nature, and he had a large sum of money and achievements to his name. All things considered, he was a man who had had a considerable amount of luck in the world, and yet, the doctor had rarely encountered a man so wretched, so insecure. This man struggled more to understand himself than he did others.
“The book, Mr.Leer, what of the book?”
“I finished it; actually...I simply can't find it.”
The difficulty with Jack was that he treasured information almost jealously, and it was a dire struggle to get him to part with it. However, there was a topic the doctor could easily speak of which had nothing to do with his much larger, darker problem.
“Are things well with Amber, then?” asked the Doctor, putting all his cunning and guile into his voice.
“Well...”
Jack seemed to float into a dream at the question, choosing to look at the lights rather than the doctor. The lights themselves were an odd feature, weighing heavily in the center of the room. An opening had been made in the ceiling, a sort of cavernous dome that lay above that vital chair, and in it sputtered pale lights. Most were yellow and white colours that cast their brilliance on that particular patient. And, again, most patients reeled from the light, as though trying and failing to avoid it, and so, the doctor often found he had to turn them off beforehand.
But Jack...he seemed to welcome the light, almost as though he was reaching out to it.
As the doctor watched him now, he was perfectly still, his hands resting on his chest and his hair about his face. The tiniest of smirks was escaping from his lips, but his eyes...they seemed to be moving at a pace too quick for the old doctor to mark, as if Jack had spotted a thousand drifting shadows, and was trying to watch each one. The light seemed to spill into his eyes instead of anywhere else, and as the doctor watched, it looked as if a shadowy wraith had lain before him. It was wreathed in darkness, save for two glowing, green eyes that were fixed to the heavens. They never blinked, constantly moved, and appeared to be unbreakable. Yet, they were somewhat tainted, and held just the tiniest hint of a pale smile. This is different, the doctor told himself, and that was all. It was not wicked, nor angelic, just simply different.
“Jack?” asked the doctor, his own voice seeming to echo endlessly in oblivion.
“She's fine, really. I don't see her often. I've became too...unpredictable, you see. Things have to change. I still love her, though, if that counts for anything...”
The spell seemed to have broken and Jack had returned to the same attitude as before. The Doctor dimmed the lights a little, and noted that the smile had vanished.
“Yes, I see.”
The paintbrush was drawn again. There was silence for a while, both men seemingly deep in thought. The Doctor continued painting, but he didn't speak of it, for he was a firm believer in patience. Jack, however, soon became restless. One minute he was smiling at the lights, and the next he was sitting up to looking out the window to the vast, great city. Morning seemed to be brewing.
Several minutes had passed when suddenly Jack’s expression changed. His body tensed as though he was suddenly aware of something being both threatening and close. The doctor instantly marked this, but he pretended not to notice, even as Jack slowly stood up, a wicked intent and a sort of fear in his eyes. Jack didn’t, however, pay any attention to the doctor; rather, he crept to the corner of the room, where a small, very old clock was ticking in an almost arrhythmic way. He began to study it, as though it might attack him at any moment. Then, he began to murmur something, as though he was chanting, and he spoke softly. The doctor could just barely make out the words and what he could hear left him somewhat disturbed.
“Tick...tock...tick...tock...”
The doctor did his best to ignore his patient, and he succeeded for a full ten seconds. Suddenly, Jack snatched the little clock in both hands and viciously began to bash it off the wall.
“MR LEER!” shouted the doctor, mostly in frustration.
Jack leapt a foot back in shock, and dropped the clock on the ground, suddenly looking quiet and harmless again, if a little afraid.
“I'm...I'm sorry doctor... I-I can’t stand to be imitated...” he whimpered, and his voice was like a tiny breeze passing through the boughs of an old tree. The doctor raised a single eyebrow, and then returned to his work, watching Jack out of the corner of his eye. The patient crept back into his chair as though he was treading on thin ice. The doctor couldn't resist a smile. He was purposefully ignoring Jack now, knowing all too well that his erratic behavior would only increase, and thus the window into his psyche would be just a bit wider.
It seemed that, for at least a little while, that Jack had calmed down. Indeed, the doctor was rewarded with an entire seven minutes of silence, and he fed on the creativity of it. When he heard a tiny little sound that reminded him of the clicking and turning of gears, he frowned. It seemed as if it came from some sort of device. It was not a completely alien sound, simply one he wasn't expecting.
“Jack.....” sighed the Doctor heavily, as he gently sat his page face down on the desk and turned to stare at his patient. Jack, who was not content with simply sitting like a normal person might, had begun to fiddle with the chair’s mechanism. It was a little machine on the underside which allowed the chair to turn around with a flick of the switch. It appeared that Jack had broken that switch, for the chair was now in a constantly slow spin, emitting a soothing, droning sound. Jack was standing on the chair, his head just below those brilliant lights, and he seemed much more imposing from such a height. His arms lay outstretched like some sort of sublimely mad angel, and his eyes sparkled like fractured gems above a crooked and glittering smile. He rotated slowly, not just bathing in the light, but absorbing it, accepting it, mastering it.
“They were wrong.”
It was all he said in a quiet, yet suggestive voice. He tipped his head back, and closed his eyes like some sort of unearthly parasite feeding on light itself.
“Pardon, Mr. Leer?” asked the doctor, half fascinated, half irritated.
“The people...a lot of them were wrong.” Jack laughed a sort of humming, closed mouth laugh that reinforced his wide smile.
“I daresay they were! Wrong about what, Jack?” the doctor’s voice showed genuine confusion, he sincerely wished Jack would open his eyes, yet he was unsure why. Jack opened his mouth fully and, as though relishing it, emitted a faint 'Ha!’. His eyes remained closed, and his pose did not change.
“They say, doctor...that...it's a struggle...an ongoing struggle between two things....the light, and the dark... don't they?”
The Doctor nodded, just as the rotation brought Jack’s face to view, and he repressed a shiver.
“They were wrong. It's not a battle. It’s slaughter. …a little fading hope against an unquenchable thirst…’
Jack’s body began to rake with laughter at the revelation, ‘Yes! Light can never last! It's fleeting, doctor! It’s just a little spark, powered by an energy that can never last for an eternity. Electricity, candles, explosions, the sun! They all die eventually, but darkness never dies. It just keeps going, waiting, watching, and as soon as the light weakens, it pounces! Darkness is a constant, doctor. Light is a variable. Doctor, they were wrong.”
The Doctor paused for exactly twelve seconds considering this, and then, without warning, the lights flickered off. The rotating stopped, and Jack let himself fall back, like a fell demon in descent. He landed on the chair, arms still reaching and clawing at the shadows, and he laid his head back over the edge of the chair so that he was staring at the doctor from upside down.
“The question is, Doctor Crombie: Do we mock it? Do we laugh at the pitiful attempts of the light? Or, do we embrace it? Enjoy the splendor while it lasts?”
The Doctor found himself smiling, which worried him.
“That...that is not a question that I can answer, Mr. Leer, nor would I try.”
Jack sighed deeply and replied, “Yes, I thought as much.”
Silence.
Then, as if forgetting the conversation, the pale white smile returned, and he asked, “And how are you Doctor Crombie? Is all well with you?”
The Doctor, who had been sitting on his desk, rose calmly, yet wearily, and walked to the window, his steps piercing the shadows.
“In my work, Mr. Leer, I've become very familiar with the works of Freud. You know that, yes?”
Jack nodded slowly, as if he was being tested somehow.
The doctor seemed, for once in his life, uncomfortable, and he gripped his pen firmly, his eyes starting to show a restrained pity.
“And he said, quite simply and truthfully, that it is impossible for a man like me, in medical profession, to treat those in love...”
Here he stopped, and locked eyes with Jack, burnt out grey coals, refracting off the startling green.
“Or the mad.”
Jack’s smile seemed to widen to frightening proportions, “Well, I think you can be the judge of that, doctor. Am I either of those things?”
The doctor looked to the lights, which seemed to have faded back on somehow.
“Mr. Leer, I'm afraid you're quite mad...”
Then, he was mournfully silent. Jack, however, simply laughed; it was a spirited and almost musical laugh.
“Oh no, doctor. I don't think that’s it. I'm not mad. I'm simply...very, very sane!”
The Doctor’s tired eyes seemed to sum up his thoughts on the matter.
“Really?” he asked, humoring the young man, yet taking notes all the same.
“Yes, really. I simply see sense, where people only see mess, disorder, chaos and... When I see, what they call 'sense', I see only disorganization, stupidity, procrastination, fear, and, of course...injustice. That often depends on my ‘mood’, as we might call it.”
The doctor, it seemed, was fighting a losing battle, and it was near impossible to avoid Mr. Leer's 'other' problem. Curing patients was a delicate operation, like digging a precious, yet fragile gem from beneath solid, useless rock. He had to be cautious; slowly chipping away at the rock or the simple problems until, over time, the gem was unearthed and revealed in all its glory, untainted. Only then would Mr. Leer be cured. Despite his subtlety outside this room, however, Jack was incredibly to the point inside it. He wanted to speak about the one true ailment he had.
“In what mood, Mr. Leer?” asked the Doctor, finally giving in.
“Isn't that obvious, dear Doctor?” Jack merrily replied, “Certainly not the one I'm in now. We have talked about this. “
The doctor sat down at his desk with a rueful face. Looking his full sixty-eight years in the dimmed light, he put aside his notepad, pen, and tiny paintbrush.
“I see. Do...do you wish to talk about it, Jack?”
The young man simply looked at him with mock innocence, and it was clear he was rather smug at getting his own way.
“Very well then Mr. Leer, let us talk about your condition. Let us talk about Loki.”
Jack turned his chair around and faced the doctor, his expression half smiling and half frowning. It was rather strange how the introverted reacted to treatment. At first, they were quiet and timid, finding it incredibly difficult to speak of their problems. Then, slowly but surely, they would blossom, opening up bit by bit, until Doctor Crombie had a perfect view of inside their head. It was not always pretty. Mr. Leer, however, seemed to be stuck halfway.
One minute he was patient and thoughtful, and the next he was leaping around the room, breaking things at random. He had had worse patients, reflected the doctor, so he simply dealt with it, in his usual, adamant way.
“Well. It is exactly one week since I last heard of you, Mr. Leer. How many 'fits' have you had since then?”
“A fit?” scoffed Jack, “Not the word I'd choose, Crombie, but I've had around... well... two or three every week... each one much the same as the next.”
The doctor bowed his head like an ancient monk. “Then they have increased, yes? Rather dramatically?”
“Indeed. Some days... some days I'm more Loki than Jack. I risked a great deal coming here, Crombie. It's come to the fact that I don't trust myself...”
The Doctor went to pick up his pen, before deciding against it, and instead he shook his grey head wearily and said, “The human mind is perhaps the most deceptive device in the universe, Jack. You are wise to see that.”
“Oh, I'm not bothered, Crombie. It’s rather... ‘interesting’.”
That certainly caught the doctor off guard. He even took a few seconds to think of an appropriate response. He was worried, something that he never participated in.
“Then... then you no longer fear it?”
The dawn was rising slowly, attempting to break a second horizon, and the block of generic apartments were not far from the window. Only half the morning shone through the window, and so only half of Jack's face was illuminated. It gave him a lopsided and distorted appearance.
“I never feared myself, Crombie. I just feared what I might do...when I’m not myself.”
The doctor fought to organize his own thoughts as he stared at Jack. His thoughts were raging at a fierce pace, birthing a flawless plot with every second that passed, and within moments he had made up his overcrowded mind.
“Very well. Start from the beginning, Mr. Leer, from the very beginning.”
Jack laughed mockingly, a rich almost poisonous laugh, “But Doctor? Have you forgotten?”
The doctor's brow became a tangle of wrinkles as he frowned deeply.
“I do not forget, Mr. Leer. It will however help us both, if you fully describe things.
Not only will I achieve a vast insight into your true feelings on the matter, but you will certainly feel somewhat ‘purified’ if you empty those feelings from the recesses of your mind.”
Jack brushed his hair from his face casually, and sighed mournfully. Once he had flashed a half hearted smile to the ceiling, he began.
“The beginning, oh the beginning. It makes sense that a tale should be opened at the start. Well, I suppose it really began when I was still quite young... around eleven, I'd say.
At that tender age, I was finally beginning to truly understand the world, and the things in it, but what I really wanted to understand, beyond any schooling or lessons, was myself.
At first, it seemed easy: I would simply find a mirror, like the old one in my father’s study, and everyday I'd sit in front of it, cross legged, and stare. Yes, I would simply stare at my own reflection, peering, pouring, and searching for a hint or a clue. I’d hope for even a tiny little gesture that might reveal a soul, or a spirit, or a mindset. Anything that gave me a view of a part of myself so I could understand.
“I did this every so often, because I knew secretly and selfishly that if I kept looking then one day I'd find it. One day I'd find the little spark, the little hidden light that I saw so clearly in everyone else that explained them in a perfect and simplistic manner. I kept looking.
“My mother worried about that, I think, and she seemed to think the mirror scared me, but she had the wrong idea. It was only confusing, like fear, or blindness to something, yet it was not fear.
“So my mother tried to find things for me to do, and her attempts were not in vain.
I began to concentrate under her guidance on a great many other things: my school, nature of other children, and lessons. I was especially interested in science, which, of course, affected me deeply throughout the years with its objective and all seeing logic.
“Around that time, I wasn't just leaving childhood. I was leaving that phase of terribly inaccurate perceptions that so many humans never shed, which sees the world as great, big, woven mystery, a majestic coil that we can never comprehend. It created a world of magic and spirits, where thoughts and feelings became solid and real.
“Yes, Crombie, too many see the world that way; they see it as a concept, a little blessing designed solely for them. But it isn't, is it, doctor? It's a machine; a roaring great contraption of flames and steel that just keeps going, feeding, burning, and if we study and preserve it, we see it for what it really is: a single, simplistic motion. It’s like clockwork: stunning, fascinating, but overall in vain. Ha....”
Jack's mind seemed to have wandered off, and as his eyes began to shine. His expression softened, as though he was about to fall into a deep enchanted sleep.
“Mr. Leer, you are deviating again...” exasperatedly murmured the doctor, cautious but sure. The smile flickered back once more, as quickly as breath may vanish on a frosty window.
“Oh, yes. I'm rather an expert at deviating, aren't I? So, where was I?”
In fact. I like the whole thing overall. I got a little bit lost during the conversation, but that is probably just me.
Points: 794
Reviews: 280
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