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Trust me, it gets even more disturbing. :)
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Enjoy! _____________________________________________________________________________ “Aaliya, can you call Yasmeen, please? She’s really late.” I looked up, Eggo stuck in my mouth, another one poised to find a spot before I could make room for it. Mum stood in between the kitchen counter and the stove, alternating back and forth between wrapping lunches and cooking dinner for tonight. “Mmmf!” A painful swallow and I was free for air. “Yasmeen! Hurry up, Mr. Hardin’s going to drop your grade if you’re late again.” I stuffed my face with the Eggo then. My job was done. Warm Eggos felt so good on a cold day like today. I loved the feel of them, like crunchy hot chocolate. “Coming, coming! Geez! You know, you’re lucky you don’t have him. Hardin’s a jerk. No, really, Mum, you should see this guy. Bald, fat, old, rude. I’m surprised he’s got a girlfriend!” Backpack and coat already on, she came in to the room hopping on one foot while trying to put her sock on the other. “I mean, you’d think he’d understand what kind of reputation he makes for himself. He’s the drama professor for crying out loud!” One of her hands constantly moved away from her task to tuck the single purple section of hair away from her face. She’d dyed it herself two months ago but it still looked as loud as it had that first day. Mum turned towards her, eyebrows scrunched together, disapproving words already spilling from her eyes, her mouth prepped to scold her. They made eye contact for a moment. Then, Yasmeen finally lost her balance and toppled over. Eggo spewed from my mouth and Mum needed to grip the counter for support, she laughed so hard. Yasmeen didn’t even try to get up, she just lay there, rolling on the floor, laughing. “Good Morning, ladies! What’s going on?” Papa walked in wearing his Harvard sweats. His writing sweats. Eggo still confiscating my mouth, I opted to point at Yasmeen on the floor instead. I grinned up at him from the table and there was a second bout of laughter, this time they all looked at me. “Chocolate. Here,” Yasmeen pointed at her own teeth in between laughs. Oh great. The chocolate chips must have gotten smeared all over my braces. I licked them. Mmmmm! Chocolate is definitely God’s underappreciated miracle gift. I smacked my lips animatedly, paused for effect, and took a gulp of milk. “Hahaha—Shoot! I really am going to be late. Well, I better get going. Love you guys. Peace out!” And with that, Yasmeen left us. Mum would be next. “Alright Tariq, Aaliya, be good!” She wiped her hands on her apron, hung it up, and placed the lid on the pot of dinner. “I’m off to work.” Papa and I waved her goodbye in the spring sun until she was out of the garage and had turned onto the next street. Our lawn, I noticed, glowed bright green and drops of dew, like gems of sunlight, stuck to the grass. We went back inside. “Can I…” “Hm? Oh! Do you want to watch me write?” I nodded. “Alright, then! Let’s go into my room.” We entered his study at the back of the house. It was bright, painted in pale blues and golds. It always felt like morning in here. Smiling, I breathed in deeply, the clean smell of fresh air filling me up like a helium balloon. Papa made his way to his desk, I to the bookshelf. Plucking out a book, I settled in near the bay window across from him. Art history books were my favorite, all the colors were so pretty and the objects in the images were so weird at times. I enjoyed staring at the abstract paintings just because no matter how many times I looked at them, I always found something new to stare at. Papa shuffled a bit, pulling my attention from the book. He seemed to be uncomfortable with something in his writing. Starring at him for a while, I noticed how old he’d gotten. He would be turning 40 next month. My Papa was getting old!? Waves of sadness licked at my heart. _____________________________________________________________________________ Happy New Year, everyone! With every new semester comes new responsibilities and with my 18 hour credit load this spring, I have changed my posting schedule to monthly updates. I hope to post every second Monday of the month, so please continue to check in on Young Literatus for my pieces. And now, for more of the story.
BIRTH _____________________________________________________________________________ I reached the edge of a lake. While catching my breath, I looked at the scenery around me. Everything was pretty white. The lake in front of me was still, a sheet of glass. The trees in the forest behind me were pretty bare. The blue sky was very far up and away. Hands on my hips, breathing through my cold nose now, I turned towards the lake again. A little girl sat at the water’s edge. She wore a bright pink skull cap with black mittens and a light pink puffer jacket around her, and she had the most piercing blue—or was that green?—eyes. “Be careful!” I called out to her, “It’s very cold in there”. She didn’t move an inch, just looked at me. Her eyes bore into mine and a visceral pain stabbed at my chest. It clenched down on me, tugged hard. My knees buckled under the sudden force and I hit the ground hard. A baby was crying somewhere far away. _____________________________________________________________________________ T-Plus 3 months: Lather. Rinse. Repeat. T-Plus 10 months: Too Early. Too Small. Small eyes. Flat face. Tiny defibrillator. Assisted oxygen. T-Plus 1 year: Safe. Home. Hello again, everyone! I hoped you all liked The Psychiatrist. If you have any comments or critiques to make on the story, please post them. The only way I see myself getting better is through your input. I will happily re-visit Psychiatrist if I come up with an interesting change or a rewriting of it. But for now, I am done with it and have moved on to a new story called Did I...? It is a story about three women dealing with the oddity and irrationality of guilt.
So, without further ado, Did I...?, Part 1: Running. First a slow jog, then gaining speed, trotting, now the wind blew against me as I ran. I ran for so long that my feet went numb. I couldn’t feel my face and my hands seemed frozen into fists. My eyes could hardly leave the ground for fear of slipping on the patches of ice that swallowed up little saplings and grass. I kept running. The cold, the hypnotic strides, the sound of crunching snow—I loved it. _____________________________________________________________________________ BEFORE T-Minus 27 months: Their eyes meet. Their fate is sealed. T-Minus 12 months: Tariq and Mariam marry. T-Minus 9 months: Conception. Another fate forms, this one in her belly. T-Minus 2 days: Pain. At first it is a dull pressure. Then comes the wetness. T-Minus 3 minutes: Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain. … Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain… BIRTH _____________________________________________________________________________ “Breathe in and out… very good. Iiiiiinn… and ouuuuuuuut”. The psychiatrist lay on his therapy couch, eyes closed, heavy arms to his sides. “Thaaaat’s it. Gooood. Empty your body, let your soul wander…” the tape-recorded words were followed by the sounds of waves pacing back and forth from the shore, back and forth, back and forth. A faint light gilded the window frame and the shadows receded from the psychiatrist’s face. A breeze came through and ruffled the window treatments, allowing the shadows to skitter over his face, back and forth, back and forth. The psychiatrist slept.
The smell of coffee and the sounds of two gossiping nurses woke him. He licked his lips to wet them. Slowly, he opened his eyes to let in his mural of a blazing orange setting sun haloed in violet skies. The red, dying rays spilled across the Tuscan colored desert floor and over one solitary hut. The chattering grew distant and the psychiatrist got off the couch, dusted and folded the throw he had swaddled himself up in and, after a deep breath, turned the couch to face the rest of his office. He grabbed a tube of Chapstick off the floor and rigorously applied it to his cracked lips. Brushing off his clothes, he looked at the scene once more. He would sit at his large desk and the patient would sit on the futon across from him, the mural creating a neat background for him to enjoy. The office’s sandy brown walls were bare except for the mural. He walked over to the only other piece of furniture in the room: an enormous, brown desk. The orange clock above his desk ticked on and his first patient of the day walked in. Mr. Faulk was wearing white. The psychiatrist hated white. “Hello…,” he looked at his chart, “Mr. Faulk. Have a seat.” *** Play the radio on the way back from work. Pick up Lucy and Kyle from school. Grab a dinner off the toaster oven top and pop it in. Turn on the TV while food heated and reheated a couple of times. Kiss the wife “welcome home” and leave for bed. Listen to the wife and kids eat the food he had warmed for himself many times over. Sleep. Wake up to the wife fussing as she climbs into bed. Get up and make breakfast for himself. Stare at his finally sleeping wife’s face. Leave for work. Listen to the taped sound of waves on repeat. Sleep on his office’s futon until opening time. Very few things disturbed his routine, and he didn’t know whether he liked that or not. His next appointment was a daily one. Harry and he too had a routine. “Hello, I’m Doctor Prufrock,” he sighed. He didn’t do this to hear his name and the word Doctor strung together. It was to avoid saying his name. Mr. Jollier-than-freaking-Saint-Nick would always call him psychic if he ‘guessed’ it correctly. Psychiatrist and psychics had two very different job descriptions. Plus, it was frustrating to hear the same joke over and over again. “Hello, Freddie! It’s a lovely day, isn’t it?” The psychiatrist flexed his hand, keeping it from balling up into a fist. Take a deep breath. It’s one half-hour session. Happy Pants stuck his hands in his pockets, and strolled along behind the psychiatrist as they made their way to the office. a bulky black bag swung loosely from his shoulder and he whistled the whole time. It’s just half an hour. They passed by the first two brown doors and came to a stop in front of one with an engraved nameplate ‘Fred Prufrock, M.D.’ across the front. The psychiatrist walked in first and invited the patient to sit on the large couch. “So, what can I do for you?” “Well, doctor, I need help remembering things. I am really bad at that.” “What can you remember of your life since our last meeting?” The patient shrugged, “Just your assignment, doc!” Fred breathed in a deep, arduous breath. “So, you’ve been recording your life’s happenings?” “Yup!” “Well then, let’s take a look. See if something clicks.” The psychiatrist pulled out his laptop, the patient turned on his camcorder. They attached the ends of the silver, glittering USB cable to their respective devices and were instantly linked. Together they watched the inner workings of the patient’s life. The psychiatrist watched the patient; he’d seen it all before. The patient watched the video like a documentary. There were no signs of recognition. Harry’s eyes actually glazed over with boredom every once in a while. How the hell could this guy not remember what he had done just last night? Fred wanted to slap him and yell ‘Pay attention!’ Deep breath, Fred. No need to get angry, just thank God you don’t have this problem. It must be so painful to—a spark! He’s recognized something! What was it? “I remember this…” Harry’s voice died out as he realized who the video had recorded. Fred turned back to the video, excited for a break through. A breeze caught in the window treatments of an open window and a light flicked on in the room next door. It was an office with a beautiful mural on the wall. The top bit of a sofa could be seen through the window as well. The camera turned to the room as a woman’s silhouette came into view. Her hands moved up and down in sharp gestures of distress. A man sat up on the sofa. He must have been lying down in the darkened room all along. Wanting to eavesdrop, Harry and the camera drew closer. “…denying it! They’re clearly not well, Fred. My God, do you even SEE us? Lucy is running herself sick; she’s turned into a rail, running mile after mile. And what about Kyle? I went into his room yesterday and he has paintings of children on slides at the park, but their dead. Every single painting has someone or something in pain or dead. Kyle has a proble—” Suddenly the psychiatrist slammed the lid of the laptop shut. His hands seared with pain as his nails dug into the skin of his palm, and his jaw clenched. The video was gone, but the audio continued and he stormed out of the room, carrying the laptop, camcorder, and voices with him. He was alone in the room now. Harry pulled up his legs and began rocking back and forth; looking at the door, then back at his shoes. The door, his shoes. Stupid, stupid, stupid. What would he do now? He pounded his head into his knees, he could have prevented this if he had just remembered! His head hurt. It hurt so badly! Make it go away, make it go away. But the painted sun’s rays stretched out around him and they wouldn’t let go. Fred stood quietly in the bathroom breathing deeply. What had just happened? Why had he stormed out of there like that? Harry would forget all of this! He couldn’t remember anything, for Chrissake! Every time Harry came over they had the exact same conversation. Right. He opened the laptop. The silhouetted woman was no longer a silhouette, hair splayed around her shoulders in brown waves, alabaster skin pressed up against the glass of the half-opened window. Her eyes were closed—clenched—and a shallow breath fogged the window under her delicate nose. She stayed motionless on the screen in her white dress like this, waiting. Fred rewound the tape and began recording over it. He recorded the wall of the bathroom, making sure to avoid the mirror. *** The door opened and the psychiatrist walked in. He handed the camera to the patient. The patient looked at him and asked, “What do I do with this?” “You are going to record every event in your life until we meet again tomorrow. Then we’ll watch it together and see if you recall any of it. If you do, we can try some drugs to help stimulate memory growth.” The psychiatristlooked at the patient. The patient nodded and got up. “Thank you, Doctor… I’m sorry, I’m terrible with names.” “Doctor Prufrock.” “Well, see you tomorrow.” He left the room. Both psychiatrist and patient avoided the subject of today’s meeting. One due to his condition, the other due to fear. The psychiatrist sat down at his desk again. He twisted the silver wedding band on his finger a few times, and then he picked up one of the ceramic figurines that lined the edge of his desk and played with it. It was a Buddha with his neck twisted around multiple times, his face grimacing with pain. The psychiatrist’s mulling went uninterrupted and the other blue and violet colored figurines, each one signed KP, sat as his only audience. *** He entered the house. White door. White hall. White tiles. White kitchen cabinets. Clear food packaging. Stainless steel toaster oven. Frosted glass dining table. Empty. Steel trash can. White couch. Black TV. On. “Welcome home, dear. I see you’ve had some therapy time. With friends I presume?” The door closed behind the wife. She wore a long-sleeved white maxi dress with a thick black line running down the left side. Big black sunglasses covered her eyes. Her large black sun hat hid the rest of her pale white face. Her long brown hair was tied tightly into a low bun at the nape of her neck. She held a book in the crook of one arm and a few shopping bags labeled Chanel and LV in the other. She walked into their bedroom without answering and put down the book and bags and came back out. “Take off your hat and sunglasses. You look ridiculous wearing those indoors.” She ignored him, moved to the fridge in utter silence, and grabbed a bowl of cherries from inside. She bit into one as she made her way to the dining table, dripping its sanguine juice on the white floor and staining her dress. He walked over and took one from her bowl. “How was your day?” he asked. Silence. “Mine was excellent. My patient made some progress, I think.” She stood up, and walked out of the house again, her half-eaten cherry left behind, its raw bruised pit exposed. *** The psychiatrist led the way to his office. “Harry, is it?” he sighed. The patient nodded up at him. The nod went unnoticed and silence filled the space between them. They passed by the first two brown doors and again, came to a stop in front of the one with the engraved nameplate ‘Fred Prufrock, M.D.’ across the front. The psychiatrist walked in first and stood in front of the desk, facing away from the patient. As he waited for Harry to settle in his eye traveled along the line of the desk and down one of the legs. Beautiful flowers ran the length of the leg, blooming at the top and dead at the foot. Aware of the shifting sounds coming from behind him, he asked, “Is this your first time?” Again, the patient nodded, again his actions went unnoticed. “Speak up!” Harry winced. Fred was facing him when he opened his eyes. Seeing this, he nodded again. He didn’t let a single sound slip from his lips yet they quivered with the words of disgust that were bound up in them. Thinking his silence peculiar, Fred walked toward the spooked patient. He took a deep breath, and walked forward in lurching movements. “Why are you here?” he asked. Getting no response, he stepped closer. “Why are you here?” Silence. He was almost at the patient’s side. “Why are you here?!” He brought his hand up to the patient’s face, made a fist—and slammed it against the wall, right next to Harry’s ear. The thin, metal band around his ring finger made impact with the wall first. Harry didn’t move. "Harry, do you remember our talk from last time?" He couldn’t have any doubts. He needed He couldn't let him know. He'd kill him, to know what Harry knew! Harry knew that now. There was no doubt in his mind after that punch. "How did you know my name? Are you a psychic or something? Oh God, the same lame jokes. Well, he has definitely forgotten. "Hello, Harry. I'm Doctor Prufrock.Your psychiatrist. It's a great day, isn't it? How're you doing?" He was out of that situation. Thank God. "I'm doing good, Doctor. Real good." "So, what are you doing here?" It was the same question as before. Was he still suspicious? "Well, doc. I can't remember things. I forget a lot." Let's get things running again. Deep He searched the doctor's face. breaths Fred, he's just really annoying again. Then, just for good measure, he decided to 'restart' again. "Hello, I'm Doctor Prufrock. How are you today? "I'm fine, but I hear those voices at night sometimes, they justify my claim. And the public don't twirl on my transmission cuz it wasn't televised. But it was a "Harry--" turning point. Oh, what a lonely night! Spaceman say's everybody loves you but it's all in your mind!" That's good enough. He stopped and stared at the despicable shit in front of him. Those weren't even the right lyrics... "Something you want to talk about?" "Nope." "Alright." The orange clock high above them ticked on and they 'restart'ed. As a thank you to all of you for coming back, checking in on this great site, and showing interest, Zahra and I have decided to release the fully completed The Psychiatrist fully revised and a masterpiece, I hope. Enjoy~
Hello everyone! I know many of you are checking back today to read The Psychiatrist Part 2 and I'm very happy you came back to read it! Unfortunately, it is finals week at the good old university and I'm swamped with my professors' last minute papers, quizzes, and exams. That is why I have asked the editors for an extra week. Things should be much calmer by Friday, so who knows? I may just update my page with Part 2 on Friday! I hope you will check back for the new part soon!
“Breathe in and out… very good. Iiiiiinn… and ouuuuuuuut”. The psychiatrist lay on his therapy couch, eyes closed, heavy arms to his sides. “Thaaaat’s it. Gooood. Empty your body, let your soul wander…” the tape recorded words were followed by the sounds of waves pacing indecisively back and forth from the shore, back and forth, back and forth. A faint light gilded the window frame and the shadows receded from the psychiatrist’s face. A breeze came through and ruffled the window treatments, allowing the shadows to skitter over his face, back and forth, back and forth. The psychiatrist slept.
The smell of coffee and the sounds of two gossiping nurses woke him. He opened his eyes to his mural of a blazing orange setting sun haloed in violet skies. Its red, dying rays spilled across the Tuscan colored desert floor and over one solitary hut. The chattering grew distant and the psychiatrist got off the couch, dusted and folded the sheets that he had swaddled himself up in and, after a deep breath, turned the couch to face the rest of his office. He would sit at his large desk and the patient would sit on the futon across from him, the mural creating a neat background for the patient. The office’s sandy brown walls were bare except for the mural. He walked over to the only other piece of furniture in the room: an enormous, brown desk. The orange clock above his desk ticked on and his first patient of the day walked in. Mr. Faulk was wearing white. The psychiatrist hated white. “Hello…,” he looked at his chart, “Mr. Faulk. Have a seat.” Hello everyone! I am so excited to be part of this fabulous group of determined writers! I am a sophomore at Southern Methodist University double majoring in English and Management. I am currently working on two books and two short stories but I've noticed that I can't find the time to sit down and WRITE. I found this site and am determined to get my words onto paper.
Please follow me as I work on my stories--read them, give constructive criticism--and feel free to send me your stories, I'd love to read them! |
Ariel SparrowsA self-starter with a love of reading and writing. Archives
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