My Entry in the Short Fiction Writing Exercise (Remember, I’ve Never Done this Before)
Posted Dec 05 2010 8:54pm
Click here to see the rules and rationale for this exercise, and check back later this week for links/entries to other great pieces that were submitted.
After 3 years, today is my last day of therapy. Since I was 14, I’ve been seeing Dr. Rob every Tuesday at 4. It’s become a ritual: shake hands, sit, talk, share feelings, cry, listen, hear “time’s up, see you next week,” stand, shake hands. I tell Dr. Rob everything. Well, not about how I still do drugs and the “weird shit” (my mom’s term) I still do to puppies. He thinks that’s all over. And that’s how I ended up in this spot. Done with therapy. I’m now in a situation where I have no one to talk to because he thinks I’m better. That’s partly my fault, but I have to fix this, quickly.
Dr. Rob and I have talked about ending therapy for weeks on end. You can do this on your own now, I’m proud of you, so is your mom. You’ve come such a long way, I think it’s time to at least try talking to your friends instead of me. Stupidly, I told him about friends that don’t really exist. They are real people, and mom’s met them, but they aren’t friends, at least not like Dr. Rob is.
I protested ending therapy, but clearly not enough, because it all ceases today. Maybe I should just tell him about the puppies. No, then I’ll be arrested because of how I’ve been methodically doing those things for months. Hell, years. People will see me as responsible and a monster. No, I need to be sick, with “poor impulse control,” someone who needs to be in hospital. And Dr. Rob needs to know that, although “therapy is never an exact science,” he fucked up in his own way by saying we’re done. That would be a nice little bonus.
Dr. Rob greets me in the waiting room. Just give him a little nick, that should do it. As I walk away from mom into his office, I move past Dr. Rob as he closes the door. But instead of sitting in my usual seat, I simply follow Dr. Rob across the room toward his chair. My hand is in my back pocket. Dr. Rob turns and is immediately startled because I’m so close. He gasps right at the moment I pull the knife out and slice it across the side of his neck. It went in deeper than I expected, but according to the interweb he should be fine.
Dr. Rob stares at me blankly as he moves his hand to his neck and then in front of his eyes to see the blood. I didn’t think there would be this much red. Actually, it looks a little purple as little bubbles of spit come out of Dr. Rob’s mouth. He starts to move past me, but I can easily block his way. I’m much taller and stronger and I want him to say that he’s sorry and acknowledge that I still need him.
Something isn’t right, though. The purple stuff starts gurgling as Dr. Rob reaches for his neck again. Did I hit that vein or artery, the corrosion one? I think about going to get my mom or calling 911. But what if they think I tried to kill him? I didn’t, I just wanted to make the nick so he knew. He certainly knows now, on his knees, clutching at my shirt so he doesn’t hit the ground.
I wipe some sweat off of my brow as Dr. Rob is dying at my feet, trying in vain to take in air. I look down at him and realize how much he’s suffering. I liked Dr. Rob. Maybe I loved him even, so it’s not fair to let him feel so much pain when we both know what’s coming. I take the blade and plunge it into his eye socket, amazed at how smoothly it penetrates his face, the silver sliding in all the way up to the handle. His body twitches twice, then stops. As I pull the knife out, I hear a deep sploosh sound.
The room is silence, save for some blood-like bubbles popping out of Dr. Rob’s eye and neck. It wasn’t supposed to work out this way, but here we are. Does anyone else know, other than mom, that I’m here? I put my ear to the door and can’t hear other voices. No one saw us in the waiting room prior to session. I can’t hear any muffled sound coming from the office next door, maybe that person took the day off. I’m almost 18. If I’m caught, I’m probably going to jail. No one can know I was here. I suppose I should worry about things like fingerprints and DNA and motive and Dr. Rob’s calendar on his stupid iPad, but that’s just in the movies. As long as no one places me here, I’ll be okay.
I open the door slightly, the knife behind my back, ready to ensure that I’m the only living person who remembers me being in the office. “Mom,” I say. “Could you come in here, please? Dr. Rob needs you to sign some termination papers.”
If you have any constructive feedback, please feel free to leave it in the comments thread or email me directly at RDobrenski@aol.com. Just keep in mind how few words were allowed for this exercise. That restriction made things really, really hard.