I'm sorry Michelle, I have a sense of freedom that is easily corrupted. I live in a world of seduction and I'm a measly fool.
“I am from a generation that gets the five-thousand-yard stare from war movies,” I say to my therapist.
“What is that?”
“Post-traumatic stress disorder.”
“Oh,” She writes something down.
I stand up, stand over her, spit on her.
“Am I fatty Pumba?” I ask her in a British accent.
“Please, William, do not spit on me.”
I started to cry. I lay on the couch in the foetal position and weep.
“Wah Wah I am sorry I am a fat stupid idiot pussy.”
“No, William, please just stay calm, let's try and unpack this.”
I stood up straight and said “Yes mam,” in a mid-western American accent.
“Do you think your generation is sensitive?” she asked.
“Time does not conduct my manner but yet, I feel ashamed to have not gone to war whilst pursuing the arts. My war was local football, but listen to this Michelle.”
“Yes?”
“If everyone from the war is celebrated, wouldn’t that want everyone to keep going to war?”
“That is not something I have thought about,” said Michelle with her dyed blonde curly hair looking like two-minute noodles I wanted to slurp up.
“What do you think about?” I asked her,
“This is not about me.”
“Of course it is, this is dialogue, this is about both of us, for me to change you must also, this is not some hierarchical waste of time is it?”
She went to answer but I got distracted because she had toys. With those toys I created a train company that had its own union. But my union, unlike all the rest, cared about being fair and getting the job done as well as making sure the workers were paid and went home safe. It was the most divine train company known to humanity. Michelle the stupid bitch distracted me.
“William?”
“WHAT?” I shouted.
“Tell me about your mother.”
“Tell me about yours.”
“No, this is not about me.”
“Shut up then. The train union is on strike and its fair and reasonable.”
“Pardon?” asked Michelle.
“Nothing.”
“Were you loved as a child?”
“One second.”
I spoke to the head of the strike and with the governing body that determines the wages and working conditions for everyone under the umbrella of the train industry. They came to a conclusion and all had a big lunch to celebrate. There was a little fight between one man and another.
“We got fucked in the ass,” said peter, a short serving train driver.
“Peter, this is a good fair deal, we didn’t get what we asked for, but that’s why we asked for more than what we wanted. Don’t get greedy,” replied Mark, a long serving train driver.
Generations separated them. One ambitious and wanting and the other content and dying.
“William, did you answer my question?” asked my therapist Michelle.
“Yes.”
“You heard it?”
“No, I was saying yes, my mother did love me.”
“Then why do you think you have these sudden outbursts of uncontrollable emotion?”
“Michelle,” I said, looking at her in her dumb little blue eyes, “you know what I have noticed with you?”
“What?” she replied, sitting on her chair which was much better and bigger than mine, in a black outfit that tells the coffee shop she is very important.
“You have tiny pupils.”
“Okay?”
“Do you know what that means?” I ask her.
“No”
“The pupil is what we look from, it’s the universe looking into this world. The larger the pupil the larger the awareness, that’s why babies have them, that’s why people on drugs have them and that’s why they dilate when you feel a strong sense of love.”
“Okay, that is an interesting theory,” she dismissed.
“Well, they are all just theories, much more believable than your cognitive therapy bullshit, no offence of course.”
I went back to watch the celebratory luncheon of the train union and there had been a big fight. Peter had a few bourbons and said something to the wrong person. You see, most negotiations hide the true thoughts of either side, yet now Peter exposed his words, the ones he wrote on his stupid little sign during the protest, and said it to Robert, who had pull in the governing body for family reasons.
“You greedy dogs, why don’t you look after the families that support this whole regime?” Peter said.
“Shut up you dumb cunt, you are lucky to even have a job. You get more than you are worth already!”
Two barking dogs; going to disrupt the serenity and good faith of the entire dog park. Robert was just about to hit Peter and Michelle made me look at her.
“William?”
“WHAT??” I shouted, quickly looking back at the luncheon gone sour.
Too late. Policeman and ambulance littered the rooms with flashings of blue and red on the walls. I missed everything. I was mortified, heartbroken, the trains run the next day, but a further strike was imminent.
“Why do you think you shout?” she asked.
“Why are you just giving me questions, aren’t you supposed to give me answers?” I replied.
“We can help formulate thoughts by asking questions in certain fields of our life.”
“When was the last time you had sex?” I asked her.
“That is extremely inappropriate and if you wish to continue making remarks like that we can end the session and I will be telling your mother about it.”
“My mother?” I laughed. “She would rip your soul out much quicker than I ever could.”
“Is that true?”
“I dunno. Why is it you can ask me about all these stuff about my brain and stuff but I can’t ask you about something as small as the last time you had sex?”
“Because William, I am the therapist and you are my patient, this does not concern me and we are here to fix you, not me!” Michelle was getting slightly agitated. It was glorious.
“Who do you speak to?” I ask her.
“Once again, that is not your concern.”
“So we continue to go round in circles. The trains are still going at least.”
“Pardon?”
“Nothing.”
“Do you want to be fixed?” she asked me.
“What is broken?”
“That is what we are here to find out.”
“If you live life with the notion you are broken, then you are going to think that everything is wrong with you. It’s a pointless endeavour Miranda,” I called her Miranda just to piss her off, she didn’t acknowledge it.
“What is it that you want?” she asked.
“Honesty.”
“Ok.”
“So, when was the last time you had sex?”
“Honesty does not mean you can get whatever you want, that people have to tell you whatever you ask, honesty is the ability to express yourself the way you wish, and if you want me to be honest with you right now I can be”
I looked down, Peter had died, Robert would serve 23 years in jail for manslaughter.
“But I didn’t slaughter him, I just punched him,” Robert said to the judge.
“That’s not what it means.”
“Oh ok, sorry.”
Then the hammer went down, three times, the judge killed a man who killed a man. Robert went into the system, away from his very rich and powerful family. They made it easy for him but he could see that no one was really interested in helping people get better. Everything was a little bit the same, Robert wrote in his diary –
It seems to me, my conscious has had a chance to whisper to my mind within the confines of this room. Albeit I am very lucky to be born into a life full of prosperity, it has blossomed to a great shame and I can admit I am the rotten fruit. I did not mean to kill, but a part of me always wanted to. As I sit in comfort and safety, without my freedom, I realise I never had it to begin with. And now, with this pen, with this awareness, the irony is I feel more free as a prisoner than as an innocent man. There is no innocent men. The world strictly does not allow it. Everything is a little bit the same for everything is run by the same traits. Greed and the twist of bodies to get the luscious souls into the hands of those who see this as a long running game. Evil does exist, only those who enforce it hide behind layers and layers and by the time they see their actions, they consider them required, virtuous and meaningful. I am sorry for what I did, but I am more sorry for who I let myself become. I took a life whilst not having one. Now as the ocean begins to calm, I begin to take things away from this being they call Robert. There is no more I can want, no more I can need, but the strength to let go of what does not serve me, and to forgive all of those who are lost, including myself.
I looked up from Roberts beautifully penned letter in my mind, in his prison, from his mind and Michelle was rambling on.
“I'm sorry Michelle, I have a sense of freedom that is easily corrupted. I live in a world of seduction and I'm a measly fool. I am sorry for asking about your sex life, but I have seen the sopranos and I was kind of hoping we would maybe, you know… fuck?”
She was appalled, behind all that make up you can see her middle-aged face blush.
“William, please, lets just stay on track.”
“That’s the thing you continue to miss with your education, there is no track!”
“Ok.”
“What do you know?” I asked her.
“About what?”
“Just what do you really know?”
“I know we can speak about your actions, the reason you are here, I know we can have honest expression with respect to one another as two adults and I know we can implement practises to help you live a more civilised life.”
“You know you can indoctrinate me?” I reply.
“If being a good person is indoctrination, then yes, I believe I can help you become that.”
“Do you believe in souls?” I ask her, briefly looking at Robert who was now meditating, oh my gosh, Robert was levitating!
“I think we should stay on track.”
“There you go again with the track. The problem with therapists is people are so desperate for them to work, they just pretend they do, handing over $150 to be fake. Fake. Fake. So fake, so boring.”
“You speak about boredom, what is your relationship with boredom?” she asked me.
“I wouldn’t be bored if I was not forced to endure this.”
“And why do you think you are forced?”
“You know why.”
“I could give an answer, but you seem to have better ones, why do you think you are here now, sitting in a therapists office, speaking with me?”
“Because the Judge made me.”
“Why?”
“Cause the world has a fascination with making every cunt the same person.”
“And who do you want to be?” she asked, looking at the time, almost up, almost time to cash in on this chore of hers.
“I don’t want to be anybody, I am not anybody. I am no one. I have no obligation to be who I was when I started this sentence” I said, standing up, posing like a ballerina.
“Sit down please William.”
I sat down, “I am sorry” I said.
“Its okay.”
“No, I mean, I am sorry for everything, I don’t want to disrupt your day.”
“Its okay.”
“No, I am sorry.”
“Okay.”
“Do you forgive me?”
“For disrupting this session, yes.”
“No, do you forgive me for what I did?”
“I am in no place to hand out forgiveness for that.”
“Who can? God?”
“Do you want God to forgive you?”
“I just need to believe he ca.n”
“Why?”
“Because if he doesn’t, and I am still alive, then I am afraid of who I will become,” I said.
“Why?”
“Because if he does not forgive me, I will take it personal.”
“Forgiveness does not come at the extent of a threat.”
“Its not a threat, its just the truth.”
“Time is up for today William,” said Michelle.
I stood up.
“Three years ago,” she said.
“Huh?” I replied.
“That was the last time I was fucked.”
I walked out of the room into reception, she handled the payment herself. As the machine that took my card made some noise to tell us the money went from me to her, Michelle asked,
“How about you? When was the last time you were fucked?”
“Just now,” I replied.
I took the card, put it back into my pocket, walked into the sunlight, got into my car, drove it off the Westgate bridge. As I died a song played on the radio, I don’t know what it was called, but it was nice.
