The truth

She conveniently ignored the fact that I was sitting in the junk room at the back of the house. That is, sitting in a corner chair in a dark room - the only quiet room at the moment - trying to collect my thoughts. It was a common reaction, for me, to a day with the family. Everybody knew that I needed my space from time to time. Well, everybody but her.

"Honestly, you are totally overreacting." I tried to avoid eye contact while responding to her sobs. I wanted her to leave, the sooner the better.

"Overreacting? I don't think so. Did you hear what she said to me?” She uttered through sobs while using her sleeve as a Kleenex.

"Of course, I didn't hear what she said, but I am positive you are making too much out of it." I wasn't sure what was said, but I was coming closer to hating her myself.

“How can you be so sure? And, why are you sitting in the dark?" The turned and flipped the light switch near the door while drying her eyes with the same sleeve.

“I have a headache.” I lied as my hands formed a visor as the light filled the room.

“Oh, sorry, do you want me to get some aspirin? Or, I have some Advil in my purse.”

“No.” It was a flat response. I chided myself as the words ‘Just turn off the fucking light and leave’ were swallowed without ever having lived.

"Anyway, I know she hates me, I am sure they all hate me." Her arms randomly waved back and forth as the sobbing halted.

"Look," I sighed while contemplating what to say. I watched as the forever growing body flopped in the seat on the opposite wall. I tried hard to push down the contempt I felt for her, but it was useless. "We are a tight little family and we don’t open up to outsiders."

“I am NOT an outsider, I am family!” The sobs returned as anger flashed in her eyes.

“No, you are not family. You married my brother. You didn’t marry me or anybody else in this family. Yes, I know that isn’t normal, but your life will be easier if you accept it. Besides, this isn’t a family you want to join.” I felt the truth flowing freely as this seemed like the time to finally set her straight.

Feedback

I was nervous as I entered the dark room. The afternoon sunlight flooded the room as I opened the door. I gazed through the smoke gently rolling through the air. The light slowly faded as the door closed. I felt like an outsider crashing a private party as people glanced up from their drinks and conversations with irritation on their faces. I wondered why anyone would voluntary come here. I caught the familiar wave from the back of the room and headed in that direction.

The familiar stack of papers sat in the middle of the table as I sat down and ordered a drink. The waiter questioned the ordering of a coke with his eyes, like I was been accused of less than manly behavior. I shook off his gaze and turned to meet his eyes. I noticed his hand was tapping the pages while taking a long draw from the near stub of a cigarette.

"So, what do you think?" I skipped the normal small talk and jumped into why we - or I - were here.

"What did I think?" The nicotine stained hands pushed the butt into the black ashtray as smoke was released and then died. The blood shot eyes seemed to lock on me as the question hung in the air.

"Yes, please, tell me." At this point, his demeanor was less than appealing, so I didn't really want to know, but I had nothing else to say.

"Did this really happen?" He tapped the papers loudly while shooting another question at me. He leaned back and tapped the bottom of the cigarette pack to release another. Its end glowed red as he puffed on it.

"What? No, it is just a story." I felt a knot in my throat as I swallowed, I was suddenly very hot. I drank my soda while wondering what he knew or thought he knew.

"There is a little truth in everything." He flicked the cigarette with his thumb while holding it firmly between the index and middle fingers of his left hand and ashes fell to the floor. His eyes remained locked on me, like he was searching for something in me.

"Well, you never met my father." My laughter was a bit too loud as the crowd at a nearby table turned to observe my clearly out of place body. I met their gaze and wondered if they had ever opened a book, I wanted to laugh thinking they had all probably been booked. I returned to my drink and noticed a sheet of lined notebook paper to the right of the stack of papers. I wondered if it had been there the whole time.

"I'm sure you have many of his qualities, is he in here?" He smashed the second cigarette in the tray while picking something from the end of his tongue. He examined the end of his finger and flicked something to the floor while pulling the notebook sheet closer to him.

"No, he's been dead four, no five, years - heart attack." I feel silly while tapping my chest to let him know where the heart was located. My hand slowly fell to my lap as it seemed he was about to say something important - or something I needed to hear.

"No, I meant the book, he in here?"

"Oh, it was not intentional if he is, but he had a big influence on my life, so I'm sure he's in there some where." I felt like a guest on Oprah explaining the hard family life and how I had overcome the hardships.

"No doubt." He seemed to be contemplating another cigarette as the half empty pack rested in his hand. He repeatedly looked at the pack and at me.

"Fiction, that is the genre, so what do you think?" I knew he had more to say on the definition of fiction and how it applied to the pages, but I hoped he would keep it to himself.

"You say so."

"I do, so come on, what's that - you have some notes?" I leaned forward with elbows on the table and pointed at the sheet of notebook paper.

"Something like that." His decision had finally been made as another cigarette gently hung on his lower lip. Hit snapped to attention as the upper lip locked down and the lighter hovered below the end. Another red glow appeared and smoke slowly flowered from his mouth and nostrils.

"Well, let me have it." I hoped he knew I was referring to his comments and not physical activity.

"It is just a list of coincidences as you'd probably call them, but relations between your tale and some real things." His mouth frowned as it tightened its grip on the cigarette and he ironed the notebook page with his hands. When satisfied with its presentation, he pushed it towards me.

"Okay, let's see what you got." I pulled my glasses from a shirt pocked and unfolded them as his eyes watched and seemed to measure my every move. I pulled the paper closer and scanned the page - the list was numbered from one to eleven. I wondered why he couldn't stop at ten just as number eleven filled my brain. I felt my muscles tighten as I reread the line and looked up in his direction.

"Yeah." He seemed to be reading my mind as I read the line. His right hand disappeared from the table to his lap and I felt dizzy. Recent events raced through my mind as I wondered why I was even sitting here with this kind of man. I read his face and knew what he would want, but another plan began to take shape as our eyes remained locked.

Real?

"I think I made a mistake." I leaned forward with hands covering my eyes as I spoke.

"No shit, we've been down this road before." The irritation in her voice was more noticeable than it should be (or so I thought).

"Are shrinks supposed to curse?" With elbows on my knees, my hands pulled away from my eyes to the side of my head. I waited as the blurry vision slowly gave way to a recognizable face. The crossed arms and tight lips were a clear signal of the mood.

"I am a therapist." The irritation continued to fill the air.

"Oh, right, so are therapists supposed to cuss?" The question was clearly presented to her, but its rhetorical and philosophical nature floated through my mind while waiting for a response.

"I don't know of any rules against it."

"You may want to create one, because those words were unnecessary." The sarcasm slowly seeped into the conversation and I wondered if she had or would notice.

"It was one word." Her arms remained crossed.

"My mom always told me I could make my point without such language." While she did actually say this, it was aimed at my father and never me - I never cursed in her presence.

"Now, let's get back to your mistake that has dominated our time together for the past few months. Do you have fresh insight or questions today?" She finally released her arms and methodically opened the - my - file folder with pen ready like a stenographer.

"No, this is a different topic." I had always loved these sessions since I mostly told the truth and rarely had to repeat myself. She actually listened and remembered, but today I would have to lay the foundation as a new topic was in front of me.

"Oh really, so you made another mistake?"

"Yeah, nice, that makes me feel good. You know we are the products of sin, so, well, you know the rest." Her response had been condescending and it struck a nerve. Did she hate me? She was just like everybody else, waiting for me to screw up - again.

"I thought you hated religion?" She didn't look up from her writing as she threw past assertions in my face.

"I do, I was just kidding." I wasn't kidding. She hurt my feelings, but I'd never admit it to her face.

"Ah, raising the shield again?" Her glasses slid to the end of her nose as her hand moved furiously across the page.

"You started it."

"Hmm, well, let's get back to the mistake. What happened?" She pushed the glasses up the bridge of her nose while looking in my eyes.

"Nothing new happened, it's the same thing, but I'm thinking I went the wrong way." The feeling was surreal as my thoughts were finally released. I listened to my voice as it was released and pondered what was said, and I couldn't disagree with the statement.

"Oh really, why have you changed your mind after this long?" Her interest was obviously piqued as she leaned forward.

"Well, I was thinking and I made one of those pros and cons lists like you told me about last year, or somebody told me about it." Actually, I remembered the exact day she brought up the idea of such a list - it was October 3 of the previous year, but I thought it would be creepy to say it.

"Interesting." The arms were crossed again as she glanced at the clock on a nearby table.

"That's all you have to say? And, by the way, we have plenty of time." I was trying to remember why I enjoyed visiting her.

"I assumed you would elaborate, but I guess I need to play the game and beg for the details?" The hand was moving again as she recorded her thoughts or maybe she was making a grocery list, I always wanted to see that file. I wondered how hard it would be to break into her office.

"No, I am going to tell you, but your attitude is disappointing."

"I apologize, it has been a long day."

"Forget about it." There was no way I was going to forget about it.

"There is something I want or need to ask you." She sat waiting for my signal to move forward or stop.

"What is it?" I hated being asked if I could be asked a question, it was nothing but a waste of time.

"I've been reviewing my notes and discussed your issues - abstractly of course - with a colleague and we arrived at one conclusion, or question." She removed the glasses and wiped the lenses with a tissue - such a cliche move for a therapist.

"What is it?" I felt the sweat on my forehead as my heart pounded in my chest. I couldn't understand why I was afraid of what she was going to say, but my intuition was telling me to leave but I made no movement.

"Well, the thing is, or the question I keep asking myself is about your story or mistake as you describe it. Call it a gut feeling, but I can't help wondering if any of this ever actually happened?" Her hand hovered over her tablet with pen ready to scribble whatever.

Resolve

"People change."
"Rarely."
"You are always so negative."
"Hey, I'm a child of divorce, gimme a break!"
"How original."
"You think?"
"I know."
"As usual."
"So, you've changed?"
"Sure, why not?"
"I doubt it."
"Now who is negative?"
"Fuck you."
"I'll allow that."
"Really? I thought you had changed."
"You can be an exception, or that one mistake that always happens when somebody stops."
"You've had lots of exceptions."
"Do you mean exceptional?"
"No."
"Why so serious?"
"Why not?"
"No reason, but it is not you. Have you changed as well?"
"No."
"Well, what is going on?"
"I think I'm late."
"You think? There doesn't seem to be a gray area with that."
"Thanks, I feel better."
"Does that mean that you are no longer late?"
"No."
"What does it mean?"
"It means I am way beyond late."
"Why are you fucking with me today, is this about last weekend?"
"No."
"This is easily resolved."
"There is nothing to resolve."
"Oh."

Pain

The pain shoots through my hand as I jerk it out from the small space under the seat. A small bubble of blood forms on the finger tip as I lean forward for a closer look. I push it into the dark carpet and re-examine as the bubble slowly returns. I spot an old rag on the bench and quickly retrieve it. With the finger pressed into the fabric, I examine the remains of past projects scattered across the area.

The red flashlight catches my eye; I grab it and turn to rest against the bench. Light shoots from the end of the metal tube as the switch is pushed forward. A small amount of blood appears on the finger as the light provides a better view. My mind examines the letters on the rag like a puzzle when the phrase "MRA Football" finally appears. I feel like a Wheel of Fortune contestant as I digest the phrase and smile while recalling his long touchdown run. The rag returns to the bench as I wipe the finger and drop the rag in one motion while returning to the scene of the crime.

I lean forward to peer under the seat but the light is no longer handy. While steadying myself on my haunches, I peer into the light while repeatedly sliding the switch and slapping the metal housing with my other hand. I nearly drop it as the light suddenly shoots into my eyes. I turn it away from my face and sit patiently as my vision slowly returns.

I wipe another small amount of blood on the carpet while leaning forward. The hidden area under the seat is no longer a mystery as the darkness explodes in light. The space is surprisingly clean and empty, but a sparkle from a far corner catches my eye just as I am ready to give up. A pen from the nearby console provides the tool to extract the gem from its hiding spot.

The object's sparkle quickly fades when it reaches the floorboard and daylight. I immediately recognize it as the painful memories flood my mind. It was a tumultuous time when the window was mysteriously smashed one evening - the culprit was never discovered, but it no longer matters. I fall into the seat and gently roll the small piece of glass in my open palm - it reminds me of a handheld game where a small metal ball must be maneuvered into a specific hole.

The cut on my finger gently throbs along with the other pain as I watch the small piece of glass tumble across my skin. The relationship ended around the same time as this piece of glass's original form. There was a lot of speculation, but I just wanted it to disappear along with everything else. It isn't the first piece of glass I have encountered, but each time I hope it is the last.

The knees pop as I stand and slowly walk to the garbage can. My hand tilts and the sparkle falls with a small knock echoing as it hits the metal container. As I watch it fall, I wonder if I will ever be free.