Stebbins
02-01-2013, 10:20 AM
Virtual Ka-Tet,
Per Jean’s great suggestion, I am posting my short story in this thread for a place to receive feedback from you guys. This is the second short story I have completed in my lifetime.
I’m open to any and all constructive comments, good or bad. If your sole goal is to try to assert literary superiority over me through rude/ignorant comments, please save both of us some time. I know my writing- as every author’s writing, even the immortals such as the King- is flawed. Getting better is a perpetual process and I thank anyone who helps me along with my personal progress. I do not believe asking to refrain from posting purely spiteful comments is breaking the golden rule of this thread.
I appreciate anyone who takes the time to read my work.
Therapy is the first short story in a collection I am compiling titled Sub-Urban Nightmares. The story is set in Pittsburgh and told through two men's- a patient and a doctor- journals.
To avoid confusion, the doctor (Harper) dates his entries "DD/Month/YYYY" and the patient (Cline) dates his entries "MM/DD/YY". If you invest the time to read this story and enjoy it- I hope you do and you do- please take the second to like the DavidFranceFiction page. Thank you.
DF
**This story contains explicit content and is intended for a mature audience. This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictiously. Any resemblence to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. If you don't like it, don't read any more of it.
This work is protected under the Creative Copyright Acts.**
Therapy
A dramatic monologue by David France
1 October 2012,
A very peculiar thing happened today: I took on a new client. That in itself is no oddity to me after fifteen years of being a psychiatrist. Though it has become a rarity, limited to Doctor Referrals, since Susan passed nearly two years ago. It was the manner in which I met and decided to take on this patient that was abnormal.
It happened right after 5 o’clock. My assistant, Barbra, had just left when I heard a rapping on the front door. I was in the middle of gathering my things and decided whoever it was could take a hint. The knocking persisted; intensified. I thought it must be my last-horribly needy- patient of the day, not satisfied with his fifty minute self-absorbed spewing session. I made my way to the front door, ready to reiterate the need for some self-sufficiency as professionally as possible.
But it was not my last patient. It was not a patient or anyone I had ever seen before. The Mystery Man stood about six feet tall, had a mop of hemp-like scraggly blonde hair covering most of his face, and tiny slate blue eyes. He resembled Nirvana’s deceased headman Kurt Cobain, at least to me. He donned construction boots, beat-to-shit jeans, and a black Steelers hoodie. It was impossible to decipher age; he could have been twenty as easily as he could have been forty.
He continued to knock rhythmically even as he saw me approaching. I was getting ready to yell at him when I noticed he was counting the knocks, mouthing the number at each tap. I diverted my course of action.
“May I help you sir?”
“Yeah… I need to talk to you” his knocking concluded at 52.
“I’m sorry but we’re closed and I’m not taking on any new patients at this time. I could recommend two doctors right here in Penn Hills and about ten others in the Pittsburgh area if you like.”
“No. It has to be you. My symptoms are worsening and I was told you are the best. Besides, I betcha I’ve tried at least half the Docs on your little list.”
He began to gnaw, rhythmically, on the right-string of his hoodie.
“And which one told you I was the best?” I asked to see who I owed for dumping this sad sack onto me.
“Dr. Phillips” he replied in sync with his chomping.
I was taken aback and found it hard to breathe at that moment. Dr. Richard Phillips had been my mentor, friend, and touchstone while attending Penn State. He even talked me through some tough times during college. He died of a brain aneurism almost seven years ago. The insufferable gash of losing Susan had made me forget the wound of my dead mentor. However, I discovered it still hurt when someone prodded at it.
“If this is someone’s idea of a joke, I don’t think it’s funny. At all.”
“No joke friend. Dr. Phillips was the only one of you guys who has effectively treated me. He treated me quite frequently before he kicked it. During one of our sessions we briefly got on the subject of his best protégé” he cracked a smile I was unable to read. I was not sure if I wanted to cry or punch the Mystery Man. Most likely both; I settled on neither.
“If that’s true how come you’ve seen so many other Doctors before coming here and so long after Ric- Dr. Phillip’s death?”
Logic is most needed, and hardest to attain, when emotions are high.
“Well truth be told my symptoms were almost nonexistent until 603 days ago. And only recently have I started making the rounds through shrinks. I saved you so if it came to it you’d be number 8. 8 is a really good number ya know; put it on it’s side and you got infinity. So I guess saving the best for last” he flashed another indecipherable smile.
I was getting ready to tell him sorry, regardless of The Name he dropped, when he added “I fear if nothing in my world changes I’ll destroy myself… or everyone in it.” Same smile.
I’m not sure why this invoked empathetic feelings, but it did. Furthermore, I found myself intrigued by the grungy-looking man. This was the longest time I’d spent with a patient- or potential patient- and not been mind-numbingly bored since Susan’s death.
I have been debating all night whether or not I made the right decision in going against protocol and not simply reporting him…
“Okay. Well I can pencil you in for Thursday at 2:00, provided you think you can safely wait that long.”
“Thursday would be great Dr. Harper, thank you so much.”
“It’s my job… I never got your name”
“Justin Cline”
“I’ll see you Thursday Mr. Cline”
…I suppose only time will tell.
__________________________________________________ __________________________________________________ _______________________
4 October 2012,
This damn insomnia does not seem to be getting any better. My body can’t seem to sleep without the warmth of Susan surrounding it. The Ambien only leads to hallucinations or what I call half-dreams. Last night I saw four small elves playing ring-around-the-Rosie in my bedroom for what seemed like hours. I think I’ll nix the ineffective sleep aide and try to use my extra hours doing something productive. Maybe I’ll start that novel I always talked about and Susan (wisely) said would never come to fruition. After today I believe I have the perfect person to base my main character on: Justin Cline.
The session began by him telling me the reason he believes he regressed. 606 days ago the Pittsburgh Steelers lost the Super Bowl to the Green Bay Packers by six points; a very bad number. I knew that- it was shortly after Susan passed and just more heartbreak, though it seemed relatively miniscule. What I did not know was that Mr. Cline had been calling the plays- offense, defense, and special teams- from his house transmitter him and the Steeler staff had rigged up. While explaining the mechanics of this system he continuously tapped his knees with his thumbs twice, then tapped the white 4 and 3 on his black Polamalu jersey twice, then repeated the process. I could see the Dermatitis- common in OCD patients, caused from chronic washing- on his hands when he tapped his jersey. The game was going fine until Packers head coach got wise to Cline’s involvement. That “fat fuck” jammed the transmitter and ruined everything.
He started to go on about how society was out of order and unfair but I had to stop him because the session had run over our time limit. I told him I thought it was a good first session and gave him a black leather journal.
“I want you to jot down any odd thoughts or behaviors you have that you wish to discuss and work on. This will help you clarify your thoughts, keep track of what you wish to work on, and may be therapeutic in itself. I know writing in mine helps me.”
“Does that mean you’re crazy too Doc?” he offered that unreadable smile and I thought I sensed a hint of condescension in his tone.
My (tentative) clinical diagnosis is that the patient is suffering from severe Paranoid Schizophrenia- of which he is oblivious to- along with moderate to severe OCD.
10/5/12
Man this Doc is a fucking quack. They’re all quacks. They only go into the profession to try and figure out what is wrong with their own minds. They all fail miserably. I don’t know why I thought this one could help me. None of them (NOBODY) understands that society- and the people who conform to it- is the real problem. It’s not symmetrical, not balanced, not fair.
Yesterday convinced me I was a doomed man, I’m even positive on the date I will be struck down. I will try to restore order to this world before my time is up. I will begin doing this by fixing individuals. Dr. Harper is one I intend to fix (or destroy trying). So I’ll keep my weekly appointments and write some interesting shit- to show him when his time has come- in this little diary, which I know he plans to use to garner respect and fame. Pitiful.
10/8/12
I counted the number of Steelers apparel in my closet: 34. Good.
I counted the number of steps to the bus stop: 92. Good.
I counted the number of passengers on the bus: 6. Bad!
“I need to get off the bus right now!”
“You can wait till the next stop sir” the bus driver replied.
I had the impulse to gouge his stupid eyes out with my gloved hands and stop the bus myself. But then I realized he was a human being too. He made 7 people on the bus. Good.
“Nevermind”
I smiled and sat down.
11 October 2012,
Mr. Cline is by far the most intriguing and infuriating patient I have ever taken on. He’s shrewder than U Pitt professors I have counseled, scarier than anger management inmates I have worked with. He speaks in riddles and has an uncanny ability to have absolute control over our dialogue. In two sessions I have told him more about myself than most patients get in twenty. Writing this now I realize I don’t even know his profession.
*Ask Cline about profession in 10/18 session.
10/12/12
Harper is even weaker than I thought. He has even less fortitude than his George Costanza appearance suggests. He’s completely blind to something fundamental I have already fully grasped. In addition, he seems to have forgotten it was I who came to him for treatment and not vice versa. Beautiful.
18 October 2012,
Turns out he is a freelance photographer. It makes perfect sense with his minor OCD problem. He explained how things can be orderly and perfectly balanced in a photograph. He made it sound so majestic. If I was younger than a worn-out thirty-nine I would consider switching professions.
He said I still can’t see his journal, that it isn’t ready yet. This irks me but I know he will show it to me when he is ready.
10/19/2012
I went to the Carnegie Science Center today. I’m not much of a science man- though some of the exhibits are somewhat fascinating- but the stadium called to me. I heard her whisper “Come Justin, admire my beauty”. Since there were no tours today I did the next best thing: went across the street to the CSC.
After exiting the cab, I stood in the brick horseshoe drive, facing opposite my destination; gawking. Heinz Field; the mecca of everything good, right, and orderly in this world. After some time I went into Carnegie. Mostly because I wanted to see if I could get a better vantage point. Also, my cheeks and nose began to feel numb.
I walked around the ground floor to build my anticipation. I saw families, lovers, and friends inspecting the exhibits. Children with filthy faces and filthy fingers touching all the interactive shit. I suppressed my urge to vomit or spew out my disgust verbally and made my way up the stairs.
There, between the first and second story of the center, I saw her again. That black and yellow beauty. I could even see the colossal ketchup bottle from this vantage point. I stood on the level section of the linoleum walkway and stared. People squeezed by with annoyed mumbles and disapproving stares. I didn’t care. A security guard came up and asked if there was a problem. I decided I had seen enough of her today, especially in this infested place.
“Just trying to see if it’s going to rain”
“Not suppose to for another three days”
“Oh…thanks”
I walked down the ramp and out the back door. Outside the USS Requin, an 80-man submarine sent into action just days before the end of WWII, was moored on the Ohio River. The air smelled of fish and steel. I was just about to head back in to leave the museum when something on the Requin caught my eye; something purple. It was a preteen boy, accompanied by his mother and sister, wearing a fucking Ray Lewis jersey. A Ravens jersey. This close to the Steeler’s battlefield.
Go teach him a lesson my lady whispered.
I boarded the large sub and followed them down inside. I waited for the child to wander as they all do at that age. I followed him into one of the bedroom cabins. While he was facing towards the bunks and away from me, I rammed his head into the frame of the steel submarine face first. I threw him to the ground on his stomach and said “Don’t you ever wear that fucking Ravens bullshit in my city again or I’ll rape your mom and sister while you watch then slit your throat!”
I ran from the cabin with a concerned look plastered to my face. The boy’s mom and sister were headed my way and close.
“Do you have a little blonde boy?”
“Yes…why? What is it?” Her face Nordic filled with terror.
“I think he fainted. He fell and may have hurt himself badly. You should check on him while I run and get help.”
“Oh Tommy! Okay, alright. Thank you so much!”
I walked off the sub and into my city revitalized with a big smile on my face.
25 October 2012,
Justin tells me he knows all about his condition. He has read every psychology book he could find seven times (Big Ben’s number, of course). This obsessive studying explains why he is my most challenging patient. Most don’t know the first thing about psychology, much less have entire books on the subject memorized.
I think this is why our sessions have become mutually therapeutic. We duel each other for control of the sessions while having breakthroughs… I talked to him about Susan today. He’s the first person I’ve successfully talked to about her since she died
December 3, 2010.
Mr. Cline still scares me shitless. I think he could turn violent any minute. However, I think these sessions are helping curb his violent thoughts and progress towards normalcy. On a more selfish note, I know what I’m getting from him is best-seller material.
27 October 2012,
The last two nights are the first two I have slept through in the last two years. Life is good. My new patient is a godsend.
10/28/12
Harper is completely powerless now. I own him.
On a more important note, we beat the Redskins today! Mike Tomlin called me to say he really enjoyed my game plan for handling RG III. He said I did so good that I earned next week off. He suggested I watch them from Billy’s Black and Gold Bar, have a little fun. Not a bad idea.
1 November 2012,
I have become the patient. We no longer focus on his problems, just my own. It’s easier this way; giving the power to someone else. Less responsibility. Less worry. He assures me the sessions are still helping him stay sane. That helping me is helping him more than me solely trying to help him ever could. I believe him. I have to. His counseling has helped me deal with Susan’s death more than Xanax or any other drug has. I’m addicted. I spent the majority of today’s session bawling like a heartbroken little girl.
11/4/12
Billy’s was packed for the game. A sea of black and yellow, chanting like a Pentecostal church. It’s pure ecstasy. I took a seat at the signature triangle bar and ordered my usual- Farrior’s Fish Sandwich. I was clad in my lucky white Roethlisberger jersey.
The guys fought hard but the Giants ended up winning by 2; they kicked a field goal with only nine seconds remaining. I was so mad at myself for not trying to talk Tomlin into letting me call the plays for this game. Maybe that fossil Coughlin knows McCarthy’s secret to jamming our transmission. Shit, we still should have tried. I fucking hate New York. The epicenter of greed, filth, and disorder. When society rights itself New York- or as I like to call it New Rome- will be vaporized and fade into nothing but a barely remembered nightmare.
I took solace in the fact we would be playing KC- that sad excuse for a football team- at home next week. The three pitchers of Yuengling also helped. God, I love that stuff; the sweet caramel aroma, detectable just before the amber liquid caresses your lips with its full body flavor. My final consolation was getting a woman’s number. She was seated to my right at the bar during the game; she made it blatantly obvious she was interested by halftime. She wasn’t really my type- stout and pudgy with an abundance of make-up and bosom and an absence of intelligence- but we haven’t fucked in almost two years; since his bitch-wife died to be precise. I’d like to get our dick wet one more time before our time is up. God knows that little pussy “doctor” won’t. She wanted to take me back to her place but I said I couldn’t get busy in my current dejected mood. Honestly, I think taking out some aggression sexually would have improved my mood. I actually didn’t want to risk an appearance from my old nemesis Mr. Whiskey Dick. I said goodbye promising to call, closed my tab, and decided to walk home to clear my head.
On my 123rd step I noticed a man following me. He wore a blue white-pinstriped suit with five hundred dollar brown shoes.
I’ve been followed many times before but never like this. The strange thing was he was ahead of me. He took four of the same turns- keeping an inconspicuous lead the whole time- before I was convinced. At that moment I felt blessed I had decided to snake a butcher’s knife from Harper’s kitchen. Providence. Everything happens for a reason.
I knew the exact spot- a dank narrow alley- on my route home where I would handle this would-be assailant. No one will stop me from my divine mission in starting the restoration of order to this chaotic world.
As soon as he veered right into the alley I charged like the boys on the beaches of Normandy. I stabbed him four times in the right side before he fell down, doing a half turn to rest parallel beside a big blue dumpster. He was clutching his side with eyes squeezed shut, his mouth an ugly grimace. I gave him four more punctures to match on the left side and an additional four in the chest making it an even 12. An homage/sacrifice to the great Terry Bradshaw. His body went limp on the tenth stab. I looked around to make sure our privacy would not be disturbed. All clear. I took off those pretentious $500 loafers and took a massive fish sandwich shit inside them. The color matched perfectly. I finished by expelling my rented Yuengling all over his red (on his white shirt; grape on his blueberry coat), white, and blue suit. I sheathed my blade and sauntered out the other end of the alley. Aggression all gone and safety restored. For now.
8 November 2012,
He didn’t show today. Why didn’t he show? I need him. I need the release he gives me; I need the escape of sleep his sessions provide for me.
I realized I don’t know his address, number, or e-mail. Why don’t I have these things? I take all of these things from all my patients in our initial sessions. It must be part of his power. I couldn’t find his Facebook, Twitter, or LinkedIn.
I feel like a heroin addict.
I’m close to breaking.
11/13/12
I wanted to tear off her self-assured smirk,
I wanted to strip her Gucci garments,
I wanted to dissect her and find the root,
I wanted to play around with her insides and discover how everything works,
I wanted to reassemble her sans the plague,
I wanted to fix her…
…I failed.
15 November 2012,
He came back! He had demands and conditionals, but he came back. Some of them seemed very peculiar- like buying fertilizer and avoiding certain sections of the city- but I conceded unconditionally. Anything to have my drug; my escape from this nightmare named reality.
11/22/12
I have a lot to be thankful for this year. I’m thankful my mission is going on without a hitch. I’m thankful Harper has surrendered his/our body to me without a fight; he was even weaker than I estimated. The heart makes men weak. That balding bastard still doesn’t have a clue that we are the same person. I’ve known for so long, expected from the beginning. Last but certainly not least, I’m thankful I can’t be stopped.
29 November 2012,
He said this would be our last session ever. He showed me his/our journal. It’s appalling/amazing. It contains his exploits, executions, and plans to blow up the better part of Washington D.C. on Dec 3; 666 days since the Super Bowl. I know this because he knows this. I bring the demonic denotation of this number up but he won’t admit anything other than it’s a divine mission. He’s irrational.
12/2/12
It’s the eve of a new, better world. I feel like a kid the night before Christmas. Only I am stirring all through the house: loading the rental truck, going over stolen pentagon schematics, going over the best way to blow up where I know they store social security numbers, planning where to set the charges in the White House. It’s all so exciting. I don’t sleep but if I did I’m sure it would elude me tonight.
3 December/12
I will not go without a fight. Yes, you will.
He’s powerful and I have become dependent on him for survival but it’s still my body. Fuck you, it’s mine now and you know it cue ball.
Susan, please help me. She can’t help you; no one can help you.
You’re right. But maybe I can help everyone. I have to try.
Penn Hills psychiatrist turned murderer commits suicide; thwarts own terrorist plot
Published: Tuesday, December 4, 2012, 10:23 a.m.
A Penn Hills resident was found dead in his home early this morning with written evidence documenting two slayings as well as a plan to destroy undisclosed locations in the Washington D.C. area.
Dr. Clint S. Harper, 39, of Briarwood Drive, took his own life early yesterday morning with a Remington Model 11 shotgun.
Police also found the remains of Pittsburgh’s missing person Angela Cross, 27, in the basement. Dental records confirmed her identity. Harper is also responsible for the unsolved street slaying of Pittsburgh business man Colin McCarthy.
Barbra Turner, Dr. Harper’s former assistant, said the man was not well since the death of his wife (he killed himself on the two year anniversary of her passing). She recalls her termination:
“On the first of October he just came out to my desk and told me I was through. He seemed incoherent and his eyes were glazed over. I had already been seeking employment elsewhere since his patient list had dwindled to almost nothing. I didn’t object. I just felt bad for him. After Susan died he just fell apart.”
Bottles of Xanax, Oxycodone, Ambien, and Oxycontin were found in the man’s residence.
Harper was suffering from dissociative identity disorder, commonly referred to as split personality disorder. The personality Harper invented had terrorists designs on D.C. Harper thwarted these plans by taking his own life.
He left a note which simply read: “You lose.”
September 27, 2012
October 3, 2012
Per Jean’s great suggestion, I am posting my short story in this thread for a place to receive feedback from you guys. This is the second short story I have completed in my lifetime.
I’m open to any and all constructive comments, good or bad. If your sole goal is to try to assert literary superiority over me through rude/ignorant comments, please save both of us some time. I know my writing- as every author’s writing, even the immortals such as the King- is flawed. Getting better is a perpetual process and I thank anyone who helps me along with my personal progress. I do not believe asking to refrain from posting purely spiteful comments is breaking the golden rule of this thread.
I appreciate anyone who takes the time to read my work.
Therapy is the first short story in a collection I am compiling titled Sub-Urban Nightmares. The story is set in Pittsburgh and told through two men's- a patient and a doctor- journals.
To avoid confusion, the doctor (Harper) dates his entries "DD/Month/YYYY" and the patient (Cline) dates his entries "MM/DD/YY". If you invest the time to read this story and enjoy it- I hope you do and you do- please take the second to like the DavidFranceFiction page. Thank you.
DF
**This story contains explicit content and is intended for a mature audience. This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictiously. Any resemblence to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. If you don't like it, don't read any more of it.
This work is protected under the Creative Copyright Acts.**
Therapy
A dramatic monologue by David France
1 October 2012,
A very peculiar thing happened today: I took on a new client. That in itself is no oddity to me after fifteen years of being a psychiatrist. Though it has become a rarity, limited to Doctor Referrals, since Susan passed nearly two years ago. It was the manner in which I met and decided to take on this patient that was abnormal.
It happened right after 5 o’clock. My assistant, Barbra, had just left when I heard a rapping on the front door. I was in the middle of gathering my things and decided whoever it was could take a hint. The knocking persisted; intensified. I thought it must be my last-horribly needy- patient of the day, not satisfied with his fifty minute self-absorbed spewing session. I made my way to the front door, ready to reiterate the need for some self-sufficiency as professionally as possible.
But it was not my last patient. It was not a patient or anyone I had ever seen before. The Mystery Man stood about six feet tall, had a mop of hemp-like scraggly blonde hair covering most of his face, and tiny slate blue eyes. He resembled Nirvana’s deceased headman Kurt Cobain, at least to me. He donned construction boots, beat-to-shit jeans, and a black Steelers hoodie. It was impossible to decipher age; he could have been twenty as easily as he could have been forty.
He continued to knock rhythmically even as he saw me approaching. I was getting ready to yell at him when I noticed he was counting the knocks, mouthing the number at each tap. I diverted my course of action.
“May I help you sir?”
“Yeah… I need to talk to you” his knocking concluded at 52.
“I’m sorry but we’re closed and I’m not taking on any new patients at this time. I could recommend two doctors right here in Penn Hills and about ten others in the Pittsburgh area if you like.”
“No. It has to be you. My symptoms are worsening and I was told you are the best. Besides, I betcha I’ve tried at least half the Docs on your little list.”
He began to gnaw, rhythmically, on the right-string of his hoodie.
“And which one told you I was the best?” I asked to see who I owed for dumping this sad sack onto me.
“Dr. Phillips” he replied in sync with his chomping.
I was taken aback and found it hard to breathe at that moment. Dr. Richard Phillips had been my mentor, friend, and touchstone while attending Penn State. He even talked me through some tough times during college. He died of a brain aneurism almost seven years ago. The insufferable gash of losing Susan had made me forget the wound of my dead mentor. However, I discovered it still hurt when someone prodded at it.
“If this is someone’s idea of a joke, I don’t think it’s funny. At all.”
“No joke friend. Dr. Phillips was the only one of you guys who has effectively treated me. He treated me quite frequently before he kicked it. During one of our sessions we briefly got on the subject of his best protégé” he cracked a smile I was unable to read. I was not sure if I wanted to cry or punch the Mystery Man. Most likely both; I settled on neither.
“If that’s true how come you’ve seen so many other Doctors before coming here and so long after Ric- Dr. Phillip’s death?”
Logic is most needed, and hardest to attain, when emotions are high.
“Well truth be told my symptoms were almost nonexistent until 603 days ago. And only recently have I started making the rounds through shrinks. I saved you so if it came to it you’d be number 8. 8 is a really good number ya know; put it on it’s side and you got infinity. So I guess saving the best for last” he flashed another indecipherable smile.
I was getting ready to tell him sorry, regardless of The Name he dropped, when he added “I fear if nothing in my world changes I’ll destroy myself… or everyone in it.” Same smile.
I’m not sure why this invoked empathetic feelings, but it did. Furthermore, I found myself intrigued by the grungy-looking man. This was the longest time I’d spent with a patient- or potential patient- and not been mind-numbingly bored since Susan’s death.
I have been debating all night whether or not I made the right decision in going against protocol and not simply reporting him…
“Okay. Well I can pencil you in for Thursday at 2:00, provided you think you can safely wait that long.”
“Thursday would be great Dr. Harper, thank you so much.”
“It’s my job… I never got your name”
“Justin Cline”
“I’ll see you Thursday Mr. Cline”
…I suppose only time will tell.
__________________________________________________ __________________________________________________ _______________________
4 October 2012,
This damn insomnia does not seem to be getting any better. My body can’t seem to sleep without the warmth of Susan surrounding it. The Ambien only leads to hallucinations or what I call half-dreams. Last night I saw four small elves playing ring-around-the-Rosie in my bedroom for what seemed like hours. I think I’ll nix the ineffective sleep aide and try to use my extra hours doing something productive. Maybe I’ll start that novel I always talked about and Susan (wisely) said would never come to fruition. After today I believe I have the perfect person to base my main character on: Justin Cline.
The session began by him telling me the reason he believes he regressed. 606 days ago the Pittsburgh Steelers lost the Super Bowl to the Green Bay Packers by six points; a very bad number. I knew that- it was shortly after Susan passed and just more heartbreak, though it seemed relatively miniscule. What I did not know was that Mr. Cline had been calling the plays- offense, defense, and special teams- from his house transmitter him and the Steeler staff had rigged up. While explaining the mechanics of this system he continuously tapped his knees with his thumbs twice, then tapped the white 4 and 3 on his black Polamalu jersey twice, then repeated the process. I could see the Dermatitis- common in OCD patients, caused from chronic washing- on his hands when he tapped his jersey. The game was going fine until Packers head coach got wise to Cline’s involvement. That “fat fuck” jammed the transmitter and ruined everything.
He started to go on about how society was out of order and unfair but I had to stop him because the session had run over our time limit. I told him I thought it was a good first session and gave him a black leather journal.
“I want you to jot down any odd thoughts or behaviors you have that you wish to discuss and work on. This will help you clarify your thoughts, keep track of what you wish to work on, and may be therapeutic in itself. I know writing in mine helps me.”
“Does that mean you’re crazy too Doc?” he offered that unreadable smile and I thought I sensed a hint of condescension in his tone.
My (tentative) clinical diagnosis is that the patient is suffering from severe Paranoid Schizophrenia- of which he is oblivious to- along with moderate to severe OCD.
10/5/12
Man this Doc is a fucking quack. They’re all quacks. They only go into the profession to try and figure out what is wrong with their own minds. They all fail miserably. I don’t know why I thought this one could help me. None of them (NOBODY) understands that society- and the people who conform to it- is the real problem. It’s not symmetrical, not balanced, not fair.
Yesterday convinced me I was a doomed man, I’m even positive on the date I will be struck down. I will try to restore order to this world before my time is up. I will begin doing this by fixing individuals. Dr. Harper is one I intend to fix (or destroy trying). So I’ll keep my weekly appointments and write some interesting shit- to show him when his time has come- in this little diary, which I know he plans to use to garner respect and fame. Pitiful.
10/8/12
I counted the number of Steelers apparel in my closet: 34. Good.
I counted the number of steps to the bus stop: 92. Good.
I counted the number of passengers on the bus: 6. Bad!
“I need to get off the bus right now!”
“You can wait till the next stop sir” the bus driver replied.
I had the impulse to gouge his stupid eyes out with my gloved hands and stop the bus myself. But then I realized he was a human being too. He made 7 people on the bus. Good.
“Nevermind”
I smiled and sat down.
11 October 2012,
Mr. Cline is by far the most intriguing and infuriating patient I have ever taken on. He’s shrewder than U Pitt professors I have counseled, scarier than anger management inmates I have worked with. He speaks in riddles and has an uncanny ability to have absolute control over our dialogue. In two sessions I have told him more about myself than most patients get in twenty. Writing this now I realize I don’t even know his profession.
*Ask Cline about profession in 10/18 session.
10/12/12
Harper is even weaker than I thought. He has even less fortitude than his George Costanza appearance suggests. He’s completely blind to something fundamental I have already fully grasped. In addition, he seems to have forgotten it was I who came to him for treatment and not vice versa. Beautiful.
18 October 2012,
Turns out he is a freelance photographer. It makes perfect sense with his minor OCD problem. He explained how things can be orderly and perfectly balanced in a photograph. He made it sound so majestic. If I was younger than a worn-out thirty-nine I would consider switching professions.
He said I still can’t see his journal, that it isn’t ready yet. This irks me but I know he will show it to me when he is ready.
10/19/2012
I went to the Carnegie Science Center today. I’m not much of a science man- though some of the exhibits are somewhat fascinating- but the stadium called to me. I heard her whisper “Come Justin, admire my beauty”. Since there were no tours today I did the next best thing: went across the street to the CSC.
After exiting the cab, I stood in the brick horseshoe drive, facing opposite my destination; gawking. Heinz Field; the mecca of everything good, right, and orderly in this world. After some time I went into Carnegie. Mostly because I wanted to see if I could get a better vantage point. Also, my cheeks and nose began to feel numb.
I walked around the ground floor to build my anticipation. I saw families, lovers, and friends inspecting the exhibits. Children with filthy faces and filthy fingers touching all the interactive shit. I suppressed my urge to vomit or spew out my disgust verbally and made my way up the stairs.
There, between the first and second story of the center, I saw her again. That black and yellow beauty. I could even see the colossal ketchup bottle from this vantage point. I stood on the level section of the linoleum walkway and stared. People squeezed by with annoyed mumbles and disapproving stares. I didn’t care. A security guard came up and asked if there was a problem. I decided I had seen enough of her today, especially in this infested place.
“Just trying to see if it’s going to rain”
“Not suppose to for another three days”
“Oh…thanks”
I walked down the ramp and out the back door. Outside the USS Requin, an 80-man submarine sent into action just days before the end of WWII, was moored on the Ohio River. The air smelled of fish and steel. I was just about to head back in to leave the museum when something on the Requin caught my eye; something purple. It was a preteen boy, accompanied by his mother and sister, wearing a fucking Ray Lewis jersey. A Ravens jersey. This close to the Steeler’s battlefield.
Go teach him a lesson my lady whispered.
I boarded the large sub and followed them down inside. I waited for the child to wander as they all do at that age. I followed him into one of the bedroom cabins. While he was facing towards the bunks and away from me, I rammed his head into the frame of the steel submarine face first. I threw him to the ground on his stomach and said “Don’t you ever wear that fucking Ravens bullshit in my city again or I’ll rape your mom and sister while you watch then slit your throat!”
I ran from the cabin with a concerned look plastered to my face. The boy’s mom and sister were headed my way and close.
“Do you have a little blonde boy?”
“Yes…why? What is it?” Her face Nordic filled with terror.
“I think he fainted. He fell and may have hurt himself badly. You should check on him while I run and get help.”
“Oh Tommy! Okay, alright. Thank you so much!”
I walked off the sub and into my city revitalized with a big smile on my face.
25 October 2012,
Justin tells me he knows all about his condition. He has read every psychology book he could find seven times (Big Ben’s number, of course). This obsessive studying explains why he is my most challenging patient. Most don’t know the first thing about psychology, much less have entire books on the subject memorized.
I think this is why our sessions have become mutually therapeutic. We duel each other for control of the sessions while having breakthroughs… I talked to him about Susan today. He’s the first person I’ve successfully talked to about her since she died
December 3, 2010.
Mr. Cline still scares me shitless. I think he could turn violent any minute. However, I think these sessions are helping curb his violent thoughts and progress towards normalcy. On a more selfish note, I know what I’m getting from him is best-seller material.
27 October 2012,
The last two nights are the first two I have slept through in the last two years. Life is good. My new patient is a godsend.
10/28/12
Harper is completely powerless now. I own him.
On a more important note, we beat the Redskins today! Mike Tomlin called me to say he really enjoyed my game plan for handling RG III. He said I did so good that I earned next week off. He suggested I watch them from Billy’s Black and Gold Bar, have a little fun. Not a bad idea.
1 November 2012,
I have become the patient. We no longer focus on his problems, just my own. It’s easier this way; giving the power to someone else. Less responsibility. Less worry. He assures me the sessions are still helping him stay sane. That helping me is helping him more than me solely trying to help him ever could. I believe him. I have to. His counseling has helped me deal with Susan’s death more than Xanax or any other drug has. I’m addicted. I spent the majority of today’s session bawling like a heartbroken little girl.
11/4/12
Billy’s was packed for the game. A sea of black and yellow, chanting like a Pentecostal church. It’s pure ecstasy. I took a seat at the signature triangle bar and ordered my usual- Farrior’s Fish Sandwich. I was clad in my lucky white Roethlisberger jersey.
The guys fought hard but the Giants ended up winning by 2; they kicked a field goal with only nine seconds remaining. I was so mad at myself for not trying to talk Tomlin into letting me call the plays for this game. Maybe that fossil Coughlin knows McCarthy’s secret to jamming our transmission. Shit, we still should have tried. I fucking hate New York. The epicenter of greed, filth, and disorder. When society rights itself New York- or as I like to call it New Rome- will be vaporized and fade into nothing but a barely remembered nightmare.
I took solace in the fact we would be playing KC- that sad excuse for a football team- at home next week. The three pitchers of Yuengling also helped. God, I love that stuff; the sweet caramel aroma, detectable just before the amber liquid caresses your lips with its full body flavor. My final consolation was getting a woman’s number. She was seated to my right at the bar during the game; she made it blatantly obvious she was interested by halftime. She wasn’t really my type- stout and pudgy with an abundance of make-up and bosom and an absence of intelligence- but we haven’t fucked in almost two years; since his bitch-wife died to be precise. I’d like to get our dick wet one more time before our time is up. God knows that little pussy “doctor” won’t. She wanted to take me back to her place but I said I couldn’t get busy in my current dejected mood. Honestly, I think taking out some aggression sexually would have improved my mood. I actually didn’t want to risk an appearance from my old nemesis Mr. Whiskey Dick. I said goodbye promising to call, closed my tab, and decided to walk home to clear my head.
On my 123rd step I noticed a man following me. He wore a blue white-pinstriped suit with five hundred dollar brown shoes.
I’ve been followed many times before but never like this. The strange thing was he was ahead of me. He took four of the same turns- keeping an inconspicuous lead the whole time- before I was convinced. At that moment I felt blessed I had decided to snake a butcher’s knife from Harper’s kitchen. Providence. Everything happens for a reason.
I knew the exact spot- a dank narrow alley- on my route home where I would handle this would-be assailant. No one will stop me from my divine mission in starting the restoration of order to this chaotic world.
As soon as he veered right into the alley I charged like the boys on the beaches of Normandy. I stabbed him four times in the right side before he fell down, doing a half turn to rest parallel beside a big blue dumpster. He was clutching his side with eyes squeezed shut, his mouth an ugly grimace. I gave him four more punctures to match on the left side and an additional four in the chest making it an even 12. An homage/sacrifice to the great Terry Bradshaw. His body went limp on the tenth stab. I looked around to make sure our privacy would not be disturbed. All clear. I took off those pretentious $500 loafers and took a massive fish sandwich shit inside them. The color matched perfectly. I finished by expelling my rented Yuengling all over his red (on his white shirt; grape on his blueberry coat), white, and blue suit. I sheathed my blade and sauntered out the other end of the alley. Aggression all gone and safety restored. For now.
8 November 2012,
He didn’t show today. Why didn’t he show? I need him. I need the release he gives me; I need the escape of sleep his sessions provide for me.
I realized I don’t know his address, number, or e-mail. Why don’t I have these things? I take all of these things from all my patients in our initial sessions. It must be part of his power. I couldn’t find his Facebook, Twitter, or LinkedIn.
I feel like a heroin addict.
I’m close to breaking.
11/13/12
I wanted to tear off her self-assured smirk,
I wanted to strip her Gucci garments,
I wanted to dissect her and find the root,
I wanted to play around with her insides and discover how everything works,
I wanted to reassemble her sans the plague,
I wanted to fix her…
…I failed.
15 November 2012,
He came back! He had demands and conditionals, but he came back. Some of them seemed very peculiar- like buying fertilizer and avoiding certain sections of the city- but I conceded unconditionally. Anything to have my drug; my escape from this nightmare named reality.
11/22/12
I have a lot to be thankful for this year. I’m thankful my mission is going on without a hitch. I’m thankful Harper has surrendered his/our body to me without a fight; he was even weaker than I estimated. The heart makes men weak. That balding bastard still doesn’t have a clue that we are the same person. I’ve known for so long, expected from the beginning. Last but certainly not least, I’m thankful I can’t be stopped.
29 November 2012,
He said this would be our last session ever. He showed me his/our journal. It’s appalling/amazing. It contains his exploits, executions, and plans to blow up the better part of Washington D.C. on Dec 3; 666 days since the Super Bowl. I know this because he knows this. I bring the demonic denotation of this number up but he won’t admit anything other than it’s a divine mission. He’s irrational.
12/2/12
It’s the eve of a new, better world. I feel like a kid the night before Christmas. Only I am stirring all through the house: loading the rental truck, going over stolen pentagon schematics, going over the best way to blow up where I know they store social security numbers, planning where to set the charges in the White House. It’s all so exciting. I don’t sleep but if I did I’m sure it would elude me tonight.
3 December/12
I will not go without a fight. Yes, you will.
He’s powerful and I have become dependent on him for survival but it’s still my body. Fuck you, it’s mine now and you know it cue ball.
Susan, please help me. She can’t help you; no one can help you.
You’re right. But maybe I can help everyone. I have to try.
Penn Hills psychiatrist turned murderer commits suicide; thwarts own terrorist plot
Published: Tuesday, December 4, 2012, 10:23 a.m.
A Penn Hills resident was found dead in his home early this morning with written evidence documenting two slayings as well as a plan to destroy undisclosed locations in the Washington D.C. area.
Dr. Clint S. Harper, 39, of Briarwood Drive, took his own life early yesterday morning with a Remington Model 11 shotgun.
Police also found the remains of Pittsburgh’s missing person Angela Cross, 27, in the basement. Dental records confirmed her identity. Harper is also responsible for the unsolved street slaying of Pittsburgh business man Colin McCarthy.
Barbra Turner, Dr. Harper’s former assistant, said the man was not well since the death of his wife (he killed himself on the two year anniversary of her passing). She recalls her termination:
“On the first of October he just came out to my desk and told me I was through. He seemed incoherent and his eyes were glazed over. I had already been seeking employment elsewhere since his patient list had dwindled to almost nothing. I didn’t object. I just felt bad for him. After Susan died he just fell apart.”
Bottles of Xanax, Oxycodone, Ambien, and Oxycontin were found in the man’s residence.
Harper was suffering from dissociative identity disorder, commonly referred to as split personality disorder. The personality Harper invented had terrorists designs on D.C. Harper thwarted these plans by taking his own life.
He left a note which simply read: “You lose.”
September 27, 2012
October 3, 2012