Jamin
Cookie Crisp
Registered: 02/25/05
Posts: 2649
Loc: Texas
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So remember that little story intro I posted in my blog awhile ago? I got to a point where it was nearly finished, but I couldn't decide exactly how it needed to end. So I stopped writing it, and then forgot about it for awhile. But I just took it up again, and I think I'm ready to finish it. So here is the first of nine (I think) parts, which I'll add to every day or two as I get time. Technically it's not finished yet, but now I know where I want to take it, at least.
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<B>Emotional Attachment</B>
The red leather of the couch squeaked underneath him. He was fidgety. He was always fidgety, but it was worse when he had to talk to people. Especially doctors. They always feigned understanding, and pretended like they were listening to you, grunting and nodding in the appropriate places, when instead they were thinking about improving their golf swing, or casting sidelong glances at the clock to see how long they had to keep up the charade.
This was a new doctor, one who wasn't yet familiar with the story. As such, it would have to be explained again. It wasn't like he hadn't already explained it to countless other doctors before; at least by this point he was fairly sure he knew all the highs and lows that needed touched on to get the most important bits across. He also knew the things that were better left unsaid until later sessions… much later sessions.
But even if he hadn't known what to say himself, they would have helped him along. They were good at that. They always seemed to know the right thing to say at the right time, and though they had no voices of their own, they were always more than willing to use his.
And they were the entire reason he was speaking to doctors in the first place. Without them, he would have been completely normal. Or at least as normal as anyone else these days, which, truth be told, wasn't really saying much.
He could hear the doctor, asking all the same questions as all the others. He answered the doctor when it was required, but for the most part he was just running on autopilot. He didn't really have to think about the answers, he was just parroting them anyway. How long have they been around? Why, golly gee, doctor, they've been around since I was about twenty or so. And what do they say? Nothing important, really. Some of it is helpful, some is hurtful, and some is meaningless random junk that he had never been able to figure out. What do you mean by hurtful? Nothing like burning down buildings or anything, usually just advice that turns out to be less than stellar. And do you ever see them, or just hear them? Why, I only hear them, I've never seen them as far as I know. You done yet, doc? Can we go play down by the ol' warehouse? Stupid doctors. What did they know?
What they said wasn't important, though what they said was usually what the doctors seemed to fixate on. He knew what was really important. The only important things were his ability to distinguish them from reality, and his ability to, most of the time, know the difference between the helpful, the hurtful and the meaningless. Thus far, he'd been able to do all of that, which was good. Sometimes, though… sometimes he wondered. Lately it seemed that the instances in which he'd mistaken the bad advice for good were growing more frequent. Some of those instances could be chalked up to situations entirely out of his control, but not nearly enough of them for him to feel comfortable. Go get a new coat.
That wasn't the only reason he was beginning to feel uncomfortable. Always before, he could honestly tell the doctors that the hurtful things he heard were mostly just some not-so-good advice. This was slowly turning into more of a lie than the truth. You are secondhand smoke.
---Jamin
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