Writing with the reader in mind is so pure…we do it well, to quote one of my so many heroes. Take your pick. Our governing cliches and disasters dictate such ducts; alas, I am not without my many failings and many lost opportunities. We are indeed lost, cast aside without such entities, which is what my shortcomings seek to abridge.
The following is part of a longer short love story between an older woman and a younger man, entitled, ‘Free To Those Who Can Afford It, Very Expensive To Those Who Can’t’. It is mainly a work of fiction, with added personal information, as is so common with such ramblings.
[The scene takes place in a moderately-lit room (our troubled soul in question hates bright lights), a doctor/psychoanalyst’s office, with a conversation between a young man in mild crisis, and a female doctor doing her best to offer support, despite the obstacles faced]
H: From a young age—and even now—I carried a strange fantasy and fear with me each night as I went to bed. I’d climb under the covers in pyjama shorts and a t-shirt, only to feel too hot. So I’d peel off layers, tossing them carelessly onto the floor. Then I’d lie back and wait—expecting, absurdly yet anxiously, that something unknown beneath the bed will throw those clothes back at me. I imagined monsters returning them, aiming mostly for my face. It’s mildly comic, wouldn’t you agree? Strangely, I still do this sometimes, even now, at my age. Still waiting and still trembling a little in the dark. It will make the basis for a good kids’ horror. Does that move you at all?
Analyst: Henry, do you still have those… release fantasies?
H: Which ones would that be? From life?
Analyst: The ones where your seed becomes a poison, and she dies from it.
H: Ah, no. That was only one woman — the last. I do often wonder what life would have been like if my sperm were indeed potent enough to cause death, to her at least. Incels don’t have this imagination. What about the clothes and the monsters under the bed and such-and-such?
Analyst: That part — that part isn’t strange at all. This is common amongst all the coolest of cat motherfuckers. Why do you use the word Incel? Do you regard yourself in that category?
H: [Did I imagine the ‘coolest of cat motherfuckers’ bit, or was it actually said?] Really? Ah, well, that is something. No. I’ve had enough lays, lies, and betrayals to know that I’m not, allegations indeed come and go… And what about the deadly sperm? A rebel from the waist down? Isn’t Orwell tremendous?
Analyst: That’s neither here nor there. It’s the unimportant longings for your death manifesting through a lost love of current hatred; you’re not cut out for the serial killer game, so you fantasize death via options that you associate with love. Forget about it, fuck that cunt.
H: [I was starting to dream again, surely she wouldn’t say ‘F that Cunt in the Cunt?’] Bullshit, Doc. I know deep down my love, my serial killer fixations, and blah, and so on. I need a story. “Where is my arc, Paulie?” Is it in the here and now? Truth be told, life lies elsewhere, sadly.
Analyst: Henry, your manifestations are a direct result of a common fantasy. It’s the one where you are the ‘Gonzo’ journalist of the story. Forget about it. The world does not revolve around you. Your solipsism will not save you, my boy. Neither will your inability to grieve the loss of ‘her’ as you put it.
H: The monsters under the bed won’t leave me alone, never mind memories of that wreck of a human. These days, the dogs do their bit, or bite as I call it, haha, in keeping them away. But they won’t be around too long. The Corgi is going on five, and the King Charles is almost seven years old. Solipsism seems like my only hope for God’s sake. Did you know that woman, what a phrase, that child, rather, used to leave all her clothes and other nonsense right out on the bedroom floor? That bitch knew exactly what she was doing. She knew how to rein in night and day terror. Even now, I can’t bear the thought of going to bed.
