The Final Project

My final project for Parapsychology and the Occult was to write a short story. Now, originally, I didn't hand it in like a bad student, because I had A's across the board and thought I could get away with a B- or so without it. Unfortunately not true; my professor gave me an Incomplete instead. However, he's nice enough to let me hand it in late and change my grade. 

Ironically, I actually really enjoyed writing this, so I'm kind of glad I got the Incomplete. And now I'm sharing it with you lovely individuals. One thing I'd like to point out, though: in the middle, Lucy lists behavioral traits of someone who's been sexual abused. These are completely made up. I have no idea if they're true or not. I just needed something.

Enjoy!

x(X)x

“Have you ever felt uncomfortable around certain people in your family?” Lucinda “Lucy” Marr the I’m-so-high-and-mighty-because-I’m-a-therapist adjusts her glasses. I don’t like her. I knew that from my very first meeting with her three weeks ago. It didn’t make much difference to the Woodward Asylum, though. She was the only therapist here that was “qualified” (whatever that means) to deal with my psychosis since Madison, my last therapist, left. 

“Arielle,” Lucy the I’m-going-to-treat-you-like-a-child-even-though-you’re-twenty-six said with a sigh. “You aren’t going to get anywhere by staying silent.”

“I know,” I said, not looking up from the candy wrappers. I needed them to be smooth. Perfectly, completely smooth. No wrinkles, no lines. Just flat against the glass coffee table, as if they’d never been wrapped around circular butterscotch candies.

Lucy the I-think-peroxide-orange-hair-is-cool shifted in her seat, writing something down in that infuriating pad of paper. One day, I’d get my hands on that and see just exactly what she’s been writing down about me. Probably something about being insolent. “You mentioned an Uncle Harold once. Tell me more about him.”

“Eppie thinks aliens are going to abduct him in his sleep.” I say instead. The wrapper wouldn’t lie flat. I’d need a book or something else equally heavy to make it so, and I wouldn’t get to one until after the session. I couldn’t wait that long. I dig one nail under another instead. The skin under my thumb starts to bleed. I ignore it, just like I ignore Lucy-the-wearer-of-too-much-sickly-sweet-perfume when I’m with her three times a week for an hour.

Lucy the possessor-of-all-the-knowledge-of-the-universe-because-I-went-to-grad-school writes down something else. Might of been about Eppie. “We’re not here to talk about Jacob Eppler, Arielle. We’re here to talk about you.”

“I know,” I grab another candy. Maybe I could get this wrapper smooth. I toss the candy onto the table with the others and set to work on the wrapper.

She doesn’t say anything. Just watches me mess with my wrappers, and occasionally writing something down on that pad. I like to think I’m her most troublesome patient in Woodward Asylum. I know I’m definitely not the most agreeable. I don’t want to be here. My fiancee signed me in, and I can’t sign myself out. Apparently once I’m in, they get to decide when to discharge me. I almost got out once. Almost.

“Do you believe in aliens?” I run my bleeding thumbnail across the wrapper. It works better with a spoon, but the cafeteria workers never let us keep those. I tried once. They wouldn’t give me any utensils to eat with for two weeks after that, even on pasta days.

“I never gave it much thought,” Lucy I-think-blood-red-nails-match-maroon-shirts said. “There’s so much space, who’s to say?”

“Eppie believes there’s a microchip in his head that the aliens use to watch him. Says he has to get it out before Marshall Applewhite’s comes back for him.” He’s terrified of Marshall Applewhite. Sometimes he refuses to drink anything the cafeteria serves because he thinks it’s poisoned and he’ll accidentally become a part of Heaven’s Gate.

“Do you believe that?” Lucy I-really-need-to-learn-how-to-put-makeup-on-without-overdoing-it raised an eyebrow. Today the space between her eyelashes and her eyebrows are bronze and cakey looking. But they’re always cakey-looking.

I shrug. “Eppie does.” I sit back on the couch, giving a lock of hair a good pull. A few strands come out in my hand. Knowing there’s less hair on my head makes me uncomfortable. I clench my jaw and glare that the wrappers. If they’d just comply, I wouldn’t have to feel so uneasy. She writes down something else.

“What else does Jacob tell you?” Lucy the I-believe-in-the-power-of-feng-shui tilts her chair so she can sit sideways. 

I shrug again, staring at the wrinkled wrappers. I don’t see Eppie much. Mostly in the free room. He’s nice, but a bit funny. Taught me how to fake taking my pills. Not that I’d tell Lucy-the-annoying that. I don’t want to take my pills. Sometimes I think Eppie should, though. He’s easier to understand when he does. My reflection stares back at me on the glass table.

“Arielle,” Lucy it’s-really-Lucinda-but-only-my-mother-calls-me-that prompts. I look up. I can see the brown of her roots. “What else does Jacob tell you?”

“The president is an alien.” I say softly. “He put us in the war in Iraq so it’d be easier for them to invade the planet.” Lucy-the-insensitive stifles (badly) a snicker. I don’t care what they say, I know she judges us. We’re in a freakin’ asylum, aren’t we? 

“Do you believe that?” Lucy-who’ll-probably-become-a-crazy-cat-lady asks. My fingers find the hole in the cushion, picking at the foam insides. I pull out chunks slowly. It makes the couch cushion uneven. I shift so I can’t feel it.

“I don’t even know who the president is anymore.” I tell her. I don’t. I don’t care to know, either. They don’t like to let us watch the news channels here. Probably because of people like Eppie. He’d find something new to freak out about.

“You’re using Jacob as a shield.” Lucy-the-obvious comments. I hadn’t noticed. No, really, I had no idea. I roll my eyes. She must be sick of aliens and Eppie. That sucks, because Eppie’s session is after mine. “Uncle Harold. Tell me about him.”

I scoot forward on the couch again. Grabbing the wrappers, I start wrapping pieces of the foam couch insert in them. They’re bumpy, unlike the candies, and it bothers me. But I can’t put the candies back in them, they’re covered in germs. “He’s my uncle.”

Lucy I’d-make-a-better-secretary-than-a-therapist scribbles something else. “Do you like him?”

I untwist a wrapper and add more foam. It needs to be round, and it’s not. I bite the inside of my cheek so hard it bleeds. Uncle Harold is the most crass person I know. He’s loud, perverted, and likes his drink a little too much. “No. He’s crude.”

Lucy the I’m-getting-annoyed-by-your-short-answers nods several times. I don’t like how interested she looks right now. I don’t like her, but that’s not the point. “Has he always made you uncomfortable?”

I pull more foam from the cushion. Lucy I’m-not-paid-enough-for-this-job gives me a chastising look, but doesn’t comment. For once. “I guess. After we moved to Arizona, I didn’t see him very much.”

“Were you ever alone with him for long periods of time?” Lucy I-think-I’m-two-sizes-smaller-than-I-really-am writes something down furiously. I doubt whatever she’s writing is legible at that speed.

“A couple times,” I nod. “He used to babysit me before Nate was born.” 

Lucy I’d-love-to-have-children-but-I’d-traumatize-them-and-I’d-probably-never-land-a-husband-anyways takes a swig from her bottled water. She has a new one every time I see her. I know because none of them have that horrible pink lipstick on them until the middle of our sessions. I wonder if she knows it’s just tap water.

“Did Uncle Harold ever...touch you? In a way that you didn’t like?” Lucy I-belong-in-an-asylum-as-a-patient-not-a-therapist says carefully.

My eyes widen. “Are...Are you asking if he molested me?” I don’t like that suggestion. My heart rate spikes and I can feel my palms grow sweaty. She leans forward in her chair, resting her elbows on her knees.

“Deep breaths, Arielle,” Lucy-the-insufferable says. She just doesn’t want to deal with the paperwork if I have a panic attack in her office.

“Why would you say that?! Just because I don’t like him?” My voice is hysterical now. I can’t believe her. “Why?! Do I seem that dirty to you?!”

“No, Arielle, that’s not what I meant at all,” Lucy I-want-to-punt-her-face-across-the-room takes my hand in hers. I pull it out of her grasp immediately. After an accusation like that she has no right to be touching me. Or talking to me. Or existing.

“You exhibit some behavioral qualities of women who’ve been molested or raped when they were younger. Panic attacks. Uncomfortable around new people, especially men. Dislike of touching.” Lucy maybe-I’ll-burn-her-alive-instead continues. “Arielle, it’s very possible you were and repressed the memory of the event.”

I stare at her. Could I have been? I don’t like Uncle Harold, but could he really be that vile? “How..How do you know? If I had?”

“Tonight, after lights out, I want you to imagine you’re little again, the same age you were when Uncle Harold used to babysit you. Imagine him coming in and getting into bed with you. Touching you. It might make repressed memories surface.” Lucy-the-tart says, trying to keep a comforting tone, but really, there’s no way to say what she just did in a comforting way. “It’s very possible you created a screen memory to hide those events.”

I stare at the wrappers. They’re not flat. I need them to be smooth. I lean forward and run my thumb over it, pressing it into the glass. “Okay.” I say softly. Could he...? I bite my lip to stop the thought, pressing my thumb almost painfully against the wrapper.

Lucy-the-most-insulting-person-in-the-world sits back in her chair. “We’re almost out of time, Arielle. Remember your homework assignment and tell me about it next week.”

I nod, still smoothing out the wrappers. The foam is mixed in among the candies, vile, unnecessary. They’re both yellow like Uncle Harold’s hair. Vile like him.

x(X)x

Leave me a thought. What did you think?

Wander safely,

Arc.