Psycho-Analysis: The Beginning

by Nuza, Catherine;

  I was trapped in a battle between the need for answers and the disgust I felt at what the facts revealed. What was my past? Who was I really? I was stuck with imbalanced thoughts, trying desperately not to allow my mind to slip. I had no idea what to expect, I hadn’t seen my brother Demetrius for so many years, not to mention that I didn’t know what my real mother was like. Dr Fanstick would just have to wait, this was far more important to me than his worthless life.

  I had relentlessly practised my facial expressions in front of the mirror as well as my tone of voice. I had to be convincing to everyone that I was ‘normal.’ I couldn’t afford another slip-up like yesterday in the park, once was more than enough for me. I’d made sure I wore leather gloves when I was out on business to hide the remnants of my self-discipline. The house was spotless, I had even thrown away anything that Sally had accidentally left behind. It was a clean slate and as impersonal as my soul, it was perfection.

  Dr Fanstick’s letter had given me a possible outlet for my anger and frustration. He was someone I could taunt and suddenly an amazing idea came to mind as I was blending carrots into a morning smoothie. I will go see the dumb buffoon in prison like he’d asked me to, the pathetic ape of a man. I had every malevolent intention of doing exactly that. My mind appreciated the distraction of how I could make him suffer. Payback would be sweet.

  I searched through my wardrobe and picked the smartest suit I owned to wear for my visit. I really wanted to rub it in this demented idiots face that he was beneath me in every possible way. I couldn’t wait to see him dressed in his prison issue uniform! I dug out a small note pad from my desk draw and smiled at the thought of taking notes while he tried to make me feel any sympathy for his unfortunate situation.

  I arrived bright and early at Dawn Vines Prison and watched the shards of sunlight streaking through thick storm clouds. It summed up how I felt, turbulent yet hopeful. I entered the metal enclosure that had fully armed prison officers watching my every move. A woman with a monotonous tone of voice rattled out the list of contraband items I wasn’t permitted to enter with. I emptied my pockets of their scant possessions into a clear plastic bag which was tagged and put into storage for me.

  A prison guard led me through to a room with booths and pointed at a chair, nodding for me to sit down. It was a room constructed out of pure concrete and glass. It made me feel at home. Its lack of warmth and insulation matched my cold-blooded intentions. I looked into the glass and couldn’t contain a smirk at seeing Dr Fanstick sitting there, looking like he’d lost a ton of weight, along with his dignity. His normally suntanned skin was as pale as a ghost. His eyes were sunken into black pits where his sleep deprivation was all too obvious to me. Good, the hairy ape was suffering, I thought as I reached over to the wall to pick up the phone. I pulled out my notepad and pencil, put it on the desk in front of me and sat back comfortably in my chair.

  “How are you feeling today Berryl?” I asked in a calm tone of voice. I looked innocently at him with an eyebrow raised in the same way he’d done to me in every session we’d ever had. I fought hard to stop the urge to blatantly laugh in his ugly, confused face.

  “Hello Khedlar. I’m so happy that you came. I kind of need to ask you a favour, because you and I know, that what happened that day, wasn’t my intention. I need you to be a witness for me and willing to take the stand in court. I am so sorry Khedlar, you have to believe me,” he blurted out as his nose became runny with germ-filled mucous. His eyes searched mine, trying to find sympathy.

  I mirrored his gaze and took down a couple of notes before responding to his pathetic, inconceivable request. “So Berryl, how does this make you feel?”

  His jaw dropped open due to my complete disregard to his question. I wanted him to feel that his words were irrelevant and insulting to my sensibilities.

  “Yeah um, I am a bit confused Khedlar. Would you be willing to do that for me?” he asked again.

  His persistence was annoying and yet somehow profoundly amusing to me. “Uh-huh, that is very interesting Berryl,” I said as I added to my notes. I didn’t bother to look up and ignored him like he used to ignore me. I hoped he felt insignificant and worthless.

  “Khedlar please, I can’t stay in prison. There are really scary people in here. I’m not one of them. What happened was a mistake, can’t you see that? I’m so sorry for what happened to you,” he begged me in a whining, desperate tone of voice.

  “Well Berryl, it has been really nice catching up and all but I have such a busy life these days. Maybe next week we can talk some more,” I said in a sarcastic tone of voice as I got up from my chair to leave. I put the phone back on its receiver, tucked my notepad and pencil into my jacket pocket and gave him one of those fake smiles, I thought it would make him feel right at home!

  Berryl was livid, his face was purple and the chords of his neck popped out as he struggled to contain his anger.

  “Khedlar! Khedlar please!” he screamed silently. It was all quite funny to be honest, how pathetic I thought as a real smile took over my expression when I turned my back on him to leave. Suffer until next time Berryl, I thought as I sauntered out of the prison. I wished I could have taken a photo of his face as a keepsake.

  The day arrived for me to face my biological mother, Georgia. Finally I would find out whom my family were and that last missing piece which I’d been searching for so long would be within reach. The last few days had been a blur, although I did retain a certain amount of pleasure remembering Berryl’s pathetic face in my photographic mind. The house was nearly at the point I had envisaged and rearranging my scarce belongings occupied my days. It was almost therapeutic as I meticulously calculated and created the masks I needed to wear when I would be face-to-face with mother.

  I took a deep breath to contain my impatience as I packed my bag and called a taxi. Within fifteen minutes it had arrived and the driver was leaning on the horn to get my attention. I calmly locked the door behind me and walked towards the waiting car. I was wearing a long, thick black trench coat and well-polished shoes. The cold seeped into my bones and kept my senses on edge. My breath was condensing in the cold, crisp air, leaving steamy trails of white smoke hanging in the chilled atmosphere. I heard my shoes crunching on the freshly frosted gravel. As I got to the taxi I was surprised to see the same Italian driver who had picked me up from hospital.

  With a sigh of relief I opened the door of my chariot to the truth. I strapped myself in as he turned to look at me. “Wer to tudei?” he asked, smiling at me.

  I could see a piece of something green caught in-between his almost dog-like, canine teeth. I was pleasantly surprised to find that his bodily odours were noticeably absent. Maybe he’d found his shower and some soap or something, either way his newfound hygiene made it easier to concentrate on the thoughts in my mind.

  “Take me to the train station,” I told him. I took in the details of his cab and saw he had an old cardboard pine tree hanging from his rear-view mirror. He had crumpled bits of take-away wrappers from burgers and coffees he’d consumed while driving which were left lying on the passenger seat. He kept scratching at his leg as if the skin was crawling underneath. He might not stink any more but he still had a long way to go.

  On the way to the station I saw people with their children walking along the pavement, holding hands. They all seemed to be cheerful and oblivious. I wonder what being happy, really, genuinely happy feels like? I suppose for the mentally challenged feeling happy is second nature, due to the fact they are happy for no apparent reason and aren’t intelligent enough to think about what state they are truly in.

  I paid the taxi driver, grabbed my bag and got out of the car. I walked to my platform and got the next train stopping at Fenstow. The journey wasn’t long at all, a mere forty-five minutes that dragged on for an eternity as the trip began to irritate me.

  When I arrived I immediately got a taxi to 84 Queen’s Chapel Road. At least this driver kept his cab clean and it smelled of pungent
lavender. He kept on chewing his gum and I worried that he might not dispose of it properly. I could almost make out the germ-infested saliva particles spraying into the atmosphere as his open mouth bit noisily into the wet, chewy gunk in his mouth.

  I saw the bakers, supermarket, souvenir shops and a few unimpressive houses which, in my opinion, destroyed the picturesque quality that the rest of the town possessed. I didn’t really care, it just took my mind off where I was going and what was in store for me.

  The taxi driver spoke up for the first time. “I’m turning into the road now. The address you want in at the far end,” he said.

  As we reached house number 84 my eyes widened in disbelief. The structure that loomed into sight was jaw-dropping and amazing. I’d never seen such an exquisite materialisation of architectural beauty until now.

  “Thanks,” I said automatically while I scanned my destination. So Georgia was loaded and then some!

  “Here we are,” he managed to say this as he added yet another stick of gum into his fish-pouting mouth.

  My first reaction was to start an argument about the price he wanted to charge for the journey but the more I looked at the house, the less it seemed to matter. All that was important now was meeting my biological mother and finding my brother.

  I collected my bag from the boot and reluctantly paid him the exorbitant amount without including a tip. He drove off in a huff and I stood there, a microscopic man in comparison to this giant sized building.

  I entered the metal gates, closing them carefully behind me before ascending the ornate stairs that led to the front door of the mansion. I rang the doorbell and then I inhaled a deep breath of fresh air in order to prepare myself. I tapped my foot impatiently on the black marble step and read the cardinal red coloured doormat which said ‘Stone Residence.’ I could hear a tune from inside I’d never heard before; it had such an air of sadness to it. I stood outside impatiently, waiting for someone to open the huge mahogany doors.

  “Good morning Master Slater, your mother has been expecting you. Please follow me, I will show you to your room,” said a short bulldog of a man. He wore a suit which looked more expensive than mine and his face had a well-trimmed beard. His legs bowed, looking almost like they’d been squashed from standing too much, but regardless of this he flowed lightly across the floor on feet that almost glided with power.

  I picked up my bag and followed him to my allotted room. The house was even more exceptional on the inside. It oozed with opulence, elegance and money. The floors were carpeted in rich fabrics from around the world and statues decorated the vast hallways. The walls were covered in hand painted works of art that were originals and probably worth a small fortune. The house gleamed with cleanliness and I could smell the cleaning products used in the atmosphere. We walked down four corridors, took several turns and stairwells to find my room; I knew I was hopelessly lost.

  On the next right corner he turned to me and said “Your room sir, I hope it is to your liking. My name is Francs and I am Georgia’s butler. If there is anything you need, just let me know. I am at your service.” He opened the door, took my bag from me and placed it on the luggage rack by the wooden four-poster bed. He solemnly walked out of the room without making any further eye contact with me.

  “Thank you Francs,” I said to the uptight back of ‘the butler.’ He was an arrogant piece of work with an attitude problem that I was going to thoroughly enjoy correcting. Francs needed to learn his place and realize I wasn’t somebody he could talk to in such a condescending manner. People were enough to make me want to vomit, they were such an inconvenient and irrelevant distraction, especially when they made me angry.

  I thought it was bizarre that Georgia hadn’t come down to welcome me at the front door of her house but had sent her butler instead. Where was Demetrius for that matter? I had a strange feeling in my gut of being somewhere I was supposed to be but at the same time wondering where everybody was hiding and why. None of this felt right or good and my instincts were telling me to get out of here while I still could and fast.

  I examined the room closely and noticed that it was decorated in a Victorian style. Almost all the furniture was made of dark mahogany wood, just like the front doors. The bed was a massive, presidential-sized four-poster that was hand-carved with green velvet covers and matching curtains hanging off the posts. The bed posts had tormented demons on it and they looked like they were trying to pull free of the wood they were carved in. Snakes coiled around their bodies, holding them back, refusing them release from their wooden prison, my bed! I shivered briefly at the haunted looks their faces held as their mouths hung silently open in an endless, unheard cry for help.

  I began to feel hunger pulling at my taunt gut, making it grumble in dissatisfaction. I’d been so pre-occupied and focused on getting here that I’d forgotten to have lunch. I’d missed my routine sandwich of toasted bread cut evenly with a thin layer of butter and jam and a cup of strong black coffee. I rubbed it without much thought to ease the tension knowing I had to eat something soon.

  I decided to distract my attention away from my groaning stomach and went to unpack my things. I opened my bag and took out the neat pile of clothes inside. I was annoyed when I saw that they’d moved around during the journey, creasing some of my favourite shirts. The demanding sounds of hunger that my stomach was vocalizing only made me feel worse. I finished hanging up my clothes, neatly refolded my underwear and placed it in the middle draw.

  I was just about to leave the room in search of my mother or brother when I heard a firm, resonating knock on the door. “Come in,” I said in a sharp tone as my irritation at being interrupted grew. The door opened and revealed Francs, who looked flustered, possibly from climbing all those stairs.

  “Master Slater, your mother hopes you have settled in nicely and asked me to tell you to join her for a late lunch in the dining room,” he said. He conveyed this with his head held high as he looked down his nose at me. I thought his manner was completely snobbish and offensive to my sensibilities.

  “Yes, please convey to my mother that it would be lovely,” I replied sarcastically as his eyes finally descended to make contact with mine. I gave him a challenging glare daring him to push it further so I could have the satisfaction of punching his smug face.

  “Marvellous, please follow me if you are ready,” he said, sounding even more pompous and full of himself. His chest puffed out like a constipated penguin trying to break wind. He was an ugly creature.

  “Yes, by all means, lead the way Francs,” I said attempting to meet his snobbish level of restrained condescension as sarcasm was my second nature and this idiot could learn a lesson or two from me.

  We proceeded on a ridiculously long trek through hallways, corridors and staircases yet again. Finally I found myself standing in front of two solid wooden doors. The feeling in my stomach intensified and urged me to leave at once. I knew without a doubt that something wasn’t quite right but I had to meet her. I had to know the answers to the questions burning a hole into my fractured mind and she was the only person I’d never heard the whole story from. I breathed in deeply and nodded at Francs to open the doors.

  The room was immaculate, I wouldn’t have expected anything less. It was blatantly obvious that my mother was dirty rich, with the exquisite taste to match. I felt resentment at being cut out and cast away from all this comfort and beauty that should’ve been part of my life. Instead I had to endure years of agony locked up in that white hell. Pure rage bubbled closely under the surface of my smiling face and I used my well-rehearsed expressions to hide the hatred I felt for her in that moment. I searched the room and saw her sitting in the deep shadows at the far end. The corner she was hidden in concealed her face and presence, allowing her the advantage of having the first look at me without me realizing it.

  Francs pulled a chair out for me and gestured, indicating that I was to sit at the head of this oversized monstrosity of a dining room table. I waited impatientl
y for Francs to leave the room while my hands felt along the table’s edges, examining the intricate, beautifully carved details. I refused to strain my eyes at Georgia, she could look all she liked I thought, all I wanted from her were answers. I can’t say why but my mind began to wonder back to the day when there was so much blood, so red, so dark, so thick and … , and there she was, snapping me out of a sick memory, my mother. It was amazing how just by glancing at her that I knew instantly she was my biological mother.

  I tried to stand but I’d lost sensation in both my legs. They refused to co-operate and I felt adrenalin take over my limp, shocked body. All I could do was look dumbly at her and wonder if at last, I would get the answers to the questions that had me so rattled. This woman was the key to mysteries that haunted my life and I wasn’t entirely sure I wanted the knowledge she greedily possessed. Once I knew what she knew, I couldn’t undo it or hide from it, I would have to face whatever she had to say whether I liked it or not.

  “Hello son,” she said, breaking the ice as she walked serenely to her seat.

  Is that it, I thought to myself? You’ve got to be kidding, she’d barely even glanced at me! It must have been a show to hide how she really felt. I felt like I’d been ripped off, she showed not an ounce of happiness that I’d made the effort to come find her and now I was faced with an emotionless mannequin sitting in front of my face.

  I had smelled her perfume as she glided past me to her seat. It wafted through my nostrils and struck at my darkened past, she was here. She was a painfully thin woman who looked nothing like my ‘other mother,’ Ann. Her face was very serious, it was almost sinister with an unrelenting, pasted on expression. She had a demeanour that revealed her inability of feeling anything in any situation. Her posture showed good breeding and yet her lack of manners contrasted strongly with the impression she was failing to pull off. Her makeup was flawless and yet I could see that her nails were all uneven and had been chewed off in several places. The haunting music from the entrance was coming from an old-fashioned gramophone. The needle scratched at the record as its melody drifted dully into my heightened senses.