The Therapist

I’ve always been fond of the quiet nature of things. I considered myself to be an excellent observer in things at an early age, perhaps it was because there was not much to observe anyways in inanimate objects, yet I was quite fond of them. Rather than looking at the cars and buses that drove by my house every now and then, or being drawn by the flashing of lights on the TV whenever it was turned on, I turned my attention to the less exciting parts of my childhood home – the furniture. Although I was not interested in examining their designs and embroideries, there was one chair that caught my attention the most, it was a large armchair in the corner of my childhood bedroom, it possessed a depressing tone, its cushion sank heavily from years of wear and being sat on, which only emulated that even further. I do not have the best memory of things, but for something that was of a significant interest in my early life, I still don’t quite remember ever sitting on it, let alone long enough for it to have been worn down. My young self did not know how to describe it, that feeling that I had gotten from looking at the chair. But now I would say it was almost a sense of envy, even though the chair was stuffed with cotton inside, it’s still so hollow, devoid of conscience and thoughts, merely existing simply because it sat in my room. I, for one, began to feel more trapped in my mind more and more as I grew up, which is why I decided to move out of the city into the quiet suburbs. 

As I moved my things into my new house, I couldn't help but wonder if perhaps there was another reason I wanted to leave–to get away from my parents. Growing up, I was never close to my father, but the times I didn’t spend alone, I spent with my mother. My parents argued too often, sometimes their yelling grew so intense that I had to hide in my own bedroom to get away from it all. In my house there was never much silence. At night, I would sneak outside into the hallway to check on my parents, and I would always see my mother crying softly in the bed as my father slept soundly. It was a maddening sight for me, so I had lost my touch with my dad. My mom was so distressed half the time that I didn’t want to talk to her about my worries and anxiety at school or in general, simply because I did not want to pain her even further–that’s when I decided to see the therapist. On some days when I could not handle my mental stress anymore, I would, without anyone knowing, invite the therapist over. He’d crawl in quietly on all four limbs from outside my bedroom’s window and sit on that armchair in the dark, lonely corner of my room, and listen to me. It was certainly easier than having myself sneak out of the house. This went on for years, and that was how I dealt with all my inner conflicts, without my parents ever finding out. Then I remembered, it was the therapist who had advised me to leave.

The night in my neighborhood was chill and quiet, the amorphous sky was starkly beautiful. Being a mailman at night, I had this all to myself. A mailman can stroll freely in the night without making excuses to go on a long walk, without attracting suspicion as he walks about the neighborhood, without a care of anybody else in the world. My first shift was somewhat enlightening, for I was never able to enjoy such peace in the city. I gathered my belongings, walked onto the street, and embraced the cool, splendid air. Then I began to deliver my mail. I walked, and put mail into a mailbox, I walked, and put mail in the mailbox, I walked, and put mail in the mailbox. The mailboxes lined perfectly in symmetry between the houses and stretched on for miles into the darkness–I walked and my mind was almost silent. The lamp posts on the streets emitted a sort of small, circular spot light onto the ground every now and then, they dispersed the darkness that surrounded me by a miniscule amount, and was just enough light for me to see a dozen meters in front of me but not the immediate space around. Since I was in a contemplative mood, I thought about my old house, my old room, the armchair that I had brought with me, and the night I bid farewell to my mother. I did not think about that night for very long, the details I’ve long forgotten. I closed my eyes and smiled contently. No one was on the street at this time and hour, so I walked and put mail in the mailbox–then there was a figure. I blinked and blinked again, some fifty meters ahead of me, a figure stood right on the fringe of a spot light, which was the only reason it was visible to me at all, for the rest of the neighborhood was submerged in utter darkness. Its long, slim silhouette was reflected under the streetlight, with one of its arms protruding out of the darkness. Its limb was thin and lifeless, covered in an unnatural shade of gray, the fingers fidgeted awkwardly and almost seemed unattached to the rest of the body. I squinted my eyes as I approached very slowly–the figure stood very still, but I could almost make out the corner of a smile from the light, though the dark, gray matter that I assumed were his teeths did not reflect any light. A quiet droning sound began to pulsate all around me. I grew very nervous, yet my heart sat still. The droning grew to a whisper. I decided to continue delivering my mails and ignore the figure. I turned and looked at the mailbox in front of me, opened it, and put mail in the mailbox. I noticed the droning got louder, it almost resembled someone groaning. I started breathing frantically, the sound seemed to urge me to look back at the streetlight. Now the drone sounded like a dying man, howling in my face. I turned and saw an empty street ahead of me–it was gone. I blinked and blinked again, and finished the rest of my shift. I could almost certainly tell that the figure was the Therapist who visited me that night.