Is it strange that I thought my life to be something like a black-and-white movie?
I've always been mundane, and exceedingly average. I grew up lonely, went to primary school, never got into trouble, and the only differing thing about my family to the one next door, was that Harriet, my sister, became Harry.
Nothing truly exciting happened to me. No. Not in uni, nor when I moved into my first flat. Not even when I started my first job.
So, it is entirely true that nothing ever happened in my beginning of my life. It was just plain. It was just black-and-white. I was just John Watson.
However, one day is all it takes for something to change, and that day came.
It was when I enlisted into the army, and being in it had helped catch a glimpse of a colored lifestyle—sudden hues of oranges, reds, and yellows filling in my vision. I found life, and I found somewhat, happiness. A new flavor had hit my tongue, and I soon got addicted; identifying the taste as pure danger, and pure adrenaline.
As quick as my new life came though, it went. Like a blink of an eye, the colors were replaced, and it was all black-and-white again.
I got shot in the leg, so I couldn't work in the army anymore. "Take some rest."' So, I went back to London. Psychosomatic limp—oh, I need a therapist. Keep a blog, she'd advised. I'll keep it blank. I remember that there's nothing awfully special about me. My flat is too expensive, being that I only lived on army pension. That means I either must find a flatmate, or I have to downsize. I don't work well with people, so I might just look at some flats in the outskirts of London. I start looking up ads on the Internet, and in magazines. It's tedious work.
One autumn day, during mid-afternoon, I head to my therapist's by hailing a cab, and telling the cabbie where to go. When I arrive outside her office, I slowly limp to her door with the help of my trusty cane. Climbing up three steps, and finally reaching it, I ring her doorbell, and she answers it by welcoming me in. She walks me into her office, and I sit down at the armchair. Right across from me, she begins sitting down too.
She observes me for a bit, and then begins:
"So, John, how are you doing?"
And, I sigh, telling her how my week went, about the flat problem.
She asks me questions, and sometimes, I answer with a rhetorical question.
"Are you feeling any better?" She says.
"Does it look like I'm doing better?" I reply, patting my leg with the cane.
I can see it in the way her eyebrows crinkle downward that she gets annoyed with those answers.
Eventually, she asks about my blog, and I'm not too sure how to reply.
"Have you written anything since the last time you were here?" She tries supplying.
I give a simple, "No," and glance away from her.
"Why's that?" She crosses her legs, and writes something down on her clipboard.
"Because…" I say," …Because, there isn't anything interesting to write about."
Between us, a silence is filled, but then she starts up again.
"Perhaps you should try writing a story about yourself then, but make it with a twist. You can make it fictional, and then apply it to your situation."
"My situation?" I ask, and then understand. "You mean my limp?"
"I do." Then, she pauses, thinking a bit. "For example, you can say that I'm a fairy. You can write on your blog, 'The fairy wears a bright, pink sack-back gown. She offers advice to all the creatures in the land."
Then, she laughs a bit at her own venturing.
"And, I suppose my cane could be dog, and I could name it too?" Sarcasm is laced in my voice.
"Ah, see! Now, you're getting the hang of it." She says, not catching it.
I frown.
After asking a few more questions and receiving my short-answers, the therapist looks at her wristwatch, and she ends the session.
Overall, the whole hour-and-a-half went pretty quick, and I thank her by walking out her door, going down her three steps.
Hailing a taxi, I wonder for a moment if I should start looking around for a flat. Instead, I tell the cabbie to head to a restaurant, not far from my flat. I could walk back, at least.
On the drive there, we occasionally stop and abide to pedestrians. I take my phone out, and open up my contact's list. I only have five, and I open up Harry's contact. I quickly exit, wondering why I checked it in the first place.
I clear my throat, and see if this cabbie was feeling social.
"Weather's gorgeous, don't you think?"
The cabbie offers a grunt of a "right" in response.
My frown deepens.
We were at the stoplight, and as it turns green, I make an effort to start small talk again.
"So, I guess that the way things ar—"
The small talk plan doesn't work, since I never go to complete my sentence.
Instead, I'm thrown to my side violently, and I'm luckily saved by the seatbelt. In result though, the seatbelt digs deeply into my ribs, which knocks the air out of me.
My eyes are spinning. I don't know which is right, down, up, or left, but I do know that I'm in an extremely uncomfortable position.
I attempt to diagnose the situation I was in, under the stress, and pain that was beginning to announce itself.
It definitely hurts to breath. My chest felt as if it were on fire, and every quick gasp of air I took, the fire kept getting fed. I try lifting my head, to check the cabbie, but a strike of pain hits the back of it. I might…most likely have a head injury. After struggling for a bit, my muscles finally give out, and I'm exhausted. With the rate I was in, growing dangerously tired, I knew I was going to pass out anytime soon.
Even the sounds, and the voices of people were dulling out, and in its place, a sort-of ringing enters my ear.
It suddenly grows eerily quiet and peaceful. Behind my eyelids, I see the black dots starting to appear. I understand that I'm seconds away, so close… I might just… I might…
I think...
I...
A/U: First. Thank-you for taking your time to read this!
This was just a sudden inspiration type of writing, so I only checked it over once or twice. I just might have a few grammar, or spelling, or detail mistakes, and if you spot them, then please do leave a review, or PM me!
Oh! Also, if you'd like to know where I got the inspiration from: I saw a picture on Tumblr which where...Well, I can't really share what the picture looks like just yet, since it holds spoilers. I can, however, tell you that it was a crossover between Sherlock and the Wizard of Oz, and I just loved it so much, that I had something to write on it! (Although, I lost where the picture is!)
Also! This is very loosely based off of "The Wizard of Oz" since I haven't seen the movie since I was either 9 or 10. I might get some details wrong, and it is crucial for the story to go on.
Anyway - Comment, Critique.
Thanks for reading!