Chapter Two:
Four Years Later
Malcolm Crowe arrived on time to his first appointment with Vincent in the evening on August 9th, 1989. This was unlike his first appointment with Cole about ten years later, which he missed.
Vincent's parents were divorced by then and he was living with his father, who had developed an addiction to alcohol, yet had still somehow managed to get full custody (he had a job and his mother didn't because she had been fired from the grocery store). It wasn't Harry who had hired Malcolm; it had been Mary. On one of her weekly visits with Vincent she had noticed something about him. He was distant. He was afraid. She had done some research to get a really good child psychologist and had found Malcolm Crowe to be the best one within two states.
Malcolm had Vincent down as having a possible mood disorder, something that he would also find in another child in 1999. Of course, he didn't know that yet.
Playing with his plastic soldiers was Vincent's only way to escape reality. His only way to escape the fact that he virtually never saw his mother anymore, that his father yelled at him a lot and threatened to hurt him, and that he could see them. That he could see why people were afraid when they were alone.
Vincent was kneeling down by the coffee table in front of the red couch worn from years and years of use that Malcolm was sitting on. Malcolm was looking at Vincent as Vincent played with his plastic soldiers. His fingers were interlocked and his hands were resting in his lap. He was wearing a trench coat because, by the end of his appointment with Vincent, it was predicted to rain. He also had an umbrella with him, which was lying on the carpet-lacking, wooden floor.
"Do you agree with the arrangement of custody?" Malcolm asked in a low, orderly voice. Vincent looked at him blankly. He was now ten years old, yet his eyes looked thirty. He had been forced to age much too fast and Malcolm felt bad for him. Malcolm rephrased his question. "Do you agree with the fact that the state gave your father full custody?" Malcolm had no doubt that Vincent understood the meaning of 'custody'. He had probably heard it a lot in the last year or so.
Vincent considered the question--he didn't need to, but he wanted to fool Malcolm into believing nothing was wrong, which he wasn't doing a good job of--and then shook his head slowly. He then returned to his green, plastic soldiers. He had at least a hundred of them spread out over the table. Vincent wasn't really playing with the soldiers; he was putting them up for display. The soldiers were like a snap shot of a war. Malcolm thought there was something odd about how he wasn't picking the pieces up and making them fight with those fake gun shot sounds.
"Why is that?" Malcolm dug further.
Vincent returned his attention to Malcolm. He looked irritated at the constant interruption of Malcolm. "My dad's boring," he stated simply. That wasn't the truth. He couldn't tell Malcolm the truth. "He's sad, too." He felt better now that he had told the truth.
"Anything else?" Vincent pretended to think long and hard. He had another thing picked out long before he finished his acting. "He drinks a little." Malcolm looked over at a small pile of beer cans located in the corner of the living room. It didn't look to him like Harry only drank a little; it looked like he drank a lot. One hell of a lot. "That it?" Vincent pretended again to think long and hard. He then finished this. "Yes. That is it." There was now about a hundred and fifty soldiers on the table. Grey ones on one side and green ones on the other. Vincent had drawn the United States flag on a small piece of paper with crayon and had then put it on the back of the green soldier in the very front.
"You would have preferred to be with your mother?" "Yes," Vincent replied without a feigned thought process.
"She is not boring?" "No. She tells good jokes and takes me on trips to the park." "Tell me your favorite joke that she's ever told you." "Knock, knock." "Who's there?" "Why." "Why, who?" "Why are you in my house?" Malcolm and Vincent cracked smiles at that.
"My dad doesn't tell good jokes." "Tell me one of his." "How do you eat shaved pussy?" "Never mind," Malcolm shook his head. Obviously the father didn't realize that his son was only ten.
"I wish they had let me stay with my mom," Vincent stated.
Malcolm looked around himself. It was getting late and his newly wed wife at home would be getting impatient. He didn't want to make her wait too long as he waited for Harry to get back from wherever he was. Malcolm was free to go whenever he wanted, but he didn't want to leave a child alone in a house. It wasn't safe. He opened his mouth to ask another question when Harry barged in the door soaked, smelling of liquor, and damn near hyperventilating. Malcolm got up and was about to go over and keep Harry steady when Harry said something. "I gotta go sleep. Good night." Harry then disappeared through another door that led into his bedroom. Malcolm looked down at Vincent, who was still setting up his soldiers.
"Does your father always come in like that?" he asked.
"Only a couple times before today," Vincent replied.
Malcolm looked at the clock that was above the couch. It was about ten. He had arrived at eight thirty. Time flew by quickly.
"Will you be okay, Vincent?" "Yes." "I'm going to leave now." "Okay." "Goodbye." "Goodbye." Malcolm then disappeared into the stormy night, leaving Vincent alone with the reason that you are afraid when you are alone.
()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()
Hey, MorbidMan here. So far I have only one reviewer, but that's more than I expected. Thanks for reviewing my first chapter! Sorry for such a short update. I'm tapped for inspiration obviously. I'll see you next chapter. Adios.
"Some people, they call me freak. I am. I am a freak, I mean look at me." - Vincent "The Sixth Sense"
Four Years Later
Malcolm Crowe arrived on time to his first appointment with Vincent in the evening on August 9th, 1989. This was unlike his first appointment with Cole about ten years later, which he missed.
Vincent's parents were divorced by then and he was living with his father, who had developed an addiction to alcohol, yet had still somehow managed to get full custody (he had a job and his mother didn't because she had been fired from the grocery store). It wasn't Harry who had hired Malcolm; it had been Mary. On one of her weekly visits with Vincent she had noticed something about him. He was distant. He was afraid. She had done some research to get a really good child psychologist and had found Malcolm Crowe to be the best one within two states.
Malcolm had Vincent down as having a possible mood disorder, something that he would also find in another child in 1999. Of course, he didn't know that yet.
Playing with his plastic soldiers was Vincent's only way to escape reality. His only way to escape the fact that he virtually never saw his mother anymore, that his father yelled at him a lot and threatened to hurt him, and that he could see them. That he could see why people were afraid when they were alone.
Vincent was kneeling down by the coffee table in front of the red couch worn from years and years of use that Malcolm was sitting on. Malcolm was looking at Vincent as Vincent played with his plastic soldiers. His fingers were interlocked and his hands were resting in his lap. He was wearing a trench coat because, by the end of his appointment with Vincent, it was predicted to rain. He also had an umbrella with him, which was lying on the carpet-lacking, wooden floor.
"Do you agree with the arrangement of custody?" Malcolm asked in a low, orderly voice. Vincent looked at him blankly. He was now ten years old, yet his eyes looked thirty. He had been forced to age much too fast and Malcolm felt bad for him. Malcolm rephrased his question. "Do you agree with the fact that the state gave your father full custody?" Malcolm had no doubt that Vincent understood the meaning of 'custody'. He had probably heard it a lot in the last year or so.
Vincent considered the question--he didn't need to, but he wanted to fool Malcolm into believing nothing was wrong, which he wasn't doing a good job of--and then shook his head slowly. He then returned to his green, plastic soldiers. He had at least a hundred of them spread out over the table. Vincent wasn't really playing with the soldiers; he was putting them up for display. The soldiers were like a snap shot of a war. Malcolm thought there was something odd about how he wasn't picking the pieces up and making them fight with those fake gun shot sounds.
"Why is that?" Malcolm dug further.
Vincent returned his attention to Malcolm. He looked irritated at the constant interruption of Malcolm. "My dad's boring," he stated simply. That wasn't the truth. He couldn't tell Malcolm the truth. "He's sad, too." He felt better now that he had told the truth.
"Anything else?" Vincent pretended to think long and hard. He had another thing picked out long before he finished his acting. "He drinks a little." Malcolm looked over at a small pile of beer cans located in the corner of the living room. It didn't look to him like Harry only drank a little; it looked like he drank a lot. One hell of a lot. "That it?" Vincent pretended again to think long and hard. He then finished this. "Yes. That is it." There was now about a hundred and fifty soldiers on the table. Grey ones on one side and green ones on the other. Vincent had drawn the United States flag on a small piece of paper with crayon and had then put it on the back of the green soldier in the very front.
"You would have preferred to be with your mother?" "Yes," Vincent replied without a feigned thought process.
"She is not boring?" "No. She tells good jokes and takes me on trips to the park." "Tell me your favorite joke that she's ever told you." "Knock, knock." "Who's there?" "Why." "Why, who?" "Why are you in my house?" Malcolm and Vincent cracked smiles at that.
"My dad doesn't tell good jokes." "Tell me one of his." "How do you eat shaved pussy?" "Never mind," Malcolm shook his head. Obviously the father didn't realize that his son was only ten.
"I wish they had let me stay with my mom," Vincent stated.
Malcolm looked around himself. It was getting late and his newly wed wife at home would be getting impatient. He didn't want to make her wait too long as he waited for Harry to get back from wherever he was. Malcolm was free to go whenever he wanted, but he didn't want to leave a child alone in a house. It wasn't safe. He opened his mouth to ask another question when Harry barged in the door soaked, smelling of liquor, and damn near hyperventilating. Malcolm got up and was about to go over and keep Harry steady when Harry said something. "I gotta go sleep. Good night." Harry then disappeared through another door that led into his bedroom. Malcolm looked down at Vincent, who was still setting up his soldiers.
"Does your father always come in like that?" he asked.
"Only a couple times before today," Vincent replied.
Malcolm looked at the clock that was above the couch. It was about ten. He had arrived at eight thirty. Time flew by quickly.
"Will you be okay, Vincent?" "Yes." "I'm going to leave now." "Okay." "Goodbye." "Goodbye." Malcolm then disappeared into the stormy night, leaving Vincent alone with the reason that you are afraid when you are alone.
()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()
Hey, MorbidMan here. So far I have only one reviewer, but that's more than I expected. Thanks for reviewing my first chapter! Sorry for such a short update. I'm tapped for inspiration obviously. I'll see you next chapter. Adios.
"Some people, they call me freak. I am. I am a freak, I mean look at me." - Vincent "The Sixth Sense"