"You know, I have always thought that if you put a lump of coal up your ass, when you fart, you'd pop out a diamond," Wanda said, grinning, watching her friend over her martini.
"You're so crass," Clarice replied, laughing. "I'm not that tight, you know."
"Evidently," Wanda replied. "You had whole session with a seriously insane man, entirely for free."
"I couldn't help it!" Clarice replied, sitting back. "He's just so intriguing. I think he goes through episodes when he's alone. His mother lives with him but I think she's some sort of vegetable, and he has to make sure she stays… oiled. But he lives alone other than that, and with his already-psychotic tendencies, a man like him being alone all the time is pretty dangerous. I didn't want him to go home when he was so fragile. And we did have an incredibly interesting conversation!"
"Oh?" Wanda said, sitting back as well. "About what?"
Clarice shrugged. "Nothing, of interest, to be honest. He told me about his mother and how he was afraid of being away from her, but he hated the silence that accompanied her. He also asked about me a little bit, and I basically just told him that I had a normal childhood with divorced parents, lived with my mother and step-dad, grew up normally, went to school like a normal child, had friends, went to university, got my PhD in psychology, blah, blah, blah."
"Did he ask about your relationships?" Wanda asked her friend, frowning slightly. Clarice didn't answer for a long moment. "You didn't mention Pat, did you?"
"I didn't think it was necessary," Clarice replied, quickly. "I didn't want to talk about that with him."
"How long has it been for you?" Wanda asked, taking a sip of her martini, a tiny smirk returning to her face.
"I had a date a year after Pat!" Clarice replied, growing defensive, but also returning the smile.
"Did you sleep with him?"
"Yes!" Clarice replied, taking a large sip of her beer. "It was… Um… Okay?"
Wanda burst out laughing. "You need to get laid, love. For the both of us – it's just excruciating watching you being so tight all the time."
"I'm not tight!" Clarice repeated, making her friend laugh louder.
As Clarice laughed, a body approached her, and hung over her for a moment, placing another beer onto the table in front of herself. She frowned and looked at the beer, following the arm up to the person who brought it. The waitress, same from the night before, smiled kindly and extended her hand to take the beer. Clarice finished the beer and handed her the empty bottle.
"The new beer is compliments of the same man from last night," the waitress said. "He left before I could give it to you."
Clarice watched the beer and frowned slightly. She looked back up to Wanda who shrugged, grinning, and finished her own beverage. Clarice glanced down at the drink and frowned. She wasn't quite sure what to make of what was going on. In one morning, it seemed, her entire world was… tilted, slightly, to one side, only enough to provide an inconvenience, like those who tread horizontally upon hills. At the same time, however, it did become interesting. She had had a routine about her life – go to work, listen to countless people complain about trivial matters, go for a beer with her best friend, go home, light a few candles (not vanilla), make dinner for herself, maybe take a bath, read for an hour or so, then pass out. Alone, but content. Now, she didn't know what to do with herself. She felt the oil on her phone when a patient sent her a text. She saw the wax crust in her sink. She saw a single red hair on her couch. She heard his voice saying his own name. She had that beer.
"He matters," Clarice heard her friend say.
Clarice looked up between her mascara-coated eyelashes and watched her for a while, trying to understand what she meant. However, deep in her mind, she knew what her best friend meant. He did matter. She was his Listener, after all.
"Alright, Cicero, I want to try something different today," Dr. Stoker offered, scribbling something on her clipboard.
Cicero grinned, staring at the ceiling. "You know, you really should get something on your ceiling. It would give your victims a little something to look at. Perhaps a series of jokes. Ooh! Cicero has a good one. A man asks another man about a certain horker-"
"Cicero, please try to focus," Dr. Stoker insisted, glancing up to the man lying on the couch. He had one leg bent, one hand on his elevated knee, the other on the ground. She followed his arm down, and watched his fingers playing aimlessly with the carpet below him. He smirked slowly, and flicked his eyes in the direction of the doctor, where they rested for a moment, before he sighed and nodded.
"Thank you," she continued. "Now, I just want to have a discussion with you. I'm not going to ask many questions, but I just want to talk with you, and listen to what you have to say. I want this discussion to be unbridled. Speak as you wish, and don't stop speaking until your thought is complete." (A feat she knew perfectly well was somewhat impossible for a crazy man). "Oh, and one more thing," Dr. Stoker said, glancing back down to her clipboard. "I don't want you to keep anything from me. I want you to speak truthfully, and hold nothing back."
Cicero's head turned, and he looked at her for a long moment. "Very well, Doc," he said, looking back to the ceiling. His bright red brow was furrowed slightly. "Ask away. Cicero swears to answer."
"Good," Dr. Stoker nodded. She inhaled deeply, as though preparing to run a marathon. She held in in her lungs for a long moment. She could taste his scent, which reminded her of a strange spicy sweetness, like a habanero pepper coated in sugar dust. The concept made her uneasy, but, for some reason, the smell was intoxicating. She swallowed hard, his aroma filling her insides, before exhaling the carbon dioxide, and Cicero's scent along with it. She then glanced back down to her clipboard, and prepared her pen to run its own marathon. And so it commenced. "Who are you?"
Cicero's eyes widened for a moment, before he turned his head quickly, and looked to the psychologist. He examined her face for a long moment. She knew he was doing this, but she refused to look up to the clipboard. She wanted to pass off the question as though it was a normal, easily-answered question, which she knew perfectly well wasn't. He looked back down to the carpet, before allowing his eyes to trail to his boots (which had a strange curl at the toes).
"I am Cicero," he told her. "Cicero is Cicero. But, I suppose, Cicero hasn't always been Cicero, has he?"
"What do you mean?" Dr. Stoker asked, looking to him for a brief moment, before looking back down to the clipboard.
"Well, there was the jester, of course," Cicero told her. "And the Brotherhood. The Mother, of course. And I was made Keeper once the Listener died. And we ran, and ran. And the jester chased me, until he caught up with poor, poor Cicero. You see, Cicero could run, but he could not hide. And when he found me, he consumed me – he consumed Cicero. And, thus, Cicero was born, after Cicero died. And, for a while, it was just Cicero, the Mother, and solitude. Silence, loneliness. Until he found out about the other sanctuary. Then, he travelled. He met a prophecy, who spared him when a bitch told him to die. Then, there was the Hagraven… He left the mother for only a moment… Stupid, Cicero…" he kicked the back of the couch, hard.
The motion startled the psychologists and she quickly looked up. There, she found, Cicero, laying on the couch, eyes closed, with an expression of complete pain. His face was contorted into that of anguish and frustration, probably with himself. He slowly rolled onto his side and crumpled into a tiny ball on the couch. He seemed so small at that moment. He kept his eyes closed so tightly, that his red eyebrows and dark-ringed eyes were shivering. His fists were balled so tightly that his knuckles whitened under the pressure. He was babbling utter nonsense. A prophecy? A hag-raven? What is that? What brotherhood was he a part of, or was it all some sort of euphemism for something else entirely.
The intensity was becoming too much; the room seemed to fill with another liquid tension, but this time, it was burning not. It scorched her skin, and danced upon her flesh as it raised and filled the room. Liquid flames licked her skin, tasted the ends of her hair, grabbed her, pulled her under. The man, so small, so sad, shuddered on the couch, muttering things under his breath. Only he could pull the plug to release all the liquid that filled the room and suffocated her, burned her lungs.
"Cicero," she coughed. "Are you alright?"
Suddenly, the man flinched and his eyes flashed open. He sat up quickly, breathing hard. He looked to her, frowning, eyebrows furrowed, as though he had no idea what just happened. His eyes wandered about the room, as though he wasn't sure where he was. They didn't settle on anything, as though he had to examine the world through new, fresh eyes, and scan every object slowly, thoroughly. He didn't move for a long while, before looking directly into the eyes of the psychologist, and pausing.
"What happened?" he asked. "What did I say?"
Dr. Stoker's eyes widened. Did he seriously not remember anything that just happened? It was a frightening thought. "Cicero," she said, her voice shaking slightly. "I… I don't understand you. At all."
Slowly, Cicero grinned. This familiar grin eased her slightly, and she found herself able to breathe easier, knowing that the Cicero she knew had returned to her. He was conscious again, and she had to be careful to not allow that fragile consciousness to not slip away again.
"Do you want to know why Cicero chose you?" he asked, sitting back comfortably. Dr. Stoker nodded. "Because he knew you were different. You were… eccentric. Charismatic, in a way. Much like Cicero himself. Cicero has tried a counsellor. He has tried a therapist. He has tried psychoanalysis and hypnosis, and nothing has worked. You see, when Cicero first felt the jester's presence, and heard the laughter, he was… in control. He knew of the presence, and lived with it, like neighbours, even when the silence became overwhelming. So, so overwhelming. But once the Hagraven landed, things changed completely. He was left alone with the silence and the Mother again, but for so, so long. The silence swallowed poor, lonely Cicero whole. He lost complete control. Cicero could hardly remember who he was, sometimes, or where he was. Lost, lost, lost, and alone.
"I need help, Dr. Stoker," he told her, desperately. "I can't sleep. I can't eat. I can hardly feel anymore. I'm breaking down, Dr. Stoker. I need you to help me. Please, do not turn poor, lonely, aching Cicero away like everyone else has."
Dr. Clarice Stoker sat in her seat, watching him, expressionless, like she had trained herself for years, and the only thought that came to her mind, was that she needed to clear her schedule for a while.