Psychoanalyze My Deductions

By: Colvin

Chapter Three: William: Quite Frankly

I've always liked the rain. I like watching it fall from the sky like endless tears. Although, when you're outside, standing, and the rain hits your skin it's a different experience than crying. It's cold, almost like little icy needles flicking you, leaving your skin chilled and exposed. The goosebumps help the drops settle into your pores. And after the skies finish bathing you in her tears the smell that is left behind is saccharine mixed with freshness. You feel clean, reborn, peaceful yet cold and abandoned. That's what rain does. Showering you in new moments for memories only to fill those few gorgeous minutes with heartbreak. Thus giving you the contract reason for tears. Crying. The water falling from your body, the eyes, burns. Stinging your cheeks as they fell. They taste like warm salt, making you feel dehydrated. I'm not sure crying has a smell. Yet if it did, what would it smell like? Something sad, i'm sure. But crying normally leaves people feeling vulnerable, hopeless, insane and irrational. Our bodies must look at tears as drops of our sanity. The more we cry, the crazier we are. Could that be possible? Was i going crazy or was i already unstable from tears long ago?

I couldn't feel much. My finger and toes feel numb, i don't have socks on. My legs are frosty glassy to the touch, even though i'm wear gray sweatpants and a sweater. The rest of body is covered but i could still shiver. I was cold. I couldn't feel my physical body attached to my soul. It froze and shattered to nothing. But when i looked out the window, seeing the rainfall I imagined i'm outside with the rain. Standing with arms wide open, letting feeling return to my body. And once the it stopped i didn't feel alone, abandoned or lost. I simply evaporated back into the sky to rain down onto someone else in need of what i wanted to feel.

Have you ever listened to the pitter-patter of rain against a window, a roof or the ground? It sounds like a crowd of people screaming your name. Cheering for you. You feel compelled to smile, listen and thank everyone as if they really mattered. And if it got real loud it sounded like an army rushing into battle, protecting their country.

Since i wasn't apprehended when the door to my hotel suite opened i continued to stare. Thinking of whatever i wanted especially the rain. That is, until just barely, i felt my dog's hot fur brush against my numb feet. A hushed growl following his movement. I didn't think much of it at first. I noticed around one or two in the afternoon the suite seemed to move. Stretching its body from long time stillness. Sending shock waves of cracks through the room. It was around said time that it looked like it was embracing the sun. Soaking up as much as the room could, making the internal temperature rise. But in the back of my distracted mind i knew that the noise wasn't the hotel room stretching. The sun was nowhere to be found for it had been raining all day.

So what could be making much noise that startled my dog? Forcing myself to peel my eyes off the glass window i swung my stiff neck in the direction my companion was facing. Fixing my eyes on the invader. It was a taller man, much taller than me dressed in costly clothing. Black slacks with a glossy leather belt. A tucked in classic white button-down and a gray overcoat reaching down an inch or two past his waist. His hair was slicked back carelessly, although you could clearly seen the struggling curls trying to stay in place. There was small strips of gray starting at the side of his forehead, above his ear that faded into the rest of his dark chocolate covered hair. His eyes caught your attention when you first saw him. A ocean, crystallized blue with swirling green. He was cleanly shaved and smelled sorta musky. Something sweet but sandalwood like, almost like Azzaro's colognes. But he stood there holding a pair of keys tightly in his hands, looking a bit uneasy.

"Heel." I laid a hand on my dog's head and didn't remove it until i felt his back hit my leg again.

"Good afternoon, James. Do you remember me?" He spoke. His voice was monotone. Deep, rich with the pitch. It had a uniqueness to it and by i that i mean not American. British? It had to be.

I returned my attention back the window. Trying my best to remember where i'd seen this man. My memory was hazy but quietly, in the back of everything i heard his voice. Calling my name with that accent over and over again; "James, James, James answer me!" and as soon as i could concentrate on that i heard my father's voice whisper "Kill him." Instantly i shut down the memory by shaking my head, shaking it off. I know who he is. He was the man that was yelling my name, witnessing me screaming for mercy as my father's voice made me go mad.

"You're my therapist, uhh, ...umm," I stuttered as i tried to remember his name.

"William."

"Yes, William." I repeated.

From the corner of my eye i watched him lay his keys down on the table, not removing his coat.

"It feels about ten degrees in here." William said as he blanketed himself in his coat, "Why do you have it so cold?"

"You tell me."

"I don't think you want me to." He said sincerely.

I signed and went back to watching the rain fall on the side on the window. My breathing fogged up the window so the picture faded.

"You haven't ate today. There's no dishes in the sink nor has the washer been used today. It smells like stale cleaning supplies and cigarettes. But you don't smoke, you just like the lingering smell from past visitors. You feel like you can connect with them. Understand their experiences. You're clearly depressed. Loss in interest and appetite, laziness, and very inattentive. You've be prescribed some antidepressants and sleeping pills but you refuse to take them. They make you feel tired and like a zombie, even though that's the point. It's been about thirty-eight hours since you last slept, your bed hasn't been touched. There's dark rings under you eyes and your hair is still yesterday's style. You've rejected cleaning services today because really there is no need for them. You haven't moved from the couch or that ledge since yesterday. Maybe to use the restroom, of course. You're scared to sleep." I looked over at him, "The things you dream about make your real world look at glimpses of heaven. The small muscle spasms you don't even know are there indicate the type of dreams, well nightmares you have. They are about your father and his psychotic behavior that he tries to portray into you by your dreams and thoughts. It's cold in here so you'll stay awake, so you can freeze your thoughts. You don't want to hear him. Because when you do, he sets your world on fire. He burns your body from the inside out."

He had stopped speaking and my mind was drastically left behind, still hearing the words he already spoke. It seemed it took a full minute to finish up understanding what he said. Piecing it together. But once i did i stared at him with a half-surprised look on my face.

"...Did… did you just psychoanalyze me?"

"Is that what it's call?" He put his hands together, smiling proudly.

I've been psychoanalyzed before and i wasn't never sure on whether or not i liked it. Sure It saved me the pressure of having to speak about what i feel and why but the unnerving reality that someone could know that by just looking at me was ...creepy. I hated when Hannibal did it, he got sentimental about and always turned it against me. So i forbidden him from analyzing me out loud. Was i going to have to do the same for this guy?

"James, do you know why i was hired to be your therapist?"

"No… enlighten me."

"The attacks...," He pulsed, leaning forward towards me, "You're a rising star in Hollywood, one of the youngest for your age. Yet these fits of psychotic meltdown sets you apart from the norm. That's the last thing you want. But you can't help it. They come on at random times, at any moment. However you've noticed they happen easier when you're stressed out or when there is too much going on around you. You have and can hurt people during these attacks, but you're more likely to hurt yourself." He put his elbows on his knees looking straight in my eyes, "My job is help you stop those attacks or at least help you control them. I know you're desperate James."

I looked away from him slowly, not really connecting to anything else.

"Do you know what happened to the last one who tried to to do that...?"

"I assume it didn't go over well." His foreign accent said.

"He confirmed that indeed humans can not fly."

About two years ago i had another therapist. More of a counselor who tried to stop my attacks, instead he ended up producing one inside me and he went out the window of a thirty story building. Did he survive? You decide.

"He was careless."

"...I'm a monster." I said in almost a whisper.

"You're a victim."

I signed deeply, uninterested. I just wanted to back to looking out the window. Watching the rain fall. It was relaxing. But of all things, i had to do this. Make it stop.

"What are your attacks like? What do you feel, see or hear?" William asked.

"You've done a pretty good job of psychoanalyzing me, i'm sure you can conjure up the answer."

When he gave me no response but the look to continue i rolled my eyes. Then i removed my foot off the ledge, now with both feet planted on the floor i faced towards him. Gripping the edging. Being carefully, choosy on how i wanted to start it out.

"I… i feel like i've lost control. I don't know what i'm doing anymore. I detach from my outer body and coil into a ball on the inside. Quite frankly, i can't feel anything but pain. I'm in pain. I don't want to be, but..." I took a deep breath, stretching my cramped lungs, "I'm on fire, burning alive. My internal screams are masked by the crackling embers. Sometimes… i think i see my skin burn, turning to black, falling apart. Ashes. It… hurts so much. I want to die."

William nodded, listening to me activity.

"Why do you hurt people, or yourself?"

"I don't want too. I don't like hurting people but like i said, i'm not in control. These attacks make a beast out of me. A monster. ...I just want people to understand the pain i'm in, i guess. The agony. I hurt myself because the suffering i'm already in feels like fiction. All in my head." I swallowed my words, hard. Holding back tears, "I just want to be normal... he won't leave me alone. He won't get out of my head!"

"What does he say James?"

I stopped, gripping the ledge tighter, breathing slowly. I didn't want to cry or have an attack. No, God no.

"I don't know...anything. It drives me insane how easy i let him get to me. My ears feel like their bleeding and there's bug crawling under my skin when i hear him. His voice is so loud sometimes... it's the only thing i hear for hours, saying the same thing over and over and over again. I just want it to stop."

"Let me help you James."

"...You can't." I broke pitch.

He stood up, "Yes i can. Just let me try."

I looked up at him with held back tears, "I'll just end up hurting you… bad."

I tried to look down and cry with what shame i had left but i felt William's two cold fingers lift my head up to look at him. Clogged tears blurred the picture of him.

"I'm a excellent therapist. We'll fix this."

I stared at him as he gave a hopefully smile. Even with no sign of the sun i could just barely see a glowing light come off him. A glimmer of hope. Can he really fix this, fix me?

It came in like a gust of wind. Calm, slow and quiet. But i hardly heard the repeating whispering words fly by me, sending chills down my spine. It was two more circling blows before i could hear what was being said correctly. The sound of my father's voice danced around my head, saying in a hushed tone two words; "Kill him."

...Can i trust William?

There you go chapter three. Next one is back to Hannibal. What did you think? How did i do on Sherlock's deductions? Review, follow, favorite. Thank you! Can you notice a difference in character yet? By the way, yes, Sherlock looks different than normal that's because he's undercover! ^.^ See you later!