Chapter 1
I left Russia a few years ago. I graduated early from highschool and got into med school somewhere far away. As far away as humanly possible. I can never forgive what happened back then, and I have my father and grandfather here anyways. But I was living in a dorm like everybody else.
I was 17 when it started. It was "the trick" to study and to get extremely good grades. I remember when I was back there in that decrepit house, among hundreds of papers, my hands hurting and bleeding, eyes red and frustrated. Nothing got into my head, but it did. I was a wild teenager as well: some small charges, small bonds, nothing unusual or concerning. I wasn't perfect, but who can judge?
When I moved to this country I saw an escape. But the escape never exists, right? You know how these things spread: you hear about it, you don't want to believe it and then you try it for the first time. You lie and say "just this once" or "just for this exam", but the feeling is exhilarating. Almost orgasmic. You can't stop. You don't want to. It's legal anyways so what's the problem? You can't abuse it if it's legal, right?
Well, that's what I thought. Because I would stay up all night and write, scribble down whatever thought came to my brain. Things which weren't my studies. Philosophy, mythology. I was always thrilled by such things in my youth, but I knew I couldn't make money off them. I needed to be better than the person who gave birth to me. Who fled to Russia and married a rich man who abused us every single day. And she just watched it happen.
This doesn't matter that much anyway. I'm happy now. Or am I? I started to take them but I wasn't abusing them like they said in the newspapers. I got them legally, anyways. No plugs or shady dealers. And I had a prescription so who cares? But I didn't go out at all, always talked and raved to myself in heavy breaths. I got extremely gaunt and pale, I only got out for my lectures. Sleep was a foreign thing for me, but when I went to my dad's place I fell into comas. For days on end. Time was useless to me. I didn't even know what day it was, for fuck's sake!
And then I got kicked out. "Drug paraphernalia" or something like that. One of my dorm mates found something. And she didn't try to help me, she straight up snitched. Well, I moved out because I had no other choice. They wanted to expel me if word got to the higher-ups, but admin let me off with a little bribe money I managed to magically pick up. Corrupts assholes. You can feed them as much as you want and they won't explode.
I moved into the cheapest housing I could find. The room was much more spacious, but there wasn't much furniture, plenty of bugs and barely any heating. The nights were unbearable unless I had my pills with me. Because I bribed those people word never came out. I pretended to go to AA meetings too (even though alcohol never helped me and I stopped drinking it a long time ago). But I did it so people could see I'm the model student. But nothing was ever enough for me. I wanted freedom, something which nobody ever gets without constraint.
I went to a club close by campus. Some unfurnished old house. I drank – why did I do that – and I felt something crawling on me. Then I looked at my palms and saw the stigmata. I stopped being religious ever since I was emancipated at 14. Birthgiver forced me to pray and never wanted me to ask why. And if I said something wrong she beat me across the head. Or worse. But I can't – won't – talk about it now.
I came home and freaked out to my roommate. He had a history of domestic violence and drug abuse in his family and only lived here because he wanted to make a better life for himself. Oh, the irony.
"Are you fucking insane? If it wasn't for me, you wouldn't have been alive tonight!"
"Oh so you think I'm no better than a child? I can take care of myself, asshole."
"You told me bugs were crawling out of your skin and that Jesus wants to kill you! Nobody in their right mind says such things! You need a future, for fuck's sake! I know what your kind is like. I've lived among them. I was raised by them."
"Oh really? Then what do you think I should fucking do, you piece of shit?! Tell me, and I'll do it. I can control myself. This is temporary. It will pass. I haven't died yet, right? So I'm fine."
"You have a problem. And I'm willing to help, whether you want to believe me or not. Take this paper."
He gave me a business card. Dr. S. (insert address here). Psychiatrist. (some other shit). "He might help you, but you tell anybody you know him and you're fucked. You didn't see anything, and nothing happened. If anybody cares to ask you anymore tell them something else. Or don't say anything at all."
I looked at him flabbergasted and picked up my phone to call. My fingers were struggling to make out the numbers on the buttons, but my muscle memory was good enough, even if I didn't call anybody anymore. People usually called me, I didn't call back. I was too busy studying or seeing things within the corner of my eye. But this is from the lack of sleep, of course.
"Hello. Dr. S's office. Who's calling?" A weird voice, almost relaxed, but I felt a tension. Probably because I'm calling a fucking therapist. If that's what he is. Or because it's 3 a.m. Not sure. Anyways I never thought the call would be picked up.
"Good evening. I'd like to -" my roommate looked at me like I was a child who got scolded. "I wanted to book an appointment with you."
"And what would be the reason behind this appointment?" I froze. What do you mean what reason? I'm supposed to have my mind in the can, what other reason do you want?
"Problems regarding my mental health."
"Who gave you this number?" Why didn't he ask this earlier?
I gave him the name of my roommate. And all of a sudden a date was scheduled. Of course it was, he probably told this strange man about whatever my so-called problem was. I had no choice but to go. And I wanted to go back to whatever I was doing.
Chapter 2:
I took the damn bus to the outskirts of the city. Strangely quiet, but that didn't matter. I've gone through worse.
I checked the directions my roommate gave me last night and I arrived at this strange, small building. Very brutalist. Just concrete. And a huge old red cross on the front. Some abandoned hospital from The War? God, I don't want to think about it. The people I had to treat, the wounds, the deaths, the – no, not now. Never again. At least that helped me get to where I am now, I suppose.
I rang the doorbell. The door unlocked, but nobody was there. How strange. Why would this place be locked if it's in work hours? Not like I could see those damned hours anywhere. I knew what I'd gotten into. Back-alley therapy and all that. Who knows what will happen now?
I knocked on the front door downstairs. I was allowed to enter.
The office looked like any other. But there was a skeleton… never saw that in a psychiatrist's office before. The walls were this sickening green, but there were no bugs. But I felt bugs on my skin, but I couldn't see them. Everything looked alright.
"Good afternoon. My name is Svetlana Titova."
"I remember that. Sit down."
When I sat down I could see this man better. He looked strange, to say the least. His hair was this unnatural red. The haircut was horrible. He looked put together, compared to the oversized sweater and the ripped jeans I had been sleeping in for almost a week. I was hygienic, but I didn't bother to change my clothes. Especially not for some back-alley therapist. His eyes were this grey-brown, ghostly but not lifeless. He looked very young, but that has to be genetics. I knew the whole ordeal was shady from the start, but I'm here now.
"Your file says you are 20 years old, correct?"
"Yes, sir."
"Do you have a family history of drug addiction?"
"I don't think so, why do you ask?"
"Addiction has a genetic component, among other causes. I thought you'd know this since you're in medical school. Must have slipped by you." He said this in such a bored tone I wanted to rip my skin off. Like I bothered him.
"My parents were both alcoholics. And they both smoked, if that helps."
"Any recent deaths in your family?"
Oh fuck you, you think that helps? I'm here to get some lousy prescription I'm never going to use and go home. Why would you ask this now? But I restrained myself.
"My father died when I was 16, sir."
"Alright. Do you know the reason you are here?" He must've sensed my lack of cooperation, even though I gave him all the information he wanted.
"I need help." There, that's my response, asshole. Let me leave already!
All of a sudden this strange man looked away from the file and looked at me with a stare I only saw in my nightmares. You know the ones where you can't escape whatever punishment you're getting and somebody is staring at you, but you don't know why. That's normal, right?
"Your roommate has told me you have a history of drug addiction. Specifically alcohol and Adderall abuse. Your file also suggests criminal history in your home country, ranging from DUI's to Grand Theft Auto. Do you have anything to dispute?"
I broke. I couldn't help it. I couldn't take enough this morning and I broke. And I know that fucker hid my pills last night. You can't go out there acting like this. You need to be a little clean. Well would you look at that.
"Oh you think you know jack shit, huh? What evidence do you have? Perhaps my roommate is a fucking liar; perhaps somebody else did those crimes and pinned them on me! Oh, so just because I did it that means there's a fucking problem? Other people die from illegal drug use daily and just because I take some damn pills which are legal and safe that means I have a fucking problem?"
No response. He just stared at me. He smirked just a little so you couldn't see it, but you felt it. You felt you lost. And that you won't win.
"Of course you do. The first stage of recovery is acceptance. And that's the final stage of grief. But regardless, you have shown specific symptoms related to addiction from the very moment you stepped into this office."
"Such as? I'm a perfectly stable individual, and so what if I take something from time to time to study? You can't prove something so trivial from the first moment you see somebody."
"Your underestimations of my profession are grave. Your eyes were unfocused, you were sweating profusely and shivering, your limbs jerk, even though you hide it and you constantly contort and scratch underneath your clothes, as if something is itching. Your pupils have taken up the entirety of your iris. Your past medical records suggest two incidents of blunt-force head trauma which have impacted your pupils and made them permanently dilated and unable to contract any further, thus your eyes appear to be entirely black."
I just stood there in silence. Where does he have these records? How did he get those records? Does he know even more about me? I didn't want to say anything. Why would I want to open up to somebody anyways? That would lead to more trouble.
"Fine, what else do you know about me?"
"That's not how this works. You need to tell me and I need to figure something out. I have told you before this session that any information you give me is strictly confidential. It won't get out of this office. No matter what you divulge to me."
I froze. I knew this wasn't right. Psychiatrists are mandated reporters. If you commit a crime, they will call the police. But what police would be here anyways? They'd take a long time to reach this place. And even then it would be over. I could have the chance to run away. But where to? I never have a home. God, am I thinking clearly for the first time in years? Since my father's death? It can't be…
"I have more questions to ask you before I make up a hypothesis. Do you have a history of abusive behavior in your family?"
"I do, sir."
"What was the nature of this abuse?"
"Ummm, physical, emotional, verbal. All of them."
"Who inflicted this abuse upon you?"
"Multiple people."
"Do you remember the first time it happened?"
"I was 4, sir."
"What happened? Give me as many or as little details as you'd like."
God fucking damn you. I have never told this to anybody. Not even the police. Not my father, nobody. I don't know if this is right. I don't know if he'll stop me from confessing. At least it's confidential, but who can I trust? Here goes nothing, I suppose.
"I don't remember what I did. But my mother went ballistic. She dragged me to her bedroom and she beat me. She yelled that she didn't want me in this world, that – no, no I can't say it – that she wanted – no, I don't want to believe it."
"Understood. What other injuries were inflicted upon you? You can back out of this confession at any time."
My eyes were crying and heating up. It made me remember. No, I can't do this to myself.
"She took her cigarette out of her mouth and put it out on my skin. God, I don't want to think about this."
I was hysterical. If I was angry a couple minutes ago, now I was like a helpless child. I just cried and cried, no matter how many tissues I used to wipe my face it never helped.
"Did you think you deserved it?"
What? Why would he asked me this? What type of therapy is this? Am I being roped up in a cult? Fuck.
"Perhaps. I never had a choice. I could never run away. Could you ask me something different, please? Anything you want."
I felt that smirk creep up on his frozen face again. He stared at me with something which can't be described as fervor. Something…inhuman. No, I don't want to think about it.
When he got up from his desk and leaned against the desk to stare at me I was mortified. It's like I was in Hell. I don't know if he was a demon but I froze. I sat in that chair with my body in a ball. I wanted to look away, this was torture. But I couldn't. I had to be respectful, after all.
"What was the first time you took an addictive substance?" He asked this with intent, as if he wanted to rip my flesh apart and eat my beating heart. Or so I felt. Was I hallucinating again?
"Ummm… I was… 13, perhaps. I ran away with my friends and drank vodka on the train tracks. I got extremely drunk and it felt like – shit, I can't tell you this – ecstatic."
"Are you sure this is the only addictive substance you've put in your body?"
No, I can't do this. I have to run away. I can't – won't – take part in this shit any further. But I can't move. Fuck.
"No, sir. I also did h- hh- h-"
"Heroin?"
Fuck. I should've said cocaine. But he wouldn't have believed me. And I would've been a liar. Before I didn't care about lying but now I do?
"Yes. That."
"How old were you when you took it for the first time?"
"15, sir."
"Did you stop? If so, when?"
"Six months later. I took Methadone to cure me, sir."
He pulled up the chair on my right in front of mine and sat down. Those fucking eyes, I wanted to look away but I was in a trance. And they made me tell this man the truth. No matter what I wanted to do. Without my explicit consent. Like he pulled the information out of me.
"Have you had any near-death experiences?"
"Yes, sir."
"What was your first?"
I started to cry. I couldn't do this. I looked away – God, kill me already. I wanted to beg him to kill me right then and there. But I breathed in, looked back and told him.
"I was 10. My father and his friends beat me and – and they- no, no I can't say it. And I felt like I was about to die when one of them – no, no, I can't do this to myself. He- he- fuck, I don't want to tell you this."
"That's fine." He got up and retrieved the file that was on his desk.
"From what I've gathered today, your addiction might have a genetic component, but that is a miniscule factor. Your history of abuse had made you a very vulnerable individual to substance abuse. You pretend to be something you're not. You think you're strong, calculated and controlled, but you've proven to me otherwise. You a hurt child on the inside, and that hurt child wants comfort. You've given her a substance abuse problem instead."
"What do you suggest, sir?"
"Sleep. You've been depriving yourself of sleep. From what I've gathered from your roommate you go on for days without sleep. And then you crash. Violently. You need to get off Adderall cold turkey. I don't trust you to do harm reduction on your own. By the time you get home, your paraphernalia would've been thrown out. Since I consider you high-risk, we'll be meeting twice a week in this exact office."
"Won't you prescribe me anything, sir?"
"I could've given you Valium or Doxylamine, but you'd end up abusing them. Your roommate has confirmed that he will watch over you in withdrawal. You'll fully recover in a week. If you can write anything while in withdrawal, do so. I already have the writings from your room; we'll discuss them next time."
Thank God it was over. After I scheduled my next appointment and payed my next sessions upfront, I took the bus home. I locked myself up in my room and cried. The first cry I've ever had in years. Since I was born, probably. It felt… different. I didn't cry from anger. I felt relieved. I went to the kitchen, drank some coffee and went to sleep.
Chapter 3:
Just like I expected, my drugs were gone. All of them. Even the non-addicting ones.
My withdrawal was violent. I had visions of something crawling in me. I won't go any further. I can't go any further. But I have to for the next appointment. Which is exactly one week away.
The first day was bearable. I was extremely confused, I was insane. I felt awful. The scratching got worse. I couldn't do anything. I couldn't study. And I had a test as well. I can always re-take it, I suppose. But no –
"GIVE ME THOSE GODDAMN DRUGS YOU PIECE OF SHIT! WHERE IN THE FUCK DID YOU PUT THEM?"
No response. My roommate was there, but he didn't acknowledge me. Not even a stare. He was looking at something else like he took something. Fuck, the goddamn therapist told him to do this, right?
I tried to get out of the house, but everything was locked. I didn't have my keys, either. The house phone was disconnected and my cellphone was nowhere to be found. My roommate took it, of course. So I attacked him.
I beat him, punched him, and cursed at him. In my fervor, I didn't notice that I was beating up a puppet. A goddamn puppet.
I passed out from exhaustion. I refused to eat. I didn't see my roommate. I had no choice but to give up. But my body wanted this fucking drug. And it would anything to get it.
I tried to get out using the windows. I lived on the third floor so I couldn't do anything. Then the hallucinations started.
It was this goddamn therapist. How did he enter my room? He doesn't know where I lived, right? And I was backed up into a corner. I tried my best to shield myself from him, but it happened. I didn't want this. But I let go.
I felt something warm for the first time. Even if it probably was all in my head. My skin was burning; something was rushing in my veins. It felt exhilarating. Ecstatic, even. I felt as if I was reaching the pearly gates of Heaven. And I didn't want to be stuck on Earth anymore. I wanted to be in another dimension.
I woke up on my bed. I don't know how I got there or if I actually fell asleep. Most of the withdrawal was like this. But I got weaker each time. Then I felt that hunger in my stomach. I have always been hungry, but this time I was craving something else. I went to the fridge and ate whatever I could. I didn't care how it tasted or if it was expired. I ate everything in that damn fridge.
I took my exam and I did alright, not perfect but bearable. I really wanted to have those drugs again. I really did. But no, I couldn't lie about being sober. And my roommate chaperoned me all the damn time. And it wasn't him I felt something in the corner of my eye watching my every move.
Chapter 4:
I stepped into that office and everything seemed clearer. It looked…normal. But nothing changed. Except for him and those terrifying eyes. Eyes full of fervor, they watched my every move. No hallucinations, my eyes were fully focused. Minor itching from the scabs I created on my body. I even dressed up for the first time in ages – granted, it wasn't much, just a long pleated skirt and a black sweater and my normal jacket. I didn't wear any glasses either. I stopped having them on me since the withdrawal.
"Good evening, sir."
"Good evening, Titova. We have much to discuss in this session."
He called me by my family name. Strange enough, but not breaking any boundaries or anything like that.
"Have you brought in your notes? Your real ones? I know you've probably crafted out some fake ones. It won't work with me. I'll pull the truth out of you, whether you like it or not."
I was terrified. I had nothing to hide so I gave him all my notes and drawings. Even the ones I didn't want anybody to see. Even the ones I ripped up.
"This is an impressive body of work, Titova. Thank you for your cooperation. Sit down."
I sat on the chair. But I was prompted to get up and lay down on the couch across the window. He followed and sat on a chair in front of me.
I was used to these couches. I never liked them, but this one felt different. So soft and warm, I thought it was going to eat me alive, like that one horror movie about a bed in the woods.
I felt somebody's eyes watching me with intent on that couch. But I couldn't do anything about it. It was probably in my head. I should be considered clean, so it probably was all in my head.
"We'll do something different. I'll have your papers in front of you and I'll ask you questions about them. Shall we begin?"
"Yes, sir." I told him this while I was staring at the ceiling. No cracks, just old white paint turned yellow. I also noticed the strange old scent of medical supplies in the room. I don't know why but I felt like I was home.
I looked at the first paper he showed me. It was one of my drawings. I won't describe them here because they are too much, you can use your own imagination.
"What prompted you to draw this?"
"I felt something do something to me when I was in withdrawal. And I wanted to punish myself for letting it get to me."
"Was this an encounter of a sexual nature?"
Oh, fuck. I should've known. I mean it's normal to talk about such things in therapy but you'll be branded as a pervert, a predator. You'll go to jail, you'll be excommunicated from normal society. Why did I agree to this?
"I'll remind you that everything that is uttered in this office is confidential. It is also my duty to not judge you or your experiences. I'm only trying to cure you of your original problem, which is substance abuse. Did I make myself understood?"
I turned my head around so I could look at him. "Yes, sir. But isn't it natural to judge others?"
He smirked. "Trying to get away from the conversation, are we? But I'll answer. Therapy isn't meant to judge, but to find solutions to problems instead. Therapy delves into the human mind and fixes it on a much deeper level than just giving out medication, even though that is also one cure for specific mental disorders. But they aren't given out just because one problem has been confirmed to exist. No, it's much deeper than that. Are you satisfied by my answer?"
I looked dumbfounded. Like I was the first person to walk on the Moon.
"Yes, sir." I whispered.
"Coming back to my original question. Was the encounter you experienced in withdrawal of a sexual nature?"
"Yes, sir. It was."
It felt as if a stone had been taken off my chest. But I couldn't breathe. I wouldn't have confessed any fantasy to anybody when I was using. But now I could? No, he made me say this. He did something to me, and I can't put my finger on it.
"Would you care to describe it for me? You can leave out any details you wish."
Therefore, I did. I told him everything. Well, almost, I didn't get into specifics. And when I told him I relived it. I had to cling to the couch like my life depended on it. My body twisted ever so slightly. My legs were held tight together, as if something wanted to escape. I was looking at the ceiling, I was frantic. And then it forcefully stopped. I pulled myself up. And I let myself breathe.
"Hallucinations are a primary symptom of drug addiction and withdrawal. What you've experienced is uncommon, however. Most hallucinations are of a violent nature. Are you sure you didn't take anything during your withdrawal?"
"I'm positive, sir. I asked my roommate about it and he said that the only thing he did was put me in bed once I fell asleep on the floor."
"Have you had any sexual encounters during drug addiction?"
What is this man asking now? No, just roll with it, there must be a reason. I can't back up if I payed in full.
"Probably, sir."
He looked at me with scrutinizing eyes. Like I was lying. "What do you mean by this?"
"If I had any sexual encounters, I can't remember them."
"But you never slept, were always left alone… you must be hiding something from me. Answer my question."
No, I can't tell him. But who knows what he'll do to me if I lie to him? God fucking damn you.
"Most of my sexual encounters were not my choice, sir." I couldn't look at him anymore. I felt defeated again. But nothing happened. Everything went quiet. I could only hear the sound of trucks far away.
I forced myself to look at him. He was staring at me with that fervent stare again. But it was toned down, empty, like it was faking sympathy. Then I heard these words come out of his mouth:
"Do you remember the first encounter you've had of this kind?"
No, no I can't do this. But I can't run away, either. He's too close. One wrong step and he'll pin me down, de- no, no, I can't think such things. Perhaps I'll like it. And I can't – I don't – want to. He's my therapist, for fuck's sake, therapists don't do that unless they're completely deranged. But – no, not a fucking chance.
"I was…7. It was Christmas. My family had this big gathering. And my older brother went into my bed and – no, no, I don't want to live that life again. He just touched me, I suppose? And it made me feel worthless. That's all I can tell you, sir."
I looked for a response. He was jotting down what I said in his clipboard. And then those eyes looked at mine again, like they found something deep inside my being. "I must inform you that what you've experienced was sexual abuse, specifically rape. Do you understand what that is?"
"When a sexual encounter happens without expressed consent, sir." I blurted that out, but I knew I wouldn't be able to escape that.
"Was your brother a repeat offender?"
"Yes, sir. It never stopped until I was legally emancipated."
"And when was that, exactly?"
"When I was 14, sir."
I couldn't stomach it anymore. I didn't want to speak on it further. I wanted to throw up.
"Well, I can see that this is taking a toll on you. But if you can't confess you will never find a way out of your addiction. Do you know your bother's whereabouts?"
"No, sir. I don't wish to know."
I started to cry again. One of those repressed cries. I couldn't stop myself. I looked up at the ceiling to calm down, but it didn't help. I couldn't snap because I felt very weak. I calmed myself down to the best of my ability and the session continued.
"From what I've gathered from your work, religion has played a significant part both in your addiction and in your childhood. Would you care to explain that?"
"Yes, sir. I was forced to believe in a God I didn't want in my life. If I questioned this belief I was beaten. When I confessed my abuse to one of my friends, she said that was God's way of punishing me because I was born out of wedlock. My mother cheated on my father, you see."
"And do you still believe in God?"
"No, sir."
He studied my writings. I was terrified of what else he'd say about them. But I kept it pushing.
"If I didn't know any better I'd think you were studying Philosophy instead of Medicine. Your works are coherent and quite interesting. Some of your hypotheses need work, however."
"What would you suggest, sir?"
He motioned me to come sit at his desk. I was eager to hear some constructive criticism. He looked into my eyes and he told me.
"You claim that both eternity and temporality have the same constraints. However, you also claim that sexuality is an art form because of its eternal nature. How did you reach this conclusion?"
I knew he looked at my works before the session began, but I never thought I'd be asked this question. I tried answering it the best that I could.
"Well, I view art as an escape from our temporary lives. And when this escape is repeated in one's life, it becomes eternal. Time and place are distorted, and even if the sexual encounter takes place once or multiple times, the sensation feels eternal. However, the sensation has to be mastered in a specific way, and it can never be replicated by anybody else."
I didn't know what to say anymore. I felt light, but also terrified. Like a disciple being criticized by their mentor.
"But this annuls your original idea. Isn't everything in this world repeated and modified? Don't these modifications make the artpieces closer to perfection? The artist is immortalized through his art, and he leaves a blueprint for his disciples. The impression left on the audience is eternal, and will last throughout generations."
When I heard him say these words, I knew that he understood me on a much deeper level than I ever expected. When I was using the only "friends" who understood me were the shadow people who were hiding in the cracks of radiators, at the foot of my bed, behind my window. But they never spoke to me. They just stood there menacingly.
"You're staring at me as if you've seen a ghost."
"I'm sorry, sir. I just never thought of that hypothesis and I can't dispute it."
"Swept you off your feet, didn't it?"
"Perhaps something more than that."
Why didn't I think about it beforehand? Why did I just say it! Now what will he think? And what will he do to m-
He just smirked at me. Those eyes looked at me again, as if a flame had already been sparked by my confession. I wanted – no, I couldn't - but I couldn't stop thinking about it. I've fallen off the deep end.
"I suppose we can move on to the next topic. I've studied your drawings, and they seem to have a sadomasochistic theme behind them. May I ask why?"
"I wanted to punish the people who punished me and to be punished in return. A never-ending cycle of abuse and pleasure, perhaps. It might also be because of my lack of experience of the world."
"Have you participated in any wars, Titova?"
His eyes softened, as if he wanted to confess something in return. But that fire was lingering.
"The War and a civil war. I was a nurse, sir."
"Have you experienced any abuse during the war?"
"Yes, sir. Plenty of it."
"Was it sexual, by any chance?"
My throat was tight. I didn't want to confess, but haven't I already confessed enough? This should be easy.
"Yes, sir."
I was crying again. I didn't want to relive it.
"From what I've gathered, you seem to suffer from PTSD. You seem to re-live your experiences whenever you confess them. These drawings show it more clearly. This has also lead you to suppress these memories by taking addictive substances. Is this true, Titova?"
I agreed in tears. He knew too much about me. I wanted to cure myself of all of this. No matter what method would be used. I didn't care. Perhaps I wanted it, after all.
"Have you read the works of Sade?"
"Yes, sir. Masoch, too."
"To which author do you relate the most?"
What type of a question is this? I don't know what to think.
"I think I can relate to both, although Sade was far more deranged. Masoch was more human, I believe."
"Which one made you feel?"
Not this again. Why is he trying to pry inside me? This feels illegal. But I have to be truthful, even if it makes me throw up.
"Sade, sir. Even if I can't read any of his works without feeling disgusted."
"But isn't morality completely devoid from pleasure?"
"I don't know if I can answer that, sir."
I felt restrained again. I felt trapped. Does this mean that my addiction was wrong? Or that what I experienced as a child was right? Does that mean that my feelings can't be dictated by societal expectations and I should embrace them? But I can't act on such feelings, can I?
I promise I was completely sober when I say this. This man leaned towards me and whispered in my ear with such a sultry tone that I want to kill myself so I could keep that memory forever and never share it.
"The rules are made by the elites. They are made to subdue and to restrain our freedom. These rules are temporary, but pleasure is permanent."
"But doesn't art have rules? Doesn't art restrain? Don't our minds restrain us? Isn't restrainment comfort? If I were to be unrestrained I'd keep on using, wouldn't I?"
He gripped that chair with both hands. I held my body back. And then he said:
"But isn't the reason that you kept using that you were restrained? You tried to find freedom somewhere else because it wasn't granted to you to begin with. You were stripped of your humanity and you found this coping mechanism. Why don't you want to let go and indulge in a different kind of freedom?"
That feeling again. The feeling of being watched. It faded. I finally felt free. But was this a trap? It might as well be. You don't just get to this point in your second therapy session. And if I were to indulge, I would never need therapy again. But isn't this what he wanted? What I needed?
He gave me more space, but he didn't go back to his desk. He was watching me with intent. That animalistic fervor.
"I have a question for you, sir."
"Ask away." That smirk again.
"Would you consider yourself a hedonist, sir?"
Why did I ask that? Did I seek pleasure in this confirmation? It was getting dark anyways, I needed to get out of here. The office would've been closed, after all. I needed to find somewhere to sleep, no matter what that place was. A brothel, a run-down house, anything.
"Perhaps. But I don't worry about such things anymore. I've had my time. But you haven't. You're still young. You have to live. You can't restrain yourself from living. You must be free."
"I don't think you're that old, sir. Much older than me, of course, but you don't look it. If I were older than you would you tell me the same? Isn't this the way you're trying to control me to gain your own pleasure upon me? You are an authority figure, after all."
How did these words slip out of my mouth? How could I make a coherent argument sober, no less?
"But isn't authority imaginary? I never showed you any credentials. I just sat here and did my job. You assumed this role of authority upon me. You saw yourself as inferior due to your age and inexperience."
"But I can't gain your experience, because we're different. Every single person in this world is different."
"But aren't we biologically the same? Aren't our feelings and our natural experiences the same? No matter who they're with? Think about your arguments, Svetlana."
"How come you know my name but I don't know yours? Doesn't this make us unequal? What could make us equal? What could lift these restraints, these rules imposed by things out of our reach?"
Why did I ask that? Now I know what the answer to that question is. And I'm afraid of it. Terrified, even.
But he couldn't say anything to dispute this. At least temporarily. Then he leaned towards me and whispered.
"Death. When we die We are all the same. Nobody dominates anybody. We're equal at last."
"But what about Heaven and Hell?"
"They don't exist. Not naturally, anyways. Humans will never be satisfied by a lack of hierarchy. They need it to survive, they need it for their own pleasure."
"Does that mean that true art is devoid of constraint, sir?"
I started to think for the first time. Or maybe he wanted me to think this way. My desire skyrocketed, I wanted that freedom, but something was holding me back. If I succeeded, what would happen? I don't know him but he knows me. Will I ever meet him again? Or will the freedom of never having met him again sustain me? No, I will be forever tied to him. This pleasure is temporary, constraint is forever.
"Define 'art'."
"This. This is art. We're acting on a stage for an unseen audience. And when the masks fall off the show is over. Life is a play. Life is an art. Our lives are art. Because our lives give us pleasure and pain. Pleasure and pain are the paints and the body, mind and soul is the canvas."
Something lifted off of me. I felt free for the first time. He looked at me as if we were finally equal. But I knew deep inside that didn't matter. What mattered was this moment. We were frozen in time, nothing mattered anymore.
And then it happened. Yes, it happened. I don't know why, but gasoline was poured on the fire. And it marked me like nothing else ever did. It was better than any drug I ever took, any experience I've ever had. It was strangely balanced: rough but soft. I can still feel my back pressed against that cold, old desk. I felt as if I was about to be carried in a fiery carriage. Then it got even better… but I'll digress. If I reveal too much I'll ruin the magic of it all.
However, it never felt human. I didn't feel any warmth back, although I had gotten the closest I could to anybody physically in my entire life. I could feel a heartbeat, but not much else. As if it were second nature to him.
Chapter 5:
After some time, it eventually stopped. I woke up, but I wasn't home. I was home. Everything felt different afterwards, as if I was taken from Hell into Heaven.
I was in an old but well-kept bedroom. I was alone in a huge wooden bed. The sun shone through old windows, I could hear the wind rustIing the white curtains. I could feel the smell of my grandmother's house. The only place I felt safe. The one where I would visit my dad and where he taught me everything he knew.
I felt extremely relaxed. I didn't want to move, I wanted to savor this moment forever. I tried to go back to sleep again, but I felt something playing with my long brown hair.
"Why did you do this to me?"
He didn't answer immediately, as if he didn't hear me. I didn't want a real answer anyways. I propped my head up on the bedframe and sighed deeply. I didn't care anymore.
After a while he got up from where he was sitting on the bed and was getting ready to leave. I don't know where to, but it didn't matter. I knew that this connection would last no matter if we were to meet eachother ever again.
"You know I can't have you as my patient because of this, don't you?"
"But you told me that your authority was made up by my own perception of you."
"Perhaps it was, but I'll never tell you. You told me everything about yourself, but I never revealed anything to you. Do you have an idea of why that is?"
"So you'd have control over me. You wanted to bend my will. I sold my body and soul to you and I finally have freedom. But this freedom is restrained by this transaction of power, or lack thereof. You are still an authority figure."
"Perhaps I am. But that doesn't mean that I reined you in. I gave you the tools to freely express yourself, and now you're free. It's simple, really."
I tried to get up, but he motioned for me to remain still.
"You ask me the questions, I'll give you the answers. You can stay here until you run out of questions to ask and answers to retrieve. Sounds good?"
"Yes, sir."
"Since we've established some semblance of equality, you don't need to call me by any honorary titles. Address me by my name instead."
"Understood. But your name is…"
"S." (Check the notes at the end of the chapter)
I knew that name. He was the youngest documented defector of the entire nation. After him there were others, of course, but some were caught early. I knew he was a wanted criminal for betraying his own country, not genocide or actual war crimes. Because it's easier to blame it on a rogue criminal than on your own collapsing country.
I didn't know what I was supposed to ask first. So many damn questions… but what if he didn't want to give me the answers? He hunted me down for sport and now he'll watch me agonize over my entire existence. Shit, I should've known. After a while, I asked:
"What was your life like?"
"Terrible. I wouldn't wish it upon anybody. My parents died in combat when I was very young. I couldn't find comfort in anything else but art. Art was my escape from reality. But I got used to my reality and used it to my advantage."
"What do you think about war?"
All this time his eyes looked different. More human. That wild spark was gone, ironically enough. But his gaze wasn't empty. However, he still looked into my eyes with that prying nature.
"War… well; I am a war veteran, a very young one at that. I was sent out to fight for a cause I didn't agree with, but I found beauty in war. I could retrieve what I wanted from the aftermath. I could make those memories last forever, I could preserve history and use it against my past superiors. And that's exactly what I did."
"I… know who you are, but I don't know everything about you. I don't know what else to ask, but I still need answers. Who is the person you hate the most?"
I was so terrified. You have met a war criminal, you have shared something so ethereal, so strange, something you'll keep for yourself forever, and this is what you ask him?
He looked at me with that fiery gaze again. "Myself."
"But what made you be the way you are was something out of your control. How could you say such a thing? You are one of the most revered and feared faces of your craft."
He sighed. But he wasn't annoyed. Or maybe he was. He got closer to my side of the bed and told me this:
"Deep down inside I know I'll never be enough. I desire to become just like my art. Emotionless, cold, brutal. A machine. I don't want to be human. I want to get rid of every semblance of humanity I possess."
"So you are a puppet yourself?"
"I think this is obvious."
I was shocked by this information. It was impossible. Especially if done by one person. He was a madman, insane, human in his desire to become inhuman. Sure, he looked perfect, he was the ultimate machine, but it wasn't enough for him. He wanted more. As if he wanted to become this higher being. Either he made a deal with the devil or he was the devil himself. Evil looks tempting to the human eye, it satisfies the flesh and the soul. But it never satisfies completely.
"Will we ever meet again?"
"Perhaps. However, I'm not going to promise anything. I don't wish to uphold impossible bargains."
"Thank you for this. I don't know how I'll be able to repay you."
"Don't thank me. Thank yourself. You put yourself in this situation, I was just available. You could've met anybody in this building, but you just so happened to meet me."
I wanted to feel his hands. And I did. And then I understood. However, something told me in that moment that I was going to stay here forever. Not in body, but in soul. I had sold my soul to him, and wherever he went, be it physically or spiritually, I would follow suit.
I eventually tried to get out of bed, but he stopped me.
"I want to look at you one more time. So I'll never forget you and you won't forget me."
I let him. I wanted him to look. When I met him for the first time I didn't want to look at him out of fear, but now I wanted to remember that haunting face. And like two magnets of opposite poles…
When it was finished for the second time, I knew I had to leave. And he let me go. But he reminded me of the Faustian deal we made. I swore in my mind that I'd go back to him, to this house. I switched one addiction for another. But this time I was addicted to the fiery pits of an artist's human despair.
Chapter 6:
I didn't need therapy anymore because I felt free. I never touched a drug again. I was never interested in anybody else, except for my grandfather, who was about to die anytime. I graduated and started my own practice as a general practitioner in the countryside.
I visited that building often. But I never saw him there. But he saw me. Wherever I went, I felt him watching me from afar. I swear I could see him in the distance, but I couldn't get close, no matter how much I wanted to. Sometimes I would have these virulent, soul-devouring dreams. I knew it was a part of our unspoken bargain, and I let him consume every inch of my desires. But surprisingly enough, I had even more to give him every night. I liked it. Craved it.
He died three years later. I'm not sure what lead to his demise. Some said he was too weak, others claimed suicide. Maybe he faked his death so he could live a peaceful life, since his whereabouts remain unknown to this very day. But deep inside I knew he was near.
When the news died down and other prominent figures were butchered one by one, I went to the cemetery. Alternatively, a public plot made out of stone. You couldn't tell which grave was which, but it didn't matter. Then I saw him again. In flesh and blood.
He looked gravely injured. But his stare was the same.
I didn't know what to say. But he knew what I was thinking. He guided me to that same building and I helped him somewhat recover from his injuries. I couldn't utter a single word. Was he going to devour my soul? Were we going to be happy forever?
When I was finished tending to his injuries, he guided me to that very bedroom he let me leave all those years ago and for the first time in what seemed like ages, we both fell asleep.
I woke up, but he was nowhere to be seen. I swear he was there, I saw him with my own eyes. But I didn't care. So I waited for him to come back… and when he did, he was a completely different person. And so was I. I'll let you guess what happened next. But I'll never tell you because I'd break the natural order.
THE END.