Writer's Debate

Okay. I’m okay. I can finish. But quickly, Doctor. Yes, I know it wasn’t much of an exhilarating story. And believe me, it should have been a bit more epic than it was. But I didn’t realize how much the wound is still fresh. Maybe I’m not delivered after all. But I’ll find that out later. Anyway, let’s wrap it up. After my father, as Johnny had predicted, paid a large ransom for my release, I remember that for the first few days, maybe even a week or two, my entire family, and all my friends, all acted as though they cared. They gave me the illusion that everything would be all right. That they somehow understood what I went through. I should have known better though than to believe that a bunch of rich kids from the Hills, or Century City, would have any idea about being stuck in a trunk with a rotting corpse for hours on end. Or being tied to a chair in a dark basement, a single lightbulb hanging down, Johnny pacing back and forth waiting for a phone call from my father. Or having the oily barrel of a gun stuck in your mouth, the holder giggling malevolently. A dark look in his eye. I should have known that the only person who could understand what I went through was myself. The only person who could fully comprehend that dark look in his eye is the person who would return it, barrel in his mouth. Oh, but I spoiled it, didn’t I? Let me just explain then how I got there. After that brief hiatus of understanding, everyone that I knew suddenly grew tired of my “issues.” They always said that word like that, with that sense of dismissal, as though it were just a small thing. “An issue.” An issue indeed. Eventually, after, oh...two years or so, at last, they had enough. I left the Hills. Or really, I should say my father “asked,” me to leave, reminding me that “my trust fund would always be there.” I took the message easily enough. I packed up my things, and then came to New York City. I wanted to get as far away as I could. But the City was not kind to me, as you know. Drugs, alcohol, anything to dull the pain of the point, to help me forget the stench of the body, the taste of the oily barrel. All the while, I jumped from psychologist to psychologist, the only good decision I’d say I made during that period. Of course, all those other bad decisions probably overrode the good one. Hence the jumping around. And it just so happened that I was delivered when I was working with you. It actually was just yesterday when it happened, only an hour after our afternoon session. I got a call here at my rundown apartment. My heart leapt when I heard his voice. Zech. Even though he was nearly 30 years older, I still recognized him. He said he didn’t have time to explain, but he needed me to get to an address. I drove there in my rundown car. Turned out to be a warehouse. Totally empty. Except for Zech. And him. Johnny. I should have known. Zech was the only one who cared about me the entire time. Even then. I was dumbfounded. Zech said he had connections, that I could finally be rid of this “curse” - his word - once and for all. I had no clue how he knew so much; maybe he did have connections after all. Either way, he looked at me with those skyblue eyes glinting as he held the gun toward me. The rest was a blur, as I knelt down next to the tied up man, looked him in the eyes with my now dark eyes, and then red sprayed out the back of his head a moment later as the gun roared. I smiled at Zech when it was over, but he didn’t smile back. He just stared, dumbfounded himself. As though he wouldn’t have expected that from me for some reason. Maybe I enjoyed it too much. At that point I realized, my one last friend in the world was gone. Well, except for you. And the gun. And so, Doctor, that’s why I’m leaving. I hear that my aunt is still alive, living in Carson City. By the time you hear this, I’ll be driving there. Hopefully I’ll make it there. But. But I want you to know that I still have one bullet with me. I’ve decided that if I am not delivered, if at any time I have one more nightmare about him, I will use it. On myself. I just wanted you to know, so you wouldn’t blame yourself. I hope you don’t, or won’t, as the case might be. I need to do this though, Doctor. I need to see if I’m delivered. I have nothing left, except maybe my aunt. And you of course. Wish me luck, Doc. I hope I make it. But, we’ll see.