Writer's Debate

Note: The formatting got a bit screwy on me during the copy/paste. Apologies if it looks a little bit wonky or there are wide spaces between the paragraphs.Reused character: The Heiress (Persephone Young). From the short story “Back, Back, Way Back.” "Deliverance" (working title, MIGHT change) By the time you’re listening to this, Dr. Bruce, I won’t be in New York anymore. At least, that’s the plan. So don’t come trying to find me, or call the police, or whatever. I’m a grown woman (God knows that), and I’m leaving the City of my own volition. Just so you know I wasn’t kidnapped. Again. But, now that I got the...unpleasantries out of the way, I can tell you why. Ah yes, I bet you of all people will be dying to know why I’m gone. I noticed that with all my psychologists. Including you, Dr. Bruce, even though you’re secretly my favorite. You always want to understand why. You can’t just leave well enough alone. I guess that’s always been my problem, too, as I’m sure you know. Can’t forget the past. Always have to think about it, every single day of my life. Hopefully not anymore now. But, that’s a spoiler, and you know how much I hate those. You too. So, if you want to hear the story of how I came to leave New York, and how I was (fingers crossed) delivered from all this crap that’s made me come to you guys for years on end, get comfortable, Doctor. You’re still listening? I hope so. Now anyway, Doctor, I hope you have a glass of chardonay or a nice martini or whatever you drink, because this is going to be a long one. I’m sure I’ve covered a lot of this in therapy with you, Dr. Bruce, but here’s the thing: I don’t know what it is about you psychologists, but even though you hear everything we say, write it down, ask questions, offer suggestions, you never really listen, do you? I mean, I guess it’s not your fault. After all, if I was a therapist, if I actually listened to what my patients - oh wait, excuse me, clients - had to say, I’d need my own therapist just to keep me from beating my head against the wall until blood seeps out of my ears. Seriously. The world is full of messed-up people, Dr. Bruce. You should know. And so should I, I guess. But my point is, Doctor, I’m going to tell it all, right from the beginning. And this time, I want you to listen. Please. I’m not ordering you, Dr. Bruce. Honestly, I’m leaving this for you because you’re the only one that seems to give a damn about me now. Hopefully that’ll change, and that’s partly why I’m leaving. But again, that’s a spoiler. So let me just stop blathering, and get right to it. With you and me, it all started with a lime green Cadillac on the side of the road many miles outside Las Vegas. But to explain why I’m not here in the City anymore, the story starts long before. It starts in October, 1959, when I was born in Los Angeles. Beverly Hills, actually. You know this, and I’m sure you also know that my mother was a Hollywood starlet and my father a big oil exec. But I don’t think I ever told you their names. My dad was Kane Allen Young, and my mom was Eve Adelia Young. There. You can add that to your collection of Interesting Tidbits About Persephone. Yes, I was quite the heiress to quite a fortune. Not now, obviously, seeing as how I came to you on state insurance living out of a dump of an apartment. That’s where I am right now, in fact. Even though it’s a hole, it’s my home. Funny how those two words are so similar. One letter apart, anyway. I wish I could say I was more of a responsible heiress than the kind you see today, like that Paris Hilton girl. But money has a way of making people idiots. Hey, maybe being poor was a way of making people smart, then? I hope so, because then I’m an Einstein. But regardless, I was an irresponsible, vain girl growing up as an heiress, thinking I was the greatest thing since sliced bread, even though I was a stereotypical little child of Beverly Hills. But being a cookie-cutter Beverly Hills kid was expected. I even remember the boy that I liked so much when I was a teenager: Zechariah Nickelson. He still holds a place in my heart right now. He’s also a reason why I’m leaving New York. But that’s- Do I even need to say it? Anyway. My childhood, and teenage years were filled with vapidity and girlish dreams. But then the Cataclysm happened. That’s when chaos and abandonment and loneliness blew through my little playworld. That’s when the lime green Cadillac, so beautiful and shimmery in the Mojave sun, became the leading role in my nightmares. Of course, you already know what it is, and what happened (I think), but don’t get any ideas about me skipping it. Like I said, you need to hear this when you’re not being insulated by your books and easychair and couch and professional air. You need to hear this completely naked as it were. You need to hear this, and listen. Because you might be the last person to hear it.