Thread: Bringing Him Back {Gypsy and Alan23}

Delilah refrained from stating that the sharks which surrounded Noel were figments of his imagination and from mentioning that the disease which plagued his mind was curable if he would just enlighten them. An argument was one of the things she sought to avoid in sunny Sacramento. Their stroll ended when she reached one of the picnic tables that littered the courtyard beneath an invigorating shade of an old oak tree, unremitting breezes ruffling her coiffure to release errant, raven strands. After settling unto the hard wood, inwardly thanking those who presided over foolish females who trekked cobblestone paths in high heels for the conveniently placed pit stops in her journey, Delilah gestured for him to take a seat opposite of her after relinquishing her belongings on the surface. In addition to gratitude, a silent prayer was also beseeched to no deity in particular in hopes that the leafy canopy or, after adjusting her frames, the glasses perched on her nose shadowed the seemingly permanent cherry tint on her cheeks courtesy of his comment about unmentionables. He had a penchant to broach inappropriate subjects so cavalierly that it baffled the assistant on how to respond, torn between chiding him and gaping at him. Averting her gaze, she resorted to scribbling on her notes. In hindsight, despite being admitted to White Lane and drugged with numerous prescription medications, his trademark wit and intelligence hardly dimmed during his stay here, sullied as it was by whatever Montemarte did to him, continuing to charm the susceptible. He was able to discern Dr. Walt's intentions when he suggested that Noel should keep a journal. Another negligent patient wouldn't have distinguished the psychiatrist's will to extract some information from what they had written. A wealth of what ifs pervaded her mind What if he didn't go to France? What if he hadn't seen what he had seen? What if he just explained what happened? Would Noel be as brilliant and radiant as he was when he was at the prime of his career? An intrinsic abhorrence for what had ruined Noel Trent seared through her. Whatever had corrupted the writer left him barely enough sanity to be functional. He was surviving , not living, enduring day by day in an aimless daze. The subliminal furrowing of her brows as well as the hardening of her jaw conveyed the determination which molded her mindset. Delilah will salvage Noel from his island-prison, regardless of his preference. Storm-tossed seas, bloodthirsty sharks and needless apprehension to disarming authors be damned. To officially commence this endeavor, she needed a blank page. From her clipboard, she detached a few sheets of paper and a packet of photographs from underneath. The former was slid to the opposite side of the table before weighing it down with a pen whilst the latter was arranged after a brief glance from the woman. Deep, baby blue eyes peered at him behind her spectacles circumspectly, practicing what Dr. Walt taught her about how persuasive eye contact can be. I don't know what secret it is you're profoundly guarding that you think it's better off if the world needn't know about it, but at the expense of your health, it isn't worth protecting. If you think you're harboring a contagious malady within you that only you can bridle, wouldn't you think that Dr. Walt and I would have been infected already? We're tougher than we look, Mr. Trent. I do hope that you decide to take a chance with us. There's a blank, white page before you, Noel. Us humans we're intricately made and crafted to have a natural compulsion to fill empty spaces. Perhaps you're not at the moment, but I'm going to show you a couple of images. Some may be familiar to you and some may not. I've given you a number of mediums to convey what you'll perceive whether it by verbalizing your thoughts or using those. It is up to you how to tell me, however what you cannot do is not respond. One by one, images of his existence that had been collected over the course of Noel's life were presented on the table before him. From childhood to adulthood, in black and white and in color, professionally and candidly, it was all laid bare for his scrutiny. Some of it had been in his file, the recent ones anyway, whilst the others were photos she gathered from the internet. The most up to date picture of Noel which she sighted was a paparazzi shot before he was admitted to White Lane, preceding it was a snapshot of a strange man attached to tubes in a hospital bed. It was the writer after he was found in the streets of Montemarte delirious with drugs, bedraggled and unrecognizable.