Thread: Bringing Him Back {Gypsy and Alan23}

The tone of Noel's voice in reply was one that few would have expected. It did not have the bravado one might have expected from a media darling albeit a fallen one nor the slightly spacey, wavering intonation of those that are fighting to hold onto what remains of their sanity. Nor, for that matter, did it contain the aggression that he had so often used against Dr Walt, whom he somewhat resented, for the doctor forced him to remember things he'd rather not. Instead, it might almost have been described as... ...shy! Please, Delilah, come in, he said, standing back, making it obvious he was giving her plenty of personal space. And commiserations for being stuck with me. Broke some rule or other, did you? Late for work? He gave a cynical grin, sat down in the chair - being caught in nothing but a towel had left him totally unembarrassed - and lit a small cigar from a pack he took from the bedside table. As to your question... well, the normal polite answer is to reply one's fine. But you weren't asking to be sociable, now, were you? It was a professional enquiry, right? Well, I'm feeling as shitty as all hell, and I don't dare even look at the windows for fear I'll fling myself out. And the dream i had last night didn't help. He looked her up and down, discreetly and politely, yet missing nothing for all that. The fact that she was attractive he filed away almost without his conscious mind even noticing. He'd met many pretty girls. More to the point, was her state of mind. Back in the old, innocent days - before he knew what he now knew - his writing style had been based upon acute observation, the ability never to miss the smallest detail. Delilah had no need to wear a mood-ring from the sixties to show him her state of mind. The girl was scared. Shit scared. Some of the signs were obvious, such as the excessive sweat under her arms and beading her forehead, the terrified look in her eyes, her body language, which seemed to be making her shrink away. The displacement activity of opening the window would have been less of a clue for many, but to him it resembled the way a frightened cat will wash herself in the face of a challenge to fight. There was a note in her voice that confirmed her apprehension. And the irony was, he could not help reflecting, that she had a right to be terrified. Not that he would harm her in the way many in his position might. He had not the slightest wish or intention to cause harm to anyone. But had he wished, he could have reduced her to helplessness and paralysis and - and here was the supreme, soul-searing irony - without even breaking the law! He need not have touched her, need not have even insulted her or lied about her. All he would have had to do was tell her what he knew, what he'd learned on that fateful day. He'd been half tempted to write it all down, and send it to Dr Walt, in revenge for being made to talk even on the periphery of it. Yeah, vitamin E... oh yeah, He shook his head, sadly. Sunlight is... right now, I hate it as much as any vampire would. I know where it comes from, and - he stopped. This was too scarily close to things he did not wish to discuss. Some decades ago, the prevailing wisdom in the field of psychiatry had asserted that patients had to talk out their problems, get it out from their psyche into the open. Janov's primal therapy had been the start, and he wondered how much harm that man had done. Lately, studies had shown that there were some things that should be bottled up! But many still clung to the Janov school, among them Dr Walt... and, presumably, his pretty and nervous assistant. But yeah, I can't expect you to sit in gloom, can I? Your job's hard enough, I guess. He sat down on the bed, and ashed his cigar in the small ash tray. He'd also marked the thick-framed spectacles she wore, and guessed her eyesight wasn't perfect, a situation that keeping the room in darkness wouldn't help. The fact that the spectacles were obviously a little large for her, and forced her to adjust them he found almost endearing. He reached for the small book, with the printed columns, given to patients who monitored their own medication. Let's get the formalities over, I guess. I took every tab The Wart told me to, but I passed on the sleeping tablets. Somehow, I find I have fewer dreams when I don't use them. yeah, I know that's the opposite of what the clinical studies said, but I can't help that. Still, I guess I'm a hopeless case anyway, so whether or not I take anything this place prescribes is irrelevant. I expect I'll stay here until the publishers decide I'm not famous enough any more to give them any kudos for paying for my treatment, then I'll be shipped out to some conventional bug hutch to live out the rest of my life. Still, it's all one to me whatever pills you fill me with in the meantime, even if I do feel I'm starting to rattle as I walk. He resettled his frame on the bed. So, what did you want me to talk about today? he asked.