Scarleton Series I : Before the Cult (8 page)

“The crop can
rid us of all this pain,” Maxcermillio told me.

“How do you
know this?” I asked.

“It is all
intuitive. The truth is we don’t know in what nature does it exist
but we have seen and felt enough to know it does exist”

“Like
what?”

“Those man’s
eyes, maybe. And how you have always felt a wrongness about you,
the world and the not belonging here. Like you are lost. Feeling
like something is hidden from you and your every move to find it is
hindered constantly because you are constantly watched.”

“What are the
fields or the crop?” My heart hang for the answer.

“That’s what we
need to uncover. I’m sorry I know only what I have told you and
nothing more.” He paused and gazed at my wrist. “The blade won’t
ever rid you of the pain, it is temporary but still even when most
of it is gone the afterglow of the pain can drive a man mad. It
might kill you doing it too much and we are not sure yet if that is
a way. Watch how much you cut as much as you can, as long as you
can, we lost our friend Calvin from the self-harm. He endured to
his limits and so can you. You have gotten this far alone, and now
you have us.”

We went up the
first flight of steps.

“Remind me, is
this our fourth or fifth visit here? “Macfearson asked.

Looked over my
shoulder. “Yeah. I think so.”

“The agreement
was that you share with us what you learn. It’s either there is not
much help you are getting or you are being selfish.”

It hard was to
tell what made me annoyed me the most, the fact that he was
alluding to how frustrating the sessions were and how smug his tone
was. The gloating kept me from giving up and admitting how wrong I
was or how bad the idea was starting to seem now. I simply couldn’t
give him that satisfaction. Macxermillio was not bothered by the
pace, it gave him time to delve into his notes on the ontology of
worlds and beings and to review the sampling and make better sense
of the calling. In his leather bound book, he kept with him, he
would scribble and scratch notes almost constantly. With my student
card he accessed a lot of resources and books from the university’s
main library. Other than that he was preoccupied with filling his
time with other habits in an attempt to tame his craving for blood.
For Macfearson battling the craving was what mostly occupied him
the last few weeks with impulsive bursts of rage, mostly he was
irritable. But seeing me fail somehow put a wide grin on his face.
In general the despair, pain and faithlessness were sucking the
momentum off the rest of us. The suicidal thoughts were pestering
and wearisome, it packed an almost demonic compulsion and
enamouring promise. Skins were burned and slit, bottles were downed
and pillows sunk with tears. The philosophical studies were even
more dispiriting, sacking all the hope I had in reason. And when
Courtney first talked to me it was saddening, she had said, “Dude,
are you alright? You don’t look so well.” Whether the pain carried
a scent with it, the many showers I had missed or my downcast
demeanour that gave it away was not clear.

“Seriously, I’m
not sure. She hasn’t said much about me,
the calling
or
what’s really going on. She seems reluctant,” I told Macfearson. “I
will make her tell me this Friday.”

We walked down
the hallway past a few other silent doors, to the glass double door
marked “Counselling Centre”.

Macfearson
pushed it open. “It’s too quiet here. It is quite unnerving,” he
lowered his voice walking into the reception and waiting area.
“Witches be scheming.”

The
receptionist acknowledged us with a smile from her desk. She was a
middle-aged Indian lady, beautiful in that Bollywood film star
manner. I often found myself wondering who lockdown such a divine
creature, and if she was as happy at home or if this was just
professionalism. An act. Congratulations to whoever came back home
to that.

“Sandy?”

“Yeah.”

“You are here
for you one o’clock appointment I presume,” her voice could bend a
knife and lower the gun without even trying, without even a slight
moment of hesitation. There was no telling what men would do if she
tried.

“Yeah.” I
forced a smile.

“Okay, have a
seat and I’ll let her know that you’re here,” she grinned, her head
tilted in a flirt-like manner, or maybe I saw things.

For a moment I
ogled, pistol whipped. I shuffled on and took a seat, still
relishing what I had seen.

“Don’t you
wonder?” Macfearson asked, looking up at the notice board.

“Wonder what?”
I replied.

“If she really
cares.” He paused and turned to me. “I mean it’s her job. What if
the whole thing is just a job to her and she has to pretend to
care, be interested and invested?”

We can’t have
that, our deathling souls are poured into this project. Yeah, who
knows what she really thinks or says when she is with friends and
family. What if deep down she thinks I’m just a dumb freak, she
does not like me. What if I mean nothing?

“You mean who
exactly?” I stalled. Unnerved by the thought.

“Your
therapist. Cheryl.”

I quivered
inside at the sound of her name. “To be honest I do think about it.
And by the way she is our therapist, we agreed I would do this on
the behalf of all of us.”

“Quite
troubling thoughts. How many people does she see in a week or a
day? It makes you wonder about your significance to her. She is
whoring herself. You are just one of many, maybe our situation is
blurred and diluted by all the whoring.” Macxermillio added.

“Look at her,”
Macfearson pointed at the receptionist, “nobody can be that happy
and nice all the time. Shit’s getting on my nerve. Doesn’t seem
like she has an odd bad day at all. Being that happy or acting like
that all the time is not normal, or at least impossible. Doesn’t
make sense.”

I studied her
for a moment, she passed a bright glance while busy sorting some
paperwork. A beep of a smile accompanying it. It was eerily
mesmerizing etiquette, puzzling at the same time. It started to
make me nervous.

“If she really
is happy how does she do it?” I uttered.

“Maybe it’s all
a courtesy or in the job description,” Macxermillio said.

“Do they even
go to lunch? They are always here. It is lunch now isn’t it?” I
replied.

“Sure,”
Macfearson answered.

“It is weird,
it’s like they’re some kind of super-human creatures.”

“If they are
guarding some secret knowledge and expertise in such matters as
ours it would make sense why they devote so much of their time
here,”Macxermillio suggested. A plausible argument indeed, it felt
right.

“You reckon?” I
demanded, despite my conviction. It was good to hear good news one
more time.

“Well, it makes
sense. Then again they might be nothing more but
lifelings
and we could be wasting our time here,” He replied, not what I
hoped for.

“Best we are
not on a race against time,” Macfearson sarcastically spoke.

“Don’t forget
the calling is getting stronger with each moment. We are running
out of strength,” Macxermillio said.

Staring at her,
I studied her. I figure if I wrote a poem about that moment it
would go something like this:

I, the
ink,
Substance of subjectivity,
Staining and marking,
In shapes and sizes,
Without meaning or purpose.
You wield and mould me,
Give me purpose.
In truth, I am sheer nothingness.

Perhaps not an
embodiment of the moment, but an embodiment of the nature of my
relationship with her. I felt it there more than ever. Alone
although in company. Why does it even matter? Sometimes I asked
myself. There is no company without a bond, Macxermillio would
insist. No relationship without trust, no trust without
empathy.

“I have
something on my mind,” I told her, sighing. Settled in the chair,
stubbed my elbow on the arm and rested my left cheek on my
left-hand’s palm. Crossed my left leg over my right. Then gave her
the look.

“Okay,” she
gestured for me to go ahead. Her nod attentive and distinct as
ever. For an unknown reason I disliked that. It was quite similar
to when a parent offers to hear a child’s point of view only to
disagree with them or, worse, punish them for their transgression
anyway. There was something already decided and made up about
it.

“Me and my
friend we used to do this thing. We would fuck each other in the
butt. When it was his turn I would hardly feel him in my hole. But
I pretended to until he finished. When it was my turn I would zone
him. Zone him hard. He would wince and moan,” I paused trying to
remember why I was telling her that.

“Okay,” she
frowned. I couldn’t tell if it was from disgust or shock.

“You see there
was trust between us. We continued doing it because there was trust
between us. The problem is I don’t know how he could have felt if
he knew that I was the one truly fucking him all this time. I used
the trust against him, to use him. Any emotion a person invests can
always be used for better or worse. Right or wrong. You see … it’s
because of this revelation that I came across an idea. The idea is
that empathy is necessary. Being able to put yourself in the other
person’s shoes in a way turns you into that person for a moment.
Then from there you will know how to treat them fairly or right.
When you put yourself in their shoes their problems become your
problems, and you helping them seems like actually helping yourself
out. You do it out of genuine concern, because in that moment you
are the one facing the barrel. Do you get that? Am I making any
sense?” I said.

“What you seem
to be saying is that in any relationship empathy is important for
the parties involved. It leads to healthier more productive
relationships,” she replied.

“Yeah,
exactly.”

“Sandy, seems
like you have a lot of insight there. You have been doing a lot of
thinking. May I ask why you bringing this up now?” she
murmured.

I shifted in my
chair, changing my posture. “Because I want to know if you really
care about me. That what you are doing here with me is not just a
job for you but you actually are interested and involved, Cheryl,”
fingers clenched together I lowered my gaze to her lap. She stroked
her pen smoothly, her hands resting on the notepad.

“I see. If you
were me and you had a choice, would you continue seeing a client
you didn’t want to see?”

I imagined.
“No. I guess not.”

“Yeah. There
you go,” she smiled.

I lightened up
a little, a smile flickered across my mouth. I blushed. “Have you
found yourself having to make such a decision?”

“No,” she
giggled, “at least not yet.”

So I’m not
that special
, I thought.

“How many
people do you see a day?”

She hesitated.
“Why do you ask?”

I sighed,
nervous. “I don’t know if it’s the right thing to say or what it
will do to our relationship, but I guess I gotta tell you. I like
you,” I paused, then continued, “not like romantically,” didn’t
sound that certain, not to myself, “but more as a person. I don’t
know how it is possible because I really don’t know you. This
relationship is sort of one way. When you say that you haven’t, and
maybe you see like fifty people a week then I am not that special.
I get jealous and concerned. It’s as if you should only see
me.”

“You wonder if
you are special to me?”

I waited a
moment. “Yeah.”

Silence.

“Am I?”

“I can’t tell
you that. From the first time you came in here you’ve always
thought of yourself as unique. What do you think now?” she replied,
professional and warm at the same – a rare mix.

What are you
trying to say? The fact that I’m unique makes me special to you? Is
that what you are insinuating?

“Yeah, I still
think I am,” I spoke with disguised exasperation. “But I don’t know
what to make of it,” I paused to think, “Scratch that. I honestly
don’t think it is a good thing. At least here, in this universe.
Have I told you about Kirst?”

“No.” She shook
her head.

“Well, I met
her like two weeks ago in my Psychology class. Well, that’s where I
first saw her. I thought she looks cool. She had a nice smile and
her hair always tied in a ponytail. She was sweet. Very
approachable although she walks with her head down she had an
inviting energy about her. So I walked up to her on her way passed
the Administration Office. It was around twelve O’clock noon. So I
assumed she was going home …”

From her brisk
walk and self-directed focus I guessed all she wanted to do was go
home, take a shower, eat and lie down. Yes, these images suited
her. The sun was pelting. Beats of sweat started on my brow, drops
breaking free from my armpits (deodorant failed). I hurried to
catch up with her, licking my dry lips and clenching my armpits
tight. My heart raced, before I knew it waterfalls flowed from my
hair line. A knot tightened in my chest, a lump rose to my throat
and my breath hollowed. Images of me saying hello started flashing,
they indicated smoothness, delicacy and confidence. The problem is
I knew I would stammer, helplessly so. The images were a false
prophecy I wished would come true. I had no remedy, no hope.

Fucking go for
it already! What is it they said? Without hope, without fear?
Something like that.

She glanced
over her shoulder, saw me approaching.

This is it! Say
hello!

Nothing but a
faint whisper within personal earshot escaped my lips, a premature
ejaculation-like blunder. Embarrassing.