Post by Alistair "Stainless" Steele on Aug 10, 2007 20:03:18 GMT -5
“So, where should we begin?”
Vicki didn’t really care where they started, just as long as they did. All she wanted to do was get the hell out of the office as quickly as she could, and the faster the therapy session progressed, the faster Vicki could leave.
Dr. Archer was smiling at her now, seated in his huge comfortable leather chair. His legs were crossed and he had the clipboard resting on his knee. Vicki laid down on the couch across from him, hands folded on her stomach and staring up at the ceiling. The leather creaked as she shrugged her shoulders.
“Up to you, Doc,” she answered.
Archer nodded and got up from the chair. Vicki watched with peculiar amusement as he walked to the far end of the room where his large, polished oak desk was situated, and started fumbling through the drawers on the side. After a moment of thorough searching, Dr. Archer apparently found whatever he was looking for, because he exclaimed an “Aha!” to himself and slammed the drawer shut. Looking victorious, he strolled back to his cushy armchair and plopped down, setting a small tape recorder on the end-table beside him and pressing the red record button.
“Do you mind?” he asked Vicki. “I usually record all of my sessions, for future analysis.”
Vicki stared back at the tiled ceiling, and replied, “Whatever floats your boat. Can we get on with it, though? All this dilly-dallying is making me irritated.”
She heard the choppy sounds of pen connecting with paper as Dr. Archer scribbled on the page of his clipboard. She wondered what he could be writing; they haven’t even started the session yet. Vicki sighed and twiddled her thumbs, waiting for him to say “Tell me about your childhood” or “Did you experience any trauma in the past?”
Dr. Archer finally stopped writing whatever he was writing and smiled again. He was always smiling, Vicki noticed. She found it strange, almost annoying. What the hell was there to be so happy about? She knew that being a therapist wasn’t the most pleasant occupation out there. Yet still he was smiling. It was too difficult to think of a good reason why, so she just let it go.
“Well...” he said, leaning back in the chair.
Vicki smirked. Here it comes, she thought to herself.
“Let’s start with your childhood.”
Bingo.
“What do you want to know?” she asked.
The doctor shifted his position to a more comfortable one, and prepared to start writing again. His glasses had fallen to the bridge of his nose, so he pushed them back up with one finger as he replied, “Was it a pleasant one?”
Vicki thought about it for a moment. She couldn’t say it wasn’t a pleasant childhood. She grew up in a rural community in central Newfoundland, close to the ocean. She loved being near the water. The roar of the waves crashing upon the rocky shore was music to her ears and to her soul. She would spend countless hours behind her house just sitting and listening to the water. It was almost kind of a meditation or mantra for her.
*scribble scribble*
She was the youngest child in her family, following two brothers and a sister. They were all fairly close; she’d often follow them around the house, hoping to take part in their adventures. At night they would take turns reading her bedtime stories, usually the same two or three over and over. She just loved hearing their voices as she drifted off to sleep.
*scribble scribble*
Vicki had friends; not a bunch of close friends as most of the girls her age would’ve had, but she had two or three best friends with whom she could trust her life. They would often have sleep overs and little clubs that prohibited boys from entering because they were infected with cooties. Typical girl stuff, really.
*scribble scribble*
“What about your mother and father?”
She chuckled. God, you are way too predictable, she thought.
Her mother was a beautiful, gentle woman, although somewhat overprotective at times. She worked as a receptionist at a two and a half star hotel; nothing fancy, but most certainly comfortable. The job demanded long hours from her, but she always made time for her family, whether it was taking them to one of the many provincial parks or spending a few quiet hours at home with them in front of a movie.
*scribble scribble*
She was happily married to her husband... or at least that was what she professed in public. Vicki knew better. She couldn’t count how many times she heard her mother crying when Mrs. McCarthy thought no one was listening, and it was only by sheer fluke that she caught her mother in the middle of changing; the purple-black bruises that covered her mother’s torso were definitely her father’s doing.
Her father... Vicki paused to bite back a curse for the man who beat her mother and forced her to give up her only child for adoption. Rage boiled inside of her and she balled up her fists, her nails digging into the palms of her hands. Dr. Archer looked up from his clipboard and took his glasses off. He folded them with a click and put them in his breast pocket, and tapped the pen against his chin.
“Tell me more about your father, Ms. McCarthy,” he said calmly.
But she couldn’t do it. Try as she might, the words wouldn’t come out of her mouth. With pure malice in her voice, she told Dr. Archer, “No. I can’t do it.”
He stared at her for a moment, his head cocked to one side. He continued tapping his chin with the pen, as if he was deep in thought. Vicki stared back at him, somewhat confused. An awkward silence filled the room and lingered over them like an overbearing parent, until it was shattered by the creaking of Dr. Archer’s leather chair as he leaned over and turned off the tape recorder. He then shifted his position on the chair and folded his hands across his knee.
“Ms. McCarthy,” he said flatly, “why are you here?”
Vicki was stunned, almost offended. She looked at Dr. Archer as if he had three heads, and it took a few seconds for the question to sink in. She swung her legs to the floor and sat up straight, choosing her next words carefully.
“I’m here, because every night I go to bed thinking about what that fucking bastard Alistair Steele did to me. I’ve tried to deal with it, honestly, I have. I almost did it, too, until I found out that he’s here in the city. And, I know it may sound silly to you, but I keep thinking that he’s coming for me again. I can’t function anymore. I can’t sleep, I can’t keep any food down. It’s like the son of a bitch controls my life and he doesn’t even fucking know it!” She pounded her fist on the couch, tears beginning to flow from her eyes.
Dr. Archer nodded. As she stared into his kind, chestnut eyes, she could tell he understood exactly what she meant. He flipped through the pages on his clipboard until he found Vicki’s file from her previous psychiatrist.
“It says here that you were raped by Mr. Steele back in 2000, and that you birthed a child from this incident,” he commented.
Vicki nodded, wiping the salty tears away on her sleeve. “Yeah, that’s right. What are you getting at?”
“Where is the child now?” he asked.
Vicki had no sure answer. She hadn’t had any contact with her daughter in over a year, since moving to Fort MacMurray. As far as she knew, the child was still in Newfoundland with her adoptive parents. She told Dr. Archer as much.
The doctor’s response was immediate. “I think you should contact your daughter, Ms. McCarthy,” he said. “It would be best for both you and her if you two kept in touch on a regular basis. With all the...” he cleared his throat, “...stress, in your life right now, you need a...” he emphasized the next words by making the quotation gestures with his fingers, “...’safety line,’ per se, to help you cope with everything that’s been going on.”
Vicki cocked an eyebrow. “Safety line?” she questioned. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
Dr. Archer held up his hands in surrender. “Well, maybe ‘safety line’ isn’t the best phrase to use here. Think of your daughter as more of a... tool, to keep you from succumbing to your stressors and making any hasty and regretful decisions.”
Vicki couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Who the hell did this tacky-suited prick with a sissy clipboard and a bad comb-over think he was, referring to her darling daughter as a fucking inanimate object? Furious, she bolted upright on the couch and gripped the cushions. It took everything she had to stop herself from slapping Dr. Archer across the face.
“My daughter is no...tool, you insensitive fuck!” she screamed. “She is the only thing I have left, and I won’t have you talk about her like she’s some God damn object that someone can use!” Vicki stood up and stormed towards the door, and Dr. Archer’s words followed her out of the room like an annoying child.
“If she’s all you have left, then why haven’t you talked to her in over a year?”
Those words gnawed at her as she thundered down the corridor. They swam around in her head and knotted her stomach. She cursed her stupidity for going to the damn therapist’s session in the first place; she should’ve known he wouldn’t be able to help her. Dr. Archer was right, though, she knew. Vicki made the easy decision to call her daughter, even just to say hello. Her little girl deserved that much.
Vicki found herself back in the lobby, and again she was exposed to the prying eyes of the perverted, disgusting old men that violated her so ruthlessly. Doing her best to ignore them, she spotted a payphone close to the front desk where Sausage Fingers was still typing her fat ass off at her computer. Vicki made a bee line straight for the payphone and picked up the receiver, thoughts and memories of her beautiful blonde, emerald-eyed girl floating in her brain. She quickly dialed the number to her adoptive parents back on the Island and managed to dig a quarter from her pockets, depositing it into the machine.
A wave of excitement and nervousness crashed into her as the rings went through. How she longed to hear her daughter’s voice at the other end of the line. Finally someone picked up the phone, and Vicki heard a strange, tired voice on the line.
“Hello?” the voice said in almost a hoarse whisper.
“Hi, Irene, it’s Vicki. How’s Annabelle?”
Vicki didn’t really care where they started, just as long as they did. All she wanted to do was get the hell out of the office as quickly as she could, and the faster the therapy session progressed, the faster Vicki could leave.
Dr. Archer was smiling at her now, seated in his huge comfortable leather chair. His legs were crossed and he had the clipboard resting on his knee. Vicki laid down on the couch across from him, hands folded on her stomach and staring up at the ceiling. The leather creaked as she shrugged her shoulders.
“Up to you, Doc,” she answered.
Archer nodded and got up from the chair. Vicki watched with peculiar amusement as he walked to the far end of the room where his large, polished oak desk was situated, and started fumbling through the drawers on the side. After a moment of thorough searching, Dr. Archer apparently found whatever he was looking for, because he exclaimed an “Aha!” to himself and slammed the drawer shut. Looking victorious, he strolled back to his cushy armchair and plopped down, setting a small tape recorder on the end-table beside him and pressing the red record button.
“Do you mind?” he asked Vicki. “I usually record all of my sessions, for future analysis.”
Vicki stared back at the tiled ceiling, and replied, “Whatever floats your boat. Can we get on with it, though? All this dilly-dallying is making me irritated.”
She heard the choppy sounds of pen connecting with paper as Dr. Archer scribbled on the page of his clipboard. She wondered what he could be writing; they haven’t even started the session yet. Vicki sighed and twiddled her thumbs, waiting for him to say “Tell me about your childhood” or “Did you experience any trauma in the past?”
Dr. Archer finally stopped writing whatever he was writing and smiled again. He was always smiling, Vicki noticed. She found it strange, almost annoying. What the hell was there to be so happy about? She knew that being a therapist wasn’t the most pleasant occupation out there. Yet still he was smiling. It was too difficult to think of a good reason why, so she just let it go.
“Well...” he said, leaning back in the chair.
Vicki smirked. Here it comes, she thought to herself.
“Let’s start with your childhood.”
Bingo.
“What do you want to know?” she asked.
The doctor shifted his position to a more comfortable one, and prepared to start writing again. His glasses had fallen to the bridge of his nose, so he pushed them back up with one finger as he replied, “Was it a pleasant one?”
Vicki thought about it for a moment. She couldn’t say it wasn’t a pleasant childhood. She grew up in a rural community in central Newfoundland, close to the ocean. She loved being near the water. The roar of the waves crashing upon the rocky shore was music to her ears and to her soul. She would spend countless hours behind her house just sitting and listening to the water. It was almost kind of a meditation or mantra for her.
*scribble scribble*
She was the youngest child in her family, following two brothers and a sister. They were all fairly close; she’d often follow them around the house, hoping to take part in their adventures. At night they would take turns reading her bedtime stories, usually the same two or three over and over. She just loved hearing their voices as she drifted off to sleep.
*scribble scribble*
Vicki had friends; not a bunch of close friends as most of the girls her age would’ve had, but she had two or three best friends with whom she could trust her life. They would often have sleep overs and little clubs that prohibited boys from entering because they were infected with cooties. Typical girl stuff, really.
*scribble scribble*
“What about your mother and father?”
She chuckled. God, you are way too predictable, she thought.
Her mother was a beautiful, gentle woman, although somewhat overprotective at times. She worked as a receptionist at a two and a half star hotel; nothing fancy, but most certainly comfortable. The job demanded long hours from her, but she always made time for her family, whether it was taking them to one of the many provincial parks or spending a few quiet hours at home with them in front of a movie.
*scribble scribble*
She was happily married to her husband... or at least that was what she professed in public. Vicki knew better. She couldn’t count how many times she heard her mother crying when Mrs. McCarthy thought no one was listening, and it was only by sheer fluke that she caught her mother in the middle of changing; the purple-black bruises that covered her mother’s torso were definitely her father’s doing.
Her father... Vicki paused to bite back a curse for the man who beat her mother and forced her to give up her only child for adoption. Rage boiled inside of her and she balled up her fists, her nails digging into the palms of her hands. Dr. Archer looked up from his clipboard and took his glasses off. He folded them with a click and put them in his breast pocket, and tapped the pen against his chin.
“Tell me more about your father, Ms. McCarthy,” he said calmly.
But she couldn’t do it. Try as she might, the words wouldn’t come out of her mouth. With pure malice in her voice, she told Dr. Archer, “No. I can’t do it.”
He stared at her for a moment, his head cocked to one side. He continued tapping his chin with the pen, as if he was deep in thought. Vicki stared back at him, somewhat confused. An awkward silence filled the room and lingered over them like an overbearing parent, until it was shattered by the creaking of Dr. Archer’s leather chair as he leaned over and turned off the tape recorder. He then shifted his position on the chair and folded his hands across his knee.
“Ms. McCarthy,” he said flatly, “why are you here?”
Vicki was stunned, almost offended. She looked at Dr. Archer as if he had three heads, and it took a few seconds for the question to sink in. She swung her legs to the floor and sat up straight, choosing her next words carefully.
“I’m here, because every night I go to bed thinking about what that fucking bastard Alistair Steele did to me. I’ve tried to deal with it, honestly, I have. I almost did it, too, until I found out that he’s here in the city. And, I know it may sound silly to you, but I keep thinking that he’s coming for me again. I can’t function anymore. I can’t sleep, I can’t keep any food down. It’s like the son of a bitch controls my life and he doesn’t even fucking know it!” She pounded her fist on the couch, tears beginning to flow from her eyes.
Dr. Archer nodded. As she stared into his kind, chestnut eyes, she could tell he understood exactly what she meant. He flipped through the pages on his clipboard until he found Vicki’s file from her previous psychiatrist.
“It says here that you were raped by Mr. Steele back in 2000, and that you birthed a child from this incident,” he commented.
Vicki nodded, wiping the salty tears away on her sleeve. “Yeah, that’s right. What are you getting at?”
“Where is the child now?” he asked.
Vicki had no sure answer. She hadn’t had any contact with her daughter in over a year, since moving to Fort MacMurray. As far as she knew, the child was still in Newfoundland with her adoptive parents. She told Dr. Archer as much.
The doctor’s response was immediate. “I think you should contact your daughter, Ms. McCarthy,” he said. “It would be best for both you and her if you two kept in touch on a regular basis. With all the...” he cleared his throat, “...stress, in your life right now, you need a...” he emphasized the next words by making the quotation gestures with his fingers, “...’safety line,’ per se, to help you cope with everything that’s been going on.”
Vicki cocked an eyebrow. “Safety line?” she questioned. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
Dr. Archer held up his hands in surrender. “Well, maybe ‘safety line’ isn’t the best phrase to use here. Think of your daughter as more of a... tool, to keep you from succumbing to your stressors and making any hasty and regretful decisions.”
Vicki couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Who the hell did this tacky-suited prick with a sissy clipboard and a bad comb-over think he was, referring to her darling daughter as a fucking inanimate object? Furious, she bolted upright on the couch and gripped the cushions. It took everything she had to stop herself from slapping Dr. Archer across the face.
“My daughter is no...tool, you insensitive fuck!” she screamed. “She is the only thing I have left, and I won’t have you talk about her like she’s some God damn object that someone can use!” Vicki stood up and stormed towards the door, and Dr. Archer’s words followed her out of the room like an annoying child.
“If she’s all you have left, then why haven’t you talked to her in over a year?”
Those words gnawed at her as she thundered down the corridor. They swam around in her head and knotted her stomach. She cursed her stupidity for going to the damn therapist’s session in the first place; she should’ve known he wouldn’t be able to help her. Dr. Archer was right, though, she knew. Vicki made the easy decision to call her daughter, even just to say hello. Her little girl deserved that much.
Vicki found herself back in the lobby, and again she was exposed to the prying eyes of the perverted, disgusting old men that violated her so ruthlessly. Doing her best to ignore them, she spotted a payphone close to the front desk where Sausage Fingers was still typing her fat ass off at her computer. Vicki made a bee line straight for the payphone and picked up the receiver, thoughts and memories of her beautiful blonde, emerald-eyed girl floating in her brain. She quickly dialed the number to her adoptive parents back on the Island and managed to dig a quarter from her pockets, depositing it into the machine.
A wave of excitement and nervousness crashed into her as the rings went through. How she longed to hear her daughter’s voice at the other end of the line. Finally someone picked up the phone, and Vicki heard a strange, tired voice on the line.
“Hello?” the voice said in almost a hoarse whisper.
“Hi, Irene, it’s Vicki. How’s Annabelle?”