-The wind was getting darker and thicker. It wasn't cold, but something was. The wood was more of less stability riding along the untamed latitudes. The yellow plastic bag was intentionally slapped to the inside and deviously bristling more conservatively. The last of the fish was still flapping in the bag, pounding its sides against the wood. Something about the boat, the cracks, my beard or maybe the shore was precarious. It was abruptly disappearing for a blink and shifting into something else. My age could not be identified. I couldn't tell. I wasn't me anymore.
-What do you mean, John? Use your words.-Well, that was myself, but the body was someone else's. It was like I was not in control of my own actions anymore. And then there was this light flashing through the fog. And at every round it hit me, I felt like I was the one drowning and not her.
(The pen stopped heating against the note pad for a second, and he looked at me from above his square thick glasses. He tapped the tip of his pen against the last phrase, anticipating some answers, and feeding the paper with the promise of more. However the silence was too long. Too obscure.)
- Who was "she"?
- She didn't have face. Despite my puzzling thoughts to paint her eyes, nose and a sort of a mouth, she was blank.
-And her body?
-Pale and weak. She was the body, and through her weight she had to speak. I think I threw her body into the sea.
-You killed her?
- I think.
- Well did you or did you not?
-I'm not sure. I might have. However, it was so exotic. When her corp collapsed into the waters, I was the one drowning. My throat gurgled with the salt. I put my hands so tightly around my neck that nothing was to flush air in. When I realized that my life was to whiff away, I threw myself onto the tip of the deck where my hands fell short from her. I was...
(I shrugged and pulled myself from an eccentric angle where I sought a portal to my memory and shrunk my fingers closer to my palm)
-... in pain.
(shifted my sight to Dr. Emile)
and she was done with the air, content with life. (My mouth, after being slightly opened, broke more realistically closed and ready for explanation. Yet, the doctor's pen was still lost over the white, flashing interpretations to his notepad. Seconds and he quit to gaze again at me, stern as he could be. But the smirk soon flipped into a sympathetic smile).
-Was that woman Dorothy?
The corners of my mouth drowned even more into the fact and my eyes lost again sideways. My forehead retained its marks. Nothing was to pull me back to his question, but his low hoarse murmur rose along the words and lipped the time for our weekly session over.
I freed my left foot from under the right and slid both from afar to stiffen them closer to stand. I stood up where my brown cotton pants fell back to cover the beige socks. I smiled like I have been doing for the past 6 weeks and left. Tapping the steps down to the NewYorkan busy street. From the recent beating nightmare and Emile's interpretations into the rushing crowd.
It wasn't the first time I scribble my sheets with nightly concerns. The newly vast matrix was already growing by the night tightly more compelling. All viscous feels shuffled at the hedge of every morning brake. Right before our bed, the reddish wood squeaks open from the center against the rusty gold-painted joints to the clothes I left hanging solemnly. Even the transparent plastic cloak over the silent white wedding dress to the far left still clung to the dust particles over it. Her nanny's heavy perfume still larked through it. Beneath it is only one heel left of that night. The other was lost when we first moved to the house. On the shelf above, at the top, to the deep center, slightly to the shy right, painted the prone space of her wedding gift. A small box settling over 4 cornered nails and a scraped wooden shade silent shut over the pretty little dolly inside. It hushed the childish pink memories and the perky music. I peered closer to it, reaching out for its tips, to succumb to the musics loudly weeping as the doll painted a new face. It went on to sing the dark red screams of Dorothy's past. All got too loud and painfully vivid along with another lump of attacks of the flashback fall. It spoke and screamed louder and faster with her voice to where I threw the box to the end of the shelf. I fled from the squeaks and the reddish brown memories. I ran to the busy streets where the people's fast lives were too systematically blind to the fault in my scars.
