The One Who Always Listened
Stand Alone.
The pale slender dark haired boy sat in the centre of the white room, arms crossed calmly on his chest and secured in place by the jacket. There were not many days where he was like this anymore, calm.
Today was a rarity; today if you ignored the white room and the restraining jacket, you could pretend he was an ordinary 17-year-old boy, your regular everyday adolescent. Nevertheless, you did not find many teenagers hidden underground in a mental institution renown for holding incurables.
She watched him calmly through the double-sided mirror, hidden from the view of the boy she had counselled since the innocent age of 13. She watched him as he sat calmly in the centre of his white room, the room that had been his home for over a year now, the room that would probably be his home for a very long time. He was okay with this, today he was okay with this, it was the calm day.
Even after a year of studying him, no one could figure out how to help him. The phrase ‘living inside your head’ applied literally to this boy.
It started at the age of eleven when he was accepted into one of the most prestigious schools in the country; he had a brilliant mind for one so young. He packed his bags and left immediately as he had little connection to his foster parents.
It started slowly, with an imaginary friend that he would talk about or a word with a meaning that did not exist. It was always assumed that he would grow out of it, but by the time he was 13 it had developed into something much bigger than he was.
Blacked out for hours at a time he would awake to spin marvellous tales, raving of battles between good, evil, triumph, loss and love. He became isolated from his fellow students when they mocked him, eventually refusing to tell his stories to anyone but her, the one who watched him through the tinted window now.
He told her everything that happened to him during his blackouts, insisting that it was all real.
He told her magnificent stories of bravery and power, good triumphing over evil, but still no one knew why he was like this. And yet his condition worsened as he became convinced someone was trying to kill him, someone powerful with many followers who were watching him.
By the age of 14, he had created an entire world with heroes, villains, friends and even his everyday school teachers- were in the land in his mind. He was seeing his counsellor twice a day if not three times, it was then that he shared his biggest secret with her. With the one who had always listened to his stories, writing them down as if they were some fascinating novel. So he shared with the woman who had always tried to help him, yet now stood outside his room without awakening him to her presence.
His blue eyes alight as his greatest secret was lifted from his chest. The words flew from his mouth easily as he told her, just as they always had. Inside this reassured him, he knew he was supposed to tell her, just like he had always told her everything, she would never mock him; she believed him. He shared with her the truth of his stories, it was all him. He was the hero in the tales he had been telling her, he was the good force in all the stories he believed to be true.
She accepted it as she had always done, tapping away at her computer. This renewed his resolve, making him want to defeat the terrible villain that had been hunting him for good. Except no matter how many times he was defeated, the evil rogue always returned just as strong as he always had been.
At the age of 15 he shared with her: his anguish and the pain he felt. He feared that maybe the task that he had been given was too big, maybe he couldn’t defeat the terrible evil he had been fighting for so long, perhaps he just wasn’t strong enough. Of course not, once did she suggest that maybe, just maybe it was all in his head. No, she always listened silently tapping away at her keyboard, making a record of everything he said.
She had always watched him silently just as she did now, she had payed a lot of money to get in here to just look at him. It didn’t bother her though she was rich, rich because of this boy. Not because she was payed extreme amounts to listen to him. You see she never really helped him much, she saw his hallucinations more as stories.
Her name was Joan Rowling.
Today was a rarity; today if you ignored the white room and the restraining jacket, you could pretend he was an ordinary 17-year-old boy, your regular everyday adolescent. Nevertheless, you did not find many teenagers hidden underground in a mental institution renown for holding incurables.
She watched him calmly through the double-sided mirror, hidden from the view of the boy she had counselled since the innocent age of 13. She watched him as he sat calmly in the centre of his white room, the room that had been his home for over a year now, the room that would probably be his home for a very long time. He was okay with this, today he was okay with this, it was the calm day.
Even after a year of studying him, no one could figure out how to help him. The phrase ‘living inside your head’ applied literally to this boy.
It started at the age of eleven when he was accepted into one of the most prestigious schools in the country; he had a brilliant mind for one so young. He packed his bags and left immediately as he had little connection to his foster parents.
It started slowly, with an imaginary friend that he would talk about or a word with a meaning that did not exist. It was always assumed that he would grow out of it, but by the time he was 13 it had developed into something much bigger than he was.
Blacked out for hours at a time he would awake to spin marvellous tales, raving of battles between good, evil, triumph, loss and love. He became isolated from his fellow students when they mocked him, eventually refusing to tell his stories to anyone but her, the one who watched him through the tinted window now.
He told her everything that happened to him during his blackouts, insisting that it was all real.
He told her magnificent stories of bravery and power, good triumphing over evil, but still no one knew why he was like this. And yet his condition worsened as he became convinced someone was trying to kill him, someone powerful with many followers who were watching him.
By the age of 14, he had created an entire world with heroes, villains, friends and even his everyday school teachers- were in the land in his mind. He was seeing his counsellor twice a day if not three times, it was then that he shared his biggest secret with her. With the one who had always listened to his stories, writing them down as if they were some fascinating novel. So he shared with the woman who had always tried to help him, yet now stood outside his room without awakening him to her presence.
His blue eyes alight as his greatest secret was lifted from his chest. The words flew from his mouth easily as he told her, just as they always had. Inside this reassured him, he knew he was supposed to tell her, just like he had always told her everything, she would never mock him; she believed him. He shared with her the truth of his stories, it was all him. He was the hero in the tales he had been telling her, he was the good force in all the stories he believed to be true.
She accepted it as she had always done, tapping away at her computer. This renewed his resolve, making him want to defeat the terrible villain that had been hunting him for good. Except no matter how many times he was defeated, the evil rogue always returned just as strong as he always had been.
At the age of 15 he shared with her: his anguish and the pain he felt. He feared that maybe the task that he had been given was too big, maybe he couldn’t defeat the terrible evil he had been fighting for so long, perhaps he just wasn’t strong enough. Of course not, once did she suggest that maybe, just maybe it was all in his head. No, she always listened silently tapping away at her keyboard, making a record of everything he said.
She had always watched him silently just as she did now, she had payed a lot of money to get in here to just look at him. It didn’t bother her though she was rich, rich because of this boy. Not because she was payed extreme amounts to listen to him. You see she never really helped him much, she saw his hallucinations more as stories.
Her name was Joan Rowling.