Freefall
o13.
He gazes out upon the snow swept streets longingly. The cars create mushy drawings across its glazed surface, but the snow always falls again, covers it up for the next artist to pass through, allowing them to create their own masterpiece that no one would see. The snow is a fragile, mysterious thing, he remarks to the voice inside his head: the one that does not deem you sick, merely normal to have it there. Snow can see the problems of the world, can see that everyone was sick in their own way. Snow could see your flaws, your mistakes, your biggest screw ups, all from above. But it only seemed to fall when someone really needed it, really needed it to cover up their tracks, their failures. Aniston believed that snow did its best to cover up those marks, to blanket the world in a perfect state of alrightness, if only for a moment. It was much the same for the rain of spring, or the falling leaves of autumn, or the searing heat of summer: each tried its best to conceal the hurt of the world as best that they could. But, like everything in the world, the blanket of clean could only last for so long, could only cover the world for as long as Mother Earth would allow before she could no longer stand their disobedience.
Aniston thought of the weather much like a mother and her unruly children who always seemed to outsmart her. The weather would cover the tainted world, much like a child building a fort. And Mother Earth would come out to find her living room a mess, and the fort would be torn down, always torn down. But then he had to stop himself, because of course the snow was not a person, it didn’t have thoughts, and of course it couldn’t see their problems. That would be absurd, the voice in his head rings out, quelling his notions back down. He was still waiting for the head of office to come as Aniston had requested, to talk about Ryan. What if he didn’t show? What if he did come, and, just like all the other patients Aniston had discussed with him, he didn’t care? What would he tell Ryan? What would-
Two sharp raps on the heavy oak door signal that the doctor does, indeed, have company. He straightens his tie, smoothes back his hair, and takes a seat in the plush swivel chair behind his desk. “Come in, please,” he tells the door, trying to sound professional although his heart is racing like it is on steroids.
The door eases open, and a tall, lanky figure steps in, face stripped of anything but pure lack of sleep. He nods his head at the doctor, and Aniston waves him to the couch opposite his desk. He plods over to it, and seats himself erectly, regarding Aniston with little concern. They’d been through this before. They both, ultimately, knew how it was going to end, although one hoped for something more: a better end to their dilemma. “Aniston.” The man’s voice is husky, strained, like he’d smoked one too many cigarettes in his lifetime. He is older, and his hair is thinning, starting to grey. Half moon spectacles are perched on the bridge of his nose, giving him an air of superiority over all else who dared step into his presence. His odor floats across the room. It is musky: a mixed concoction of smoke, alcohol, and some other item that Aniston could not quite place.
“Sir,” Aniston replies, fiddling with his hands beneath his desk out of nervousness. “I suppose you already know why I’ve asked you to come here?” he asks, not altogether eager for the response.
The man in the wool suit grunts, mutters something under his breath, his words even more stifled behind his grungy mustache. “For the most part, I believe so. It’s about that boy, I presume. Oh, what was his name?” he asks himself, not wanting an answer. He receives one anyway, much to his dislike.
“Ryan, sir. His name is Ryan. And yes, it is about him. I’d like to know if I could take him…out next week…” the doctor mumbles, his eyes trailing downward like a small boy knowing that he is about to get reprimanded by his father for doing something bad.
The suit laughs demeaningly at him, runs a large hand through what little hair was left. “You mean take him out of the facility? Aniston, that can’t be good for his health. And what if something happened? Think of the lawsuits! Think of the press! I don’t need people snooping around here, Doctor.” He glares at Aniston through his thick glasses, enforcing his point.
“I know, Sir. But… I think it would be good for him. I think it would help him get better. Please, Sir, I just want to help him. I wouldn’t let anything happen.”
“You think it would help him get better?” he scoffs, crosses his arms in a tight, steadfast manner. “How could it possibly make him better?”
“Please, Sir. I just want to help him,” Aniston reiterates pleadingly.
“You can’t help them all, my dear boy,” he tells him degradingly. “Sometimes you just have to let them go. And, so it seems, Roger is the one you need to let go.” He stands then, shoves his hands into his pockets in the final act of sealing a business proposition. Aniston had been wrong in hoping for something more, it seemed. The man didn’t care about anything other than himself, what would make him look good, what would keep him out of trouble.
The suit makes his way to the door in the silence of the moment, places his hand on the knob, and stops. “You can take him, Doctor. But don’t get your hopes up. He’s too far gone for you, for anyone, to ever hope to bring back. Just let him go. Trust me, let him go, for the sake of your sanity.” He pulls open the door, exits, leaving Aniston in a frozen state of shock: of happiness, of confusion, of belated intake of air. And all he can do is sit there and revel in the whole ordeal.
Aniston thought of the weather much like a mother and her unruly children who always seemed to outsmart her. The weather would cover the tainted world, much like a child building a fort. And Mother Earth would come out to find her living room a mess, and the fort would be torn down, always torn down. But then he had to stop himself, because of course the snow was not a person, it didn’t have thoughts, and of course it couldn’t see their problems. That would be absurd, the voice in his head rings out, quelling his notions back down. He was still waiting for the head of office to come as Aniston had requested, to talk about Ryan. What if he didn’t show? What if he did come, and, just like all the other patients Aniston had discussed with him, he didn’t care? What would he tell Ryan? What would-
Two sharp raps on the heavy oak door signal that the doctor does, indeed, have company. He straightens his tie, smoothes back his hair, and takes a seat in the plush swivel chair behind his desk. “Come in, please,” he tells the door, trying to sound professional although his heart is racing like it is on steroids.
The door eases open, and a tall, lanky figure steps in, face stripped of anything but pure lack of sleep. He nods his head at the doctor, and Aniston waves him to the couch opposite his desk. He plods over to it, and seats himself erectly, regarding Aniston with little concern. They’d been through this before. They both, ultimately, knew how it was going to end, although one hoped for something more: a better end to their dilemma. “Aniston.” The man’s voice is husky, strained, like he’d smoked one too many cigarettes in his lifetime. He is older, and his hair is thinning, starting to grey. Half moon spectacles are perched on the bridge of his nose, giving him an air of superiority over all else who dared step into his presence. His odor floats across the room. It is musky: a mixed concoction of smoke, alcohol, and some other item that Aniston could not quite place.
“Sir,” Aniston replies, fiddling with his hands beneath his desk out of nervousness. “I suppose you already know why I’ve asked you to come here?” he asks, not altogether eager for the response.
The man in the wool suit grunts, mutters something under his breath, his words even more stifled behind his grungy mustache. “For the most part, I believe so. It’s about that boy, I presume. Oh, what was his name?” he asks himself, not wanting an answer. He receives one anyway, much to his dislike.
“Ryan, sir. His name is Ryan. And yes, it is about him. I’d like to know if I could take him…out next week…” the doctor mumbles, his eyes trailing downward like a small boy knowing that he is about to get reprimanded by his father for doing something bad.
The suit laughs demeaningly at him, runs a large hand through what little hair was left. “You mean take him out of the facility? Aniston, that can’t be good for his health. And what if something happened? Think of the lawsuits! Think of the press! I don’t need people snooping around here, Doctor.” He glares at Aniston through his thick glasses, enforcing his point.
“I know, Sir. But… I think it would be good for him. I think it would help him get better. Please, Sir, I just want to help him. I wouldn’t let anything happen.”
“You think it would help him get better?” he scoffs, crosses his arms in a tight, steadfast manner. “How could it possibly make him better?”
“Please, Sir. I just want to help him,” Aniston reiterates pleadingly.
“You can’t help them all, my dear boy,” he tells him degradingly. “Sometimes you just have to let them go. And, so it seems, Roger is the one you need to let go.” He stands then, shoves his hands into his pockets in the final act of sealing a business proposition. Aniston had been wrong in hoping for something more, it seemed. The man didn’t care about anything other than himself, what would make him look good, what would keep him out of trouble.
The suit makes his way to the door in the silence of the moment, places his hand on the knob, and stops. “You can take him, Doctor. But don’t get your hopes up. He’s too far gone for you, for anyone, to ever hope to bring back. Just let him go. Trust me, let him go, for the sake of your sanity.” He pulls open the door, exits, leaving Aniston in a frozen state of shock: of happiness, of confusion, of belated intake of air. And all he can do is sit there and revel in the whole ordeal.