Phony

Frank

“So then what happened?”

The annoying therapist, looking oddly intrigued by my story, was leaning forward in his seat, his fist’s holding up his head. I actually hadn’t seen him write anything down since I walked in, nothing besides my name, anyway. He was just listening.

“Shouldn’t you be writing something down?” I questioned back, ignoring his question. The therapist looked down at his clipboard, then back to me.

“Do you want me to?” He asked.

“I don’t care.” I replied with a shrug. “Honestly. I just thought therapists wrote stuff down.”

It was now the therapist’s turn to shrug. “So what happened next?” He asked again.

I sighed—annoyingly persistent phony, was what he was—clicking my tongue. “So I walked into the room.” I continued. “And the first thing I noticed was this painting on the wall—”

Salvadore Dali’s 'La Persistancia de Memoria' hung from one of that walls. Robert Lyn Nelson’s ’Lahina Rhythm Land & Sea’ Claude Monet’s ’Waterlilies’. A few I didn’t know the name of.

There was a boy sitting on one of the identical beds, reading a comic; X-men, I believe. When he heard me come in, He lifted his gaze from the page to be, cocking an eyebrow, his hazel eyes cold.

“Can I help you?” He asked, his tone slightly sarcastic.

“No.” I said, throwing my bags on my bed. The boy snorted.

“Why are you here?” He asked slowly, as if talking to a retard.

“Me am living here.” I replied, equally as slow, already hating this guy. He was a phony, the first one I’ve had the pleasure of meeting at the fifth hellhole.

I heard a ‘fan-fucking-tastic’ quietly erupt from his voice.

“I ain’t so fucking thrilled either.” I said, muttering ‘stupid Christian’ under my breath. All Christians are the same. They’re phony, they’re discriminative and just all-around cunts.

He slammed his comic on his bed. Not that it made much a sound. It was a comic, for Christ’s sake. “I am not a Christian.” He spat hatefully at me, glaring at me. “I am not a Catholic, either.”

We stood there, glaring at each other for what felt like hours, me thinking about how over-dramatic he was, and him thinking I was a cunt or something.

I averted my gaze back to the paintings on the wall. 'La Persistancia de Memoria' That was my sister’s favorite. She was an art nerd, I guess you would call it. I had a feeling my roomie was the same.

“You an art nerd?” I asked him my gaze still fixed on the painting. It’s look always intrigued me, my sister—she would stare at it for hours, trying to figure out its meaning, what Dali was thinking as he painted.

“Fuck off, punk kid.” The kid said. I thought about replying to that with profanity, but I wanted to uphold this conversation. Well, the one I was trying to start, not him.

“My sister was. This was her favorite.” I said.

“The Persistence of Memory’?” He asked.

I nodded. “Actually, it’s proper title is 'La Persistancia de Memoria'. I’m pretty sure it’s Spanish.” I corrected him. I felt the kid glaring at me, burning holes in the side of my head, but I didn’t care.

“This was my sister’s favorite.” I replied. “'La Persistancia de Memoria'. You an art nerd? What’s your name?”

“Gerard.” He replied, still glaring at me.

“You draw and stuff? You an art nerd?”

“Stop asking me if I’m an art nerd! Goddamn!” Gerard yelled, standing up. “Jeez, you just got here like, what? Five minutes ago? Goddamn!!” He yelled walking to the door, opening it with force and slamming it shut behind him.

Me? I walked over to my suitcase and grabbed the variation of 'La Persistancia de Memoria' my sister had painted before she died—three days before she died—hanging it underneath the real thing. Then I walked over to my bed, moved my bags, sat down and cried.