Phony

Frank

“Why would you say that?”

I looked at the therapist in confusion.

“Say what?” I questioned, watching the light reflect off him shiny head as he moved it around. I considered pulling out my shades, but I couldn’t be bothered.

“Who uses matches? A lot of people use matches.” I could’ve sworn I heard a hint of sadness or hurt in his voice. I cocked an eyebrow at him—is he serious?. He shrugged his shoulders at me. “I use matches.”

“Gerard used matches. I use matches. I did then, too. A lot of people did and still do.” I pointed out, keeping a straight face, glaring into the therapist’s dull green eyes.

“Then why did you ask?”

I sighed—“I wanted to see what he would say.” The therapist continued giving me the look and I sighed. He didn’t understand. He was clearly stupid. Why was I bothering talking to someone so stupid, that he couldn’t understand common curiosity?

A good-bye formed in my mouth. I prepared myself to stand up, pull on my coat and walk out of the office for good. I was very tempted; I wanted nothing more to leave right then and there.

I didn’t though.

I had started here. I was into the story and it wouldn’t be right to leave it right in the beginning. It was on my mind and it would be until I told the whole story. I would have no one to tell it to; no one cares, no one wants to listen. Then I’d be forced to awkwardly return to the only person who would listen, getting fifty bucks for every hour I spent in here, in the odd smelling room, with the oddly discolored chair, freeing all the skeletons in my closet.

I let out another sigh, squinting my eyes in thought.

“Gerard was a bit like you, y’know. He didn’t understand…”

***

“Are you fucked up?”

I looked up from my book, To Kill A Mockingbird by Harper Lee. Amazing book.

“Come again?” I asked, unsure of what Gerard had said as soon as he walked into our room.

“Are you fucked up?” He repeated, standing at the foot at my bed, glaring at me emotionlessly.

I thought about it for a second, before replying: “’Fucked up’ meaning with drugs, or ‘fucked up’ in the head, like mentally incorrect?”

Gerard just glared at me, shaking his head again before heading over to his half of the room. He didn’t approve of me. He didn’t like me, and I knew it. But who ever said I liked him?

***

“Truth was, I did like him.” I confessed to Dr. Phil, as I have mentally named him, standing from the chair and relocating to the floor, laying down so I was looking up at the ceiling. “He intrigued me. He seemed not to like me, yet he constantly talked to me. At first, it was in a cruel way, but after a while, it turned into curiosity. Honestly; I could pick up his tone. He pretended he didn’t like me, but right then, when I just told you, was when he became interested with me. It was like we were studying each other; it was the weirdest thing. We seemed to be polar opposites, but I began to notice similarities between us, one being that of analyzing others.”

“And how did that make you feel?”

I quickly redirected my gaze from the ceiling to Dr. Phil, glaring hatefully at him. He looked back, challengingly. I got to my feet heading towards the door.
He asked the question.

With my hand on the doorknob, I turned my head slightly to the side.

“It gave me this weird feeling; I felt like someone actually cared about me for once.” I pulled the door open, turning around to see a slightly satisfied look on his face. “I’ll see you next week.”

With that, I left the room.