Heartkiller

Tuesday, November 5, 2013

"Her name is Dr. Jenna Ashbury, and she's one of the best in the city. Extremely professional, and she usually works with famous clientele, so she knows the drill." Seppo's assistant had informed Ville.

At his manager's insistence, Ville had agreed to counseling following his wife’s death and his near suicide. He wanted to make sure Ville was okay and wouldn't spiral into a depression. As a recovering alcoholic, Ville was especially at risk for further self-medicating, which could not end well. In return, Ville insisted that he be allowed to return to the apartment he had shared with Avery; he didn’t want a babysitter.

He was currently sitting across from the therapist as she watched him over her black-rimmed glasses, which were resting near the tip of her nose. She had his file in her hands and had read through it a few times to pass the time; it had been silent as Ville had no intention of speaking. He didn't want to be here, and he wasn't going to share personal thoughts and feelings with a complete stranger no matter how confidential she was going to be.

Her office was rather large with taupe walls with brown shutters covering the windows. There was a bookcase to the right of the door filled with various texts relevant to the therapist’s profession ranging from scholarly works of interest to DSM-V, the latest edition of the manual used to diagnose mental disorders. While Dr. Ashbury had a desk by the windows, she chose to sit at a plush chair in order to better engage with her patients. Despite the long sofa which Ville could have lay on, he opted for the plush loveseat--all the furniture in the office was plush--across from her, twiddling his thumbs.

"What’s on your mind?" She asked.

"Nothing. I just want to leave," he said bluntly.

"Why don't you want to talk about why you're here?"

Ville was silent as he stared at the clock behind her. While he had agreed to therapy to Seppo, he never said what he would be doing with this time. For all he cared, he could spend his time staring at the wall until the full hour was up, and Dr. Ashbury couldn’t do anything to change his mind. He just had to last through 20 sessions of this, and he would be done regardless of how he completed those sessions.

"You don't think I'll understand? Look, I'm not going to pretend like I do or that I will… but I can promise that I'll try. You just have to give me the chance." She tried to convince him.

"You must already know what's happened. Whoever booked this appointment must have told you."

"No one told me anything. Whatever I know will be based on what you tell me; I won’t assume anything for myself."

“The problem is I don’t want to sit here and have you dissect my childhood or analyze my dreams. It’s not going to do any good for my situation.”

“That’s what this is about? You have no idea what therapy is about, do you?”

He didn’t respond.

The doctor continued, “Qualified therapists haven’t conducted sessions like that in ages. Everybody has a misconception because of dear old Freud, but that’s not what we do. This is a science. People like me, people who have degrees in psychiatry, we do things differently. As much as people want to believe that we’re invincible, we’re not. If you’re going through something difficult, it’s likely that someone else has experienced the same thing pushed through. They’ve survived. We use this information and this process to help each other as a society so that we can move forward... It’s okay to ask for help once in a while.”

There were a few moments of silence as Ville mulled over the idea of actually giving therapy a chance. It wasn't entirely something he believed in; he had chalked it up to be some sort of scam, but she was being rather convincing about it all. She was being rational and understanding. He finally conceded.

"My wife died." His voice was hardly above a whisper.

"I'm sorry for your loss… what was her name?"

"Avery."

Saying her name aloud and confronting the news in such an enclosed space struck a nerve. Suddenly, Ville was left to face the news directly without a guitar to throw or a door to slam. He became angry; with tears streaming down his cheeks, he began to yell his frustrations.

"She was hardly 35 years old. Thirty-five! Killed in a car accident, no less. A car ran into her as she was in the intersection. What did she do to deserve such a young, tragic death? What did I do that I was able to walk away with just a bruise and she’s--she’s g-gone?"

“I can't tell you that it'll be okay or that she wouldn't want this for you... Grieving is a process, and it's different for everybody. What I know is that this isn't your fault. Unless you drove the other car into her, or forced her in that intersection in some way, this wasn't your fault. You have to understand that."

"I don't know that. I don't know what happened inside that car. I was there, but I don't-I don't remember."

His hand balled into a fist, and he angrily shook it. He took a tissue from the box on the table between the two and used it to dry the tears.

"What are you saying?"

"The doctor said I have temporary amnesia. The days leading up to the accident are gone… they’ve been wiped from my memory. He said anything could trigger its recovery. Everything I know is from what people told me." Ville looked at the ground in shame and disappointment for his next words. "I don't even know the last thing I said to her… I don’t know the last thing she said to me."

"That's okay."

"How? How is that okay?"

"Because you remember your name and where you're from. You remember who you are and who she is. These are all good signs. You don't remember a few days, but that’s okay. They're important days, yes, but the memories are there. Like you said, we just have to find the right trigger."

"We?"

His eyebrows were raised, and he was considerably comforted. There was hope.

"We.” she confirmed. “We can work on that, you and I. If you want to, that is."

"I do." He nodded to reaffirm his words.

"Good. We can go through what you do remember and highlight through your relationship... Maybe something in there will spark your recollection of what happened that night. Would you want to do that? Does that sound reasonable?”

He nodded.

“Then with the time we have left, why don't you start at the beginning? How did you and Avery meet?"

It took Ville a moment to collect himself and accept the gravity of what she was saying: he wasn’t alone in this recovery. There was something active that he could be doing to try and figure out what happened. Although it wouldn’t bring Avery back, he tried not to focus on that and instead concentrate on what this could do. It could help him evoke their last conversation, and it was as close to a start in his grieving process as he had right now. He opened his mouth and started to tell the story of how he and Avery met seven years ago.

“Uh, my band was in New York, May of 2006. We had just finished a show at some club, and I went to the alley in the back for a smoke. I saw this couple fighting and yelling obscenities at each other.” he started.

Friday May 19, 2006

“Are you fucking kidding me? You promised me, you jackass!” she yelled. Her finger was pointed sternly in his face.

The alley was rather small and filthy; there was trash, broken beer bottles, and cigarettes littered everywhere. In the light, that’s all that was visible to Ville, but undoubtedly there were also some unidentifiable disgusting objects amongst the garbage. The alley was quite dark, illuminated by the sole light by the club door. Ville could make out the outline of the two figures fighting in the far corner with the guy leaning against a fence. The guy was in a trance, hardly listening to her words. His feet wobbled beneath him, and he struggled to maintain eye contact. The woman towered over him in tall stilettos, and the scene looked like a mother admonishing her child. Ville tried his best to stay out of it as he just wanted to smoke and to free himself from the congestion of the club; he stood at the opposite corner of the lot and looked away, but he couldn’t help overhearing their conversation.

“I can’t go through this with you every time. This is never going to work if I’m just bailing you out of jail one day or fixing your petty problems with neighbors the next. You’re such a fucking child! I can’t do this anymore. We’re done.”

She started to walk away from the situation, but the other guy said things to provoke her.

“Yeah, of course we’re done. I knew it...You’re a quitter, just like all the rest. You’re no different than -” he was interrupted.

Ville turned around to see the woman holding him close by the collar of his shirt; she had her arm pulled back to gather momentum for a punch. Ville dropped his cigarette and ran over to pull them apart. By the time he got there, she had already landed one punch and was readying for another one. Ville pulled her off of him, allowing the other guy to get himself together. The man had stubble dappled across his chin, and he was dressed in a dirty old plaid shirt and jeans. He didn’t even have the decency to button the shirt; it was left open to reveal his pale skin underneath. He had been hit below his right eye, and the area was already starting to bruise. This girl could really pack a punch! He brushed off his shirt and looked like he was going to retaliate: his hand was balled up into a fist, though it remained at his side.

“Get lost!” Ville warned.

The other guy paused for a second to gauge the situation before deciding it was better to saunter away into the darkness of the alley. After he left, the woman spoke to Ville.

“He wasn’t going to do anything, you know.” she said authoritatively.

That wasn’t quite the response he was expecting. A ‘thank you’ maybe, but certainly not something so cavalier. It intrigued him to know that she wasn’t some damsel in distress waiting for a prince on a horse, although the punch she had thrown should have been proof enough. Not knowing how else to reply, he offered to buy her a drink and they went back inside the club.

“Beer,” she said when they got to the bar.

“Two beers, it is.” Ville said and gave the order to the bartender, who returned with the bottles.

The two went to a table on the side in a quieter part of the club. It was better lit than the alley had been, and Ville was able to discern her features much more easily. She had wavy hair reaching her elbows; it was dark brown at the roots but became more and more blond as it reached the ends. Her eyes were an aqua blue accentuating her olive toned skin. Her makeup was light: her eyes were lined with a brown kohl pencil, a faint peach blush softened her skin, and a bright coral lipstick added a pop of color. Dressed rather conservatively in a black dress with a thin red belt, she looked rather out of place. Ville, on the other hand, fit right in with his band Tee and jeans.

“Thanks for the beer,” she said.

“No problem. I’m sorry about your boyfriend.” Ville apologized.

To that, the woman started laughing. Ville was confused.

“You’re funny… that guy was not my boyfriend. He was my client.”

Ville couldn’t stop the next words from escaping his mouth: “You’re a hooker?”

“I’m gonna slide right past that and say, no. I’m not a hooker. I’m an attorney. I’m Avery.” she introduced and held out her hand.

“I’m Ville,” he replied, and shook her hand.

“That guy was a junkie. Heroin addict.”

“Oh.”

"Yeah, he couldn't lift his hand long enough to throw a punch, let alone land it. I’ve been representing him in a few cases because the asshole stays out of trouble less often than he stays sober. He's an ungrateful son of a bitch. I know you have to start somewhere, but clients like these are really insulting to my intelligence."

“What type of lawyer are you?”

“Well, I hope to be a corporate lawyer someday, handling big contracts and mergers. Things like that. Right now, I’m an associate. Fourth year associate, actually, so I do have the privilege of handling cases on my own and being in the field, rather than being stuck in the office doing research for partners all day. I’ve done my time, though, as far as handling menial tasks such as getting coffee and picking up dry-cleaning. Hopefully, I’ll be a junior partner by this time next year, and...I’m sorry, I’ve been rambling about myself.”

“I don’t mind,” Ville replied. “It’s a nice change of pace, compared to the same old stories I’ve been around.”

“What do you mean? What do you do for a living?”

“Uh...” Ville hesitated. “I sing for a band called HIM from Helsinki, Finland.”

“Oooh, so that’s where the accent is from.”

“Yeah.”

“What does HIM stand for?”

“At some point, it stood for His Infernal Majesty. but then we started being associated with Satanic rituals and church burnings, etc., which we’re not really into. So we shortened it a bit. Sweet and simple now.”

“His Infernal Majesty, huh? That does sound pretty Satanic. What genre of music do you play?”

“Uh… we sort of defined our own genre called love metal. I suppose it’s hard rock with a melodic, tender twist.”

“It seems a little pretentious to ‘define your own genre,’ don’t you think? What? There was nothing around that appropriately defined you?” As Ville would learn, Avery had a caustic personality and was unafraid to speak her mind. “Anyway, what does ‘same old stories I’ve been around’ mean? Gimme an example of such a story.”

“Oh, you know, being divas in hotel rooms, wrecking shit and not caring about what happens.”

“Come on, you gotta give me more than that. I don’t know what you’re talking about. Paint a picture for me.”

“Ah, well… there’s zillions of them because we’ve been touring for a decade now, but uh… let’s see. There was one time in Holland when some fans… well, the first thing you should know is that my dad owns a sex shop in Finland, and I used to work there before the band -”

“Wow, there’s a story right there!” Avery dropped her hands to the table in surprise. “Okay, sorry for interrupting, go on.”

“Yeah, I used to work there, and a lot of fans know this, so in Holland, some fans threw a… a vibrating cock onstage.”

“What the fuck? Then what happened?”

“I was confused at first, like ‘what the hell?’” Ville had a puzzled look on his face to emphasize. “Then I had heard that you can use the vibrator as like a, um… to create feedback, you know, with the amps. So I took it, and - “

“You picked it up? How do you know someone didn’t use it already?”

Ville hesitated. “I suppose I don’t.”

“Oh, God. That’s gross.” Avery scrunched her face in disgust and looked away.

Ville laughed and continued his story: “So I took it, and held it near the guitar as Linde, our guitar player, is in the middle of a riff. It was glorious. And the next day, the headlines were just outrageous, saying how I must have gone insane because of my stage antics.”

“That’s wild!” Avery laughed. Her smile was infectious and showed off her perfect pearly white teeth.

“Yeah… I mean, it’s only an example. There’s a lot of wild shit that happens on the road.”

“Now, if you’re a rockstar, I just have one question for you. Why exactly aren’t you surrounded by groupies right now?”

Avery pointed around him to emphasize that he seemed like just another guy in the club. The crowd was ignoring him, caught up in dancing to the music and flirting with others. The two were able to get lost in conversation without anybody disturbing them. The band was on the Projekt Revolution tour hosted by Linkin Park and were performing with the likes of My Chemical Romance, Taking Back Sunday, and Placebo, all of which were more popular in the US than HIM was. As a result, these ‘groupies’ were likely hounding such stars, allowing the Finnish rockers to immerse themselves in the much-welcomed peace.

“Ah. Well, because I’m in the States right now. We’re a Scandinavian band; we’re much more popular in our home country and Germany. Europe overall, really. Our sound is just starting to hit the States.”

“And when can I hear this sound?” Avery looked at him with an eyebrow cocked.

“We just played a show tonight, but we’ll be here tomorrow night as well. I’m sure I can get you a ticket, if you’d like. You could watch the show from backstage to get that insider’s peek.” Ville offered.

“Oh yeah? You could hook it up for me?” Avery playfully asked, nudging him. She continued sarcastically: “A complete stranger you only met moments ago getting free tickets. That doesn’t sound outlandish at all.”

“I never said it would be free.” Ville subtly flirted back.

“I already told you: I’m not a hooker.” Avery deadpanned.

“No, no,” Ville chuckled. “You can get a ticket in exchange for some more of these stories you have. You wouldn’t be much of a stranger then, right?”

Avery was confused, and her eyebrows furrowed in response.

“You can’t possibly be serious. You really want to hear me drone on about being a lawyer when you’re a foreign rockstar? I’m sure you have better things to be doing.”

Ville smiled. “I’m actually content right here. See, I’ve been around the same models and reporters, the same stories, the same antics for quite a while now. You seem...refreshing.”

You have substance, Ville thought.

“Well, then, how could I deny such a polite request? Sure, I’ll tell you work stories in exchange for hanging backstage to check you out.”

“You mean, to check my band out.” Ville corrected.

Avery paused with a clever grin on her face. “Yeah, sure. That too.”

Ville mirrored her expression.

“Sounds charming.” Dr. Ashbury noted.

"Yeah...I was hooked from that first conversation."

"I can tell," she smiled. "Now, did that help you?"

Ville scoffed, but more at the idea of it rather than at the therapist.

"Of course not. The night is still as blank as ever."

"I meant: did it help you grieve?"

"I guess it was nice to remember a fond memory...but that's about it."

"I suppose that's a good start both to therapy and to your process. On that note, shall we stop here?"

"Yeah, that's fine."

"Alright then," she stood up and Ville followed suit. "I'll see you next Tuesday."

"See you," he replied and she showed him the way out the door.

He walked outside and pulled a cigarette out of his pocket. After lighting it up, he started to wander down the avenue. He wanted some time alone, and he allowed himself to get lost in the crowd of the New York streets. Ville was still warming up to the idea of therapy, so he was hesitant with the details he provided. Now that he was alone, he let himself become immersed in the memory. He remembered everything about her from her bright white smile to the faint smell of jasmine flowers emanating from her hair.