The Widower and His Web
Chapter One
Memories of a less woeful existence betray my very psyche. My personal history seemed as intangible as a dream; perhaps it was a dream. Perhaps I have always been the same lonely, bitter man in the past as I am today and my only consolation is creating a false former reality. Though I am aware that I am not insane, I cannot be sure that I had not been insane throughout the duration of my previous life. I may not have been insane even back then; it is plausible that I was simply blind.
The cold air was stifling, creating an environment that was the perfect breeding ground for negative emotions. Despite my extensive education on human psychology, I still succumbed to one of the most common errors of the average uneducated victim of depression. The whiskey burned my throat. Warmth enveloped my stomach and extremities. The empty, cold apartment became more bearable with each drink.
Papers were strewn around my desk. As of late, I found myself only able to work when inebriated. It was evident that whilst inebriated, I became quite an unorganized individual. It appeared as though I had emptied all of my manila folders without any form of organization for the loose files. I glanced at my notes and hoped that they would give me a hint what exactly I had been trying to do on the previous evening. Unfortunately, the notes were just as unorganized as the files. There were references to borderline personality disorder, depression, and post-traumatic stress disorder, none of which were associated with one another or any single patient. I sighed and began eyeing papers, slipping them into the manila folder in which they belonged. After only a few moments of this, I had lost my motivation. Irish whiskey was my primary interest.
***
My colleagues placed much more importance on weekly conferences than I did. Every week’s conference consisted of the same conversations. Everyone had the same propositions, concerns, and remarks. The conference had been in session for thirty minutes when I finally arrived. My head was pounding and my stomach ached, but I knew that those symptoms were going to be the least of my troubles. In unison, all four of the other practicing psychiatrists averted their eyes to me as I opened the conference room door. Three of them shook their head and chuckled. Dr. Sharma, however, could not help but glare. He opened the practice and he was not very forgiving when his rules were broken.
“Dr. Sampson, as much as I expect this out of you, I’m still in awe of your behavior. It is one thing for you to arrive late to a conference, but it is another thing entirely for you to arrive looking as you do. This is a professional medical establishment and you come to work in a tee shirt and sneakers? How are we to be taken seriously as a practice? I am warning you, doctor. If you are late to one more meeting and if you ever show up looking like this again, you will be taking a little vacation.”
“Paid?” I asked, sarcastically. Dr. Sharma glared at me as my coworkers sniggered.
“Dr. Sampson, I do not know what your problem is, but perhaps you need some time to yourself to think about it. I am going to give you that vacation. Two weeks. Unpaid.”
***
Three days had passed since Dr. Sharma had security escort me off the premises of my workplace. I could not recall a good portion of those seventy-two hours. The ringing of the telephone had awoken me. My vision was blurry when I attempted to observe my surroundings. After a moment of looking around and the sound of my answering machine message echoing throughout the apartment, I came to the realization that I had not fallen asleep in my bed the previous night. I rubbed my head, wincing as I accidentally touched the sensitive spot on which I had apparently fallen when I had fallen to the floor. The sound of Dr. Mullen’s voice caused me to cringe.
”Hey Paul, I was just calling to see how you were handling all of this. I just heard about it and I couldn’t believe it. I know this is really bad timing but I just wanted you to know that if you need to talk to anyone, not as a colleague, but as a friend, I’m here. Now listen, I know you’ve had your problems but I know you really cared about her and that this has to be hard for you. Just because you graduated ahead of me doesn’t mean I can’t help! Not all of us are geniuses, Paul. But I know that Molly was really close to you and that you’re going to have a hard time letting for a bit. It’s natural and I’m here to take the heat from Sharma when he tries giving you shit next time. Alright, I’m here for you if you need anything, buddy. It’s Mickey. Call me.”
I furrowed my brow, wondering how long I had truly been asleep. My divorce had ended months prior; it was difficult to believe four psychiatrists would wait that long to confront their emotionally compromised colleague about such a traumatic life event. Molly and I had been together for twenty-two years when she informed me that she was divorcing me. Despite having our differences, my love for Molly had been just as strong as any man’s love for his wife. My love for her had never ended, even after nearly a year of being divorced.
My heart ached for Molly. She used to call me to yell at me on occasion. She had stopped doing even that. Hearing her voice was a joy, even if she was enraged with me and disgusted with me. The comforting sound of her voice was all that I had left. I lost that when the calls ended months ago. I shed a tear and reached for the bottle with which I had passed out the night before. The phone began to ring again. I ignored it and allowed myself another drink. As I was pouring the beverage, somebody knocked on the door. I grumbled and attempted to ignore the continuous noise. Unfortunately, the only six words that can make me open a door were spoken.
“Dr. Sampson, this is the police!”
I sighed and tried to recollect memories for my alibi for the previous seventy-two hours. I was having difficulty doing so by the time that I opened the door, and all that I was hoping was that there was no video evidence of whatever drunken shenanigan of which I was being accused. I smiled at the officers and invited them inside.
“Dr. Sampson, we’re here to ask you some questions about the death of Molly Linden.”
Processing the words that had been spoken to me was quite difficult. I had more questions that I could count. The message that Dr. Mullen had left made significantly more sense upon hearing the news. Nevertheless, it was still difficult to process. I did not respond to the officer. I did not know how much time had passed before he spat at me, “On accounts of your line of work, I’m sure you understand why we would start with the boozehound of an ex husband.”
The cold air was stifling, creating an environment that was the perfect breeding ground for negative emotions. Despite my extensive education on human psychology, I still succumbed to one of the most common errors of the average uneducated victim of depression. The whiskey burned my throat. Warmth enveloped my stomach and extremities. The empty, cold apartment became more bearable with each drink.
Papers were strewn around my desk. As of late, I found myself only able to work when inebriated. It was evident that whilst inebriated, I became quite an unorganized individual. It appeared as though I had emptied all of my manila folders without any form of organization for the loose files. I glanced at my notes and hoped that they would give me a hint what exactly I had been trying to do on the previous evening. Unfortunately, the notes were just as unorganized as the files. There were references to borderline personality disorder, depression, and post-traumatic stress disorder, none of which were associated with one another or any single patient. I sighed and began eyeing papers, slipping them into the manila folder in which they belonged. After only a few moments of this, I had lost my motivation. Irish whiskey was my primary interest.
***
My colleagues placed much more importance on weekly conferences than I did. Every week’s conference consisted of the same conversations. Everyone had the same propositions, concerns, and remarks. The conference had been in session for thirty minutes when I finally arrived. My head was pounding and my stomach ached, but I knew that those symptoms were going to be the least of my troubles. In unison, all four of the other practicing psychiatrists averted their eyes to me as I opened the conference room door. Three of them shook their head and chuckled. Dr. Sharma, however, could not help but glare. He opened the practice and he was not very forgiving when his rules were broken.
“Dr. Sampson, as much as I expect this out of you, I’m still in awe of your behavior. It is one thing for you to arrive late to a conference, but it is another thing entirely for you to arrive looking as you do. This is a professional medical establishment and you come to work in a tee shirt and sneakers? How are we to be taken seriously as a practice? I am warning you, doctor. If you are late to one more meeting and if you ever show up looking like this again, you will be taking a little vacation.”
“Paid?” I asked, sarcastically. Dr. Sharma glared at me as my coworkers sniggered.
“Dr. Sampson, I do not know what your problem is, but perhaps you need some time to yourself to think about it. I am going to give you that vacation. Two weeks. Unpaid.”
***
Three days had passed since Dr. Sharma had security escort me off the premises of my workplace. I could not recall a good portion of those seventy-two hours. The ringing of the telephone had awoken me. My vision was blurry when I attempted to observe my surroundings. After a moment of looking around and the sound of my answering machine message echoing throughout the apartment, I came to the realization that I had not fallen asleep in my bed the previous night. I rubbed my head, wincing as I accidentally touched the sensitive spot on which I had apparently fallen when I had fallen to the floor. The sound of Dr. Mullen’s voice caused me to cringe.
”Hey Paul, I was just calling to see how you were handling all of this. I just heard about it and I couldn’t believe it. I know this is really bad timing but I just wanted you to know that if you need to talk to anyone, not as a colleague, but as a friend, I’m here. Now listen, I know you’ve had your problems but I know you really cared about her and that this has to be hard for you. Just because you graduated ahead of me doesn’t mean I can’t help! Not all of us are geniuses, Paul. But I know that Molly was really close to you and that you’re going to have a hard time letting for a bit. It’s natural and I’m here to take the heat from Sharma when he tries giving you shit next time. Alright, I’m here for you if you need anything, buddy. It’s Mickey. Call me.”
I furrowed my brow, wondering how long I had truly been asleep. My divorce had ended months prior; it was difficult to believe four psychiatrists would wait that long to confront their emotionally compromised colleague about such a traumatic life event. Molly and I had been together for twenty-two years when she informed me that she was divorcing me. Despite having our differences, my love for Molly had been just as strong as any man’s love for his wife. My love for her had never ended, even after nearly a year of being divorced.
My heart ached for Molly. She used to call me to yell at me on occasion. She had stopped doing even that. Hearing her voice was a joy, even if she was enraged with me and disgusted with me. The comforting sound of her voice was all that I had left. I lost that when the calls ended months ago. I shed a tear and reached for the bottle with which I had passed out the night before. The phone began to ring again. I ignored it and allowed myself another drink. As I was pouring the beverage, somebody knocked on the door. I grumbled and attempted to ignore the continuous noise. Unfortunately, the only six words that can make me open a door were spoken.
“Dr. Sampson, this is the police!”
I sighed and tried to recollect memories for my alibi for the previous seventy-two hours. I was having difficulty doing so by the time that I opened the door, and all that I was hoping was that there was no video evidence of whatever drunken shenanigan of which I was being accused. I smiled at the officers and invited them inside.
“Dr. Sampson, we’re here to ask you some questions about the death of Molly Linden.”
Processing the words that had been spoken to me was quite difficult. I had more questions that I could count. The message that Dr. Mullen had left made significantly more sense upon hearing the news. Nevertheless, it was still difficult to process. I did not respond to the officer. I did not know how much time had passed before he spat at me, “On accounts of your line of work, I’m sure you understand why we would start with the boozehound of an ex husband.”