All in Your Head

He dismissed her offering and question. “It’d be no trouble at all...really.” She realized with his comment about his mother that he must have been down her all alone, a lot, when he wasn’t being subjected to a doctors questioning and medication. It broke her heart. This was no way for him to heal. This was no way for any person to live.

She was happy to hear that he was enjoying her company, and even happier to hear that she was in his thoughts as well. But the disappointment in his voice after he sighed crushed her to bits, she shouldn’t have criticized him or demanded answers from him so harshly, he probably got so much of that from everyone else, she could see that it disheartened him.

“No, no! D, not at all. It...may have not been what I expected, but this is everything I want, I could have lost you for good and I deserve it for how reckless I was--” She knew he wouldn’t really understand what she meant by that, “But, you are everything I want. You are here, standing in front of me today, and that is more than I could ask for.” She placed a hand on his shoulder, and hesitated before going in to give him a hug. Damien was not a hugger, not really one to show affection at all for that matter, and in this state it was probably the same, but she couldn’t help it.

“Is there maybe...anything you want to show me? What have you been working on? What’s this little project of yours? I’d love it if I could help somehow.”
 
Damien stiffened at the hug, actually shivering a little. He did not return the hug, but he could not find it within himself to pull away, either. He sat still as the warmth engulfed him. Then she let go, and he shook himself out of his shock.

"I can't tell you," he said, his nervousness increasing. He stood abruptly. "You should probably go. Yes. Um, I have stuff to... to do. Cleaning. Things. Yes. I have things I need to do right now. You should go." He opened the door and stood aside, shifting from foot to foot. He couldn't tell her. She'd never listen. No one ever did, but if he could just find the answer...

"Um..." He hesitated a little. "It'd be... nice to see you again. If you want. It's good. I... don't blame you. I just would say... thank you."
 
“Oh. Uh, okay.” She watched him race to the door as he spoke, ushering for her to leave. She followed, slowly, embarrassed, thinking of how overwhelmed she must have made him with all her questions and emotions. “Well, maybe, I can see it when you’re done?” She stood at the door for a moment while he held it open for her.

“Yes, I'd like to see you again, if that is alright.” She replied softly. “I’m here for you, D. I know I wasn’t for a while...but I am now. Talk to me, if you need to.” Edies voice was real quiet, she didn’t bother to look at him this time, instead out at the steps leading back up. “Bye.”. She held the railing all the way up the steps and to the door at the top.
 
Mrs. Richards stood on the landing at the top of the stairs, her arms crossed, her lips thin. She looked as though she'd been waiting since Edith went down to see how it turned out. "How did he seem?" she asked as she turned to lead Edith out. She was working a little too hard to appear casual and unconcerned, but her eyes darted over to glance at Edith several times.

~~~

Damien listened to the footsteps as Edith walked up the stairs. He waited a little longer just to be certain she was gone. She was gone? Good. Relief and disappointment flooded him in equal measure, making him feel queasy. He hurried to his cramped bathroom - a room about as big as the shower in his old bathroom - and opened the medicine cabinet. He grabbed one of the little yellow bottles and fumbled it open, shaking two pills into his hand. He downed them dry and put the bottle away with a shaky sigh. Making a concerted effort not to look in the mirror, he closed the cabinet door and walked back to his boards.

He stood before his biggest board and stared at the white lines marching across the dark surface. They lay there, flat and unmoving, mocking him. The answer was here, somewhere, hidden among the letters, numbers, and symbols, but he couldn't find it! He had to find it. He was supposed to find it. Why else had he been given the gift he had? If he could not figure this out, then it was wasted... he was a failure... or perhaps this was their way of torturing him. The problem that would never be solved because it had no answer.

With a tiny shriek, Damien grabbed his head in both hands and pounded his forehead into the board twice. "Why?" he keened. "What is it! I have to find it! I need to know! Why won't you tell me!" He let his head hit the board again then stood there panting, his forehead pressed against the cool, gritty surface.

He took a deep breath then coughed as he inhaled some chalk dust. He straightened and ran a hand over his forehead, smearing the dust more. Never mind. He would find this answer. No question was truly unsolvable. Nightmarishly difficult, perhaps, but not unsolvable. All he had to do was find just one clue, and it would be like the key in the lock. He could do this. The chalk had fallen. He picked it up, wiped down his board, and started again. Letters, symbols, and numbers dashed into being under his frantic hand only to be wiped away and rewritten in a different order. He would solve this. He had to! For the sake of humanity.
 
That had to be the most eerie experience Edith had ever endured, and coming from Damien of all people. She felt her heart begin to race again just as it did when she went to open the door on the other end of the stairs. She could feel that cold stare boring into the wooden door from the other side before she even opened it, if she could just make this interaction as quick as possible and leave with not another mistake from her end was all she asked but was rather unlikely.

She opened the door and just as she expected, Mrs.Richards stood there with her arms crossed as if Edith was a little kid that just went to play with her dolls when she was supposed to eat her plate of vegetables first. Her question had Edith silent for a moment, trying desperately to think of the right answer, it was a subjective question, but her opinion of the matter would only scare his mother even more than she already was. Edith noticed her trying not to look her way completely, but her quick glances showed Edith that Mrs. Richards was just as worried as she was. It was her own son, her own son that used to be the wet dream of even Ediths own parents; charming, intelligent, talented, and sure, a little bit cocky, but wouldn’t anyone be in his eight-hundred dollar designer shoes? Now, he was a shell of a young man who had so much going for him, a shadow, a ghost. But Edith knew, and she’d seen it in similar instances, just like her grandfather who suffered through a nearly fatal accident and lost most of his memories, that deep down, they were still there, and small pieces of them would shine through once you began to let them relive those memories. So there was still hope, or that is what she liked to tell herself.


Edith began to string along her words, though they were slow and she seemed to question herself after each one. “He seemed...” she didn’t want to lie but the truth hurt. “He seemed anxious...tired. But I think he was glad to have some company.” Edith didn’t know how much of that last part was true, but it couldn’t have been too bad to have someone to talk to, maybe since it was Edith Cromwell it was. “Thank you for letting me see him, I hope I can do it again soon. I’ve missed him a lot.” Edith gave her a soft smile, now standing at the door frame. Edith wanted to say more to her, but she didn’t know quite what.
 
Mrs. Richard's thin-lipped look softened a bit. "You are welcome to return whenever you wish. He has not wanted any other visitors and allowed you to stay longer than the others." She checked the time. "Tomorrow he has an appointment. Otherwise, you may return." She stepped back and began to close the door.

There was no love between Mrs. Richars and Edith - there never had been - but the woman was more desperate than she allowed anyone outside her home to see. Her son was not getting better. In fact, he seemed to be getting worse, but if Edith could get through to him, she would put up with her and try to tolerate their friendship.
 
Edith was happy to hear that, especially coming from her. “I look forward to it.”. When the door closed behind her she let out a sigh of relief, similar to the one that she expelled when she entered the home. Her legs and arms felt like jelly as she walked down the steps to her car and opened the door. Her whole body was buzzing and her head a bit fuzzy like she just woke up from a fever dream. Edith stared out at the quiet, wealthy neighborhood from her car, the sun setting beyond the trees and house tops. She almost wanted to cry, but she had no tears left. She sighed instead, drumming her fingers on the warm steering wheel. She craved a cigarette, she’d been trying to quit but quitting was not as easy as starting when it came to addictive substances.

“This will be my last one.” She said, reaching over and unlocking her glove compartment and taking out the pack, something she has said every time she smoked. She looks for her lighter and realizes it was in her pocket, she had put it there the last time she lit up one.

Two in a day, that’s better than three...

As she pulled out the lighter, her phone came along with it. Dr. Ingrams text was still floating on the lock screen. She stared at it for a minute, then sighed and dialed the number and put it on speaker as she started her car. The cigarette was tossed back in the glove compartment for now. The dial tone rang for a little too long and Edith was going to end the call but Dr.Ingram picked up right as she went to.

“Hello? Miss Cromwell?” His voice answered through the speaker.

“I need to talk.” Edith pulled away from the home and was now on her way to her parents.

“What is it?” He sounded alarmed.

“I just saw Damien, we talked, I even talked to his mother, I made a complete fool of myself, I--”

“Miss Cromwell this number is for emergencies only.” He interjected.

“Are you busy? Please, I really have no one else to go to.”

“Oh, not at all, I was just having a beautiful dinner with my wife, that's all.” Ingram responded sarcastically but Edith didn’t pick up on it.

“He’s gone completely insane, I have never seen him like this before, it’s...it’s crazy. He doesn't even remember what happened!” Edith yelled at him through the phone, her palms sweaty against the leather of the steering wheel, she nearly ran through a stop sign and she took a deep breath to try and calm herself. She could hear Ingram sighing over the phone.

“I take it that you’d like to come see me tomorrow?”

“Yes..yes, please.”

“Three is good?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, well, why don’t you get yourself a nice cup of tea, take a bath, piece yourself together and get some good sleep because I want you to tell me all about it tomorrow.”

Edith sighed. “Okay..okay. See you tomorrow, doc.”

“Good night.” And with that, the call was over.

“Yeah...tomorrow.” She whispered under her breath.



»»————««

​
Dr. Ingram sets his home phone down on his desk and walks out of his study back into the dining room.

“Who was it, honey?” His wife asks, sipping on a glass of white wine with her dinner.

“Just a client.” He sits down beside her, placing a dinner cloth back onto his lap before he resumes eating.

“Everything alright?” She asks, concerned.

“Oh, yeah, everything's fine. Nine out of ten client calls are non-emergency, they just need some kind reassurance or a few words to calm them down. I don’t mind...they just always come at the most inconvenient times!” He chuckles a bit.

“Aww, honey.” she grabs his hand, “I wish I could help people like you do...sitting at a computer all day really does nobody good, not even myself.” She sighs.

“Babe, you know you don’t need to work. I got us covered, we’re secure. I keep telling you, you need to go write that book you've been talking about. It’s gonna’ be a bestseller.” He kisses her cheek.

“I know, I know. Tell me, how's work going for you?” She plays around with a meatball in her plate of spaghetti before taking a bite, glancing at him.

“Well, interestingly enough, a client whom I haven’t seen in weeks, was the one who just rang. And the funny thing is, I just got a new client today and the two know each other. I don’t think it’s a coincidence. The two finally spoke to each other after a good couple weeks, maybe they got some closure.”

“Is this...is this the two who got into that accident?”

“Vee! I told you, it’s client confidentiality.” He scolded her.

“I’m sorry but, c’mon, it was all over the news! People know that she visits your office, everyone does. And everyone has already forgotten about the incident anyhow, onto other things. At least I actually care about these two, I care for the people in my community, I don’t just watch and laugh at mishaps and go on with my life like everyone else does.” She snapped back at him, then there was silence between the two.

“Yes, Vee. As a matter of fact it was. The boys name is Damien, he’s a good kid, didn’t deserve what came to him.” He says quietly.

“Damien…” She smiles. “That was our first choice, remember? But no, you had to name him after your great grandfather, Dominic. Both are good. Both are good, strong names.”

“Yeah. They are, aren’t they.”
 
The next day, 2:31pm, Dr. Ingram's office

Damien stared at the clock, watching the second-hand tick slowly around the white disk. Round clocks. Why were there no square clocks? Circles were simple, were easy. Squares would be a challenge, but no one liked challenges. They wanted simple. Easy. Quick to manufacture and sell with little pride in their craftsmanship. How droll. No wonder the world was in the state it was in. No one cared anymore. Not really. Only a few people were actually passionate about anything, and that usually faded.

He drew his eyes away from the clock long enough to steal a quick glance at the doctor. His appointment had started exactly one minute ago, and he had done nothing but stare solidly at the clock. He wasn't even certain the doc had said anything his attention was fixed so solidly on the artifact in question. He didn't want to do this. He didn't want to talk only to be told he was delusional in a sweet, sympathetic manner, and then prescribed drugs that made reality even harder to grasp than it already was. The only pills he took were the ones that kept the pounding in his head at bay and the weird feeling in his chest quiet. He watched the clock and waited. Half an hour. That was all he had to put up with. It was a complete waste of time that could be spent doing other things, but it would go by faster if he submitted and went quietly.
 
Lawrence Ingram sat with his left leg on his right knee comfortably, he held his notepad but could already tell that Damien wasn’t just any patient, he wasn’t one to make note of, he was one that Ingram would have to gently pry open and slowly gain his trust to really get through to him. Damien wasn’t a stressed out college student who needed someone to vent to every week for thirty minutes, he wasn’t a girl with daddy issues, or a young woman with a guilty conscience in need of reassurance that she will be forgiven for her wrongdoings. Not that those patients are not as equally important, it was just that Ingram had spent so many years studying how the human mind misfired and how to piece it back together when it did, he loved to listen to people and help them with their problems, but his utmost specialty was psychotherapy. And that is what Mrs. Richards had paid top dollar for this evening, for her son, Damien.

Ingram was thinking about what Edith had said yesterday on the phone, that Damien did not remember a thing, that he was a completely different person. This young man sitting before him looked nothing like how she described him before the incident. But that was for him to find out for himself this time. He turned his attention to where Damiens gaze was, at the clock that was above his office door that at this moment was making the only noise to be heard in the room, it’s slow and repetitive tick, tick, ticks.

“Do you have somewhere to be? Somewhere...that you’d rather be at?” Dr. Ingram asked simply. The half hour had only begone, and his patient was already completely disinterested.
 
Damien slowly turned his eyes to Dr. Ingram's knee and studied it for a long moment before answering. Damien's mother had insisted he actually be presentable when he left the house, even braving going into his "death trap of a trash bin," as she called it, to force upon him a set of his old clothing. A white shirt, black pants, and grey suit jacket all made of the finest materials and of elegant cut, but they no longer fit his gaunt frame as well as they once had. The only thing that still fit were his polished shoes, shoes that he desperately wanted to kick off.

"Yes," he finally said slowly, careful of his words. He did not want to purposefully cause offense. The world went by much more easily when one at least tried not to cause offense to the people with the ability to lable you insane. "I do not think this is necessary, and I hate for you to be wasting time on someone who does not need your services, unlike other poor, desperate souls."
 
He nodded at Damiens response, “I’m wasting my time? Well, frankly, I think every client of mine is worth every second I spend with them, no matter if they are ‘poor’ or ‘desperate’ enough. But let's not worry about how I spend my time, how do you spend yours? Got any hobbies of the late? Interests? I was really into stargazing around your age, thought I was gonna’ be an astronomer.” He points to an, old, rusty looking telescope sitting in the corner of the room, that was more of a room decoration now.

“What do you plan on being, Mr. Richards?” These were icebreakers just so Ingram could warm into him gradually, attacking these issues so quickly would only do more damage to a client like Damien.
 
Damien studied the doctor for a long moment of silence, still not looking him in the eye or ever directly at his face. Then he turned his eyes to the clock. Shrinks. They really needed to start getting new material. This was boring, and he was feeling restless. Numbers scratched at the back of his brain, begging to be be written down and played with.

"Mr. Ingram, no offense, but I'm pretty sure my mother did not pay you a hefty amount of money to be my best friend or camp counsilor," he said soberly. "You want to know how busted my brain is so you can pretend to fix it while really giving me pills that just supress everything I'm feeling, good or bad. I already have a cabinet full of those, and I do not take them. If my brain truly is broken and I am insane, I will take that over being a walking zombie."
 
Ingram rested his elbow on the arm of his chair and had one finger rested on his cheek and the rest under his chin, studying the young man. He emitted a quiet laugh at Damien's rebuttal.

“I see.” He said with a smirk. “You’re right, I didn’t spend eight years in school to be just a ‘camp counselor’, Mr. Richards, I do not think that is what your mother is paying for either.” He lifted pages and scanned Damien's medical records and reports stacked neatly on a clipboard in his lap.

“The three doctors before me may have claimed in their own opinion that you should be prescribed these medications, but you are under my professional judgement now and I have decided that you should cease taking them effective immediately. I’m not that kind of doctor, I can actually do my job without assistance.” He skims again. “Hmph. Memory loss...hallucinations..manic depression...possibly, but i’d like to see for myself.” He sets the clipboard down and looks up at Damien.

“Why do you think you are here today with me, Mr.Richards? Your friends and family seem to be deeply concerned for you, why do you think that is?” He raises a brow. “I don’t think you have a busted head, Mr. Richards, it may have gotten a few scratches and bruises, but you seem to be fully functional to me, I mean, you are walking, talking, and even giving me constructive criticism, that is a lot more than some people can do.”
 
Hmm, he was good. Not great, but good. Damien considered his answer carefully as he mulled over Ingram's words. "I think they are worried because no one likes change," he said bluntly. "After an accident like what I was in, should they not be more concerned if I remained exactly the same? Should I not change after such an event? I am doing what I can to orient myself in a new reality, and people are trying to drag me into the old reality that no longer exists. In my opinion, they are the ones who need help, not me."

Ha. Memory loss. If only they knew...
 
He nodded. “I agree. The real problem would be if you did not change after such an event. Everyone changed that day, so why not you? And you are right, we as humans are accustomed to a certain standard and routine, and once that routine or standard is disrupted, we sometimes do not adjust to it very well, it is natural for your loved ones to try and put you back into that standard, but it doesn't mean they will be successful.” Ingram paused. “You are a very intelligent young man, Mr. Richards, that accident did not take that away from you, but what exactly did it take from you? Or perhaps, what did it give to you? These changes do not have to be conflicting ones as many would suggest they would be, you can come out of these instances with improvements even.” Ingram reassured him.
 
Damien shot Ingram a suspicious look, or rather shot Ingram's ear a suspicious look, and shifted to a more comfortable position on the couch. He hadn't lain down, choosing to sit up straight. He ran a hand through his hair, pausing to finger the white patch at the front. It had a different texture than the rest of his hair and made for good fingering, kind of like a beard.

"I'm not certain I follow what you mean with that," he said slowly. "How could it have given me anything? Brain injuries are not known to give anything, just take. Although there are those stories of people waking up from comas speaking a different language."

He wanted to feel this doctor out more before he admitted anything, no matter how innocuous it might seem.
 
Ingram pursed his lips and looked off into the distance in thought. “I guess I ask from experience. My own father woke up from a coma of three months, he woke up with an epiphany, said he had a whole new perspective on life because of it, though he did suffer from Parkinson's disease the rest of his life. He definitely was a different man from then on, but not in an entirely bad way.” He turned his attention back to Damien, noticing his hair as he ran a hand through it. “May I ask, has your hair always had those...streaks? Is this some new trend I haven’t caught on to? Just curious.” Hair discoloration was rare in cases like this, but maybe not as rare as Ingram thought.
 
Damien touched his hair again, a flash of self-consciousness rising. The old Damien would have either insisted on them being covered up or tried to rock them in some way. He never would have just let them be. The old Damien would also have had his hair cut by now. The old Damien would have done or not done a lot of things. He dropped his hand.

"They think the front bit came from smacking into something in the car," Damien said neutrally. "I don't know if they ever figured out what I hit. The round one came from the surgery they did to release some of the pressure in my brain. Swelling and all that. I think they were as surprised as anyone when the hair came back white."

He paused and considered the doctor's question. How to reply to this... he had to be careful, but he could not just let it pass, could he? "I feel the changes in me primarily consist of my priorities and how I feel about them. I no longer prioritize looking fabulous - so no following of strange hair streaking trends for me - and I no longer prioritize the need to be better than everyone around me. I desire to find answers to certain things, but I can work better alone. I prioritize trying to be what I want rather than what others want of me. Does that answer your question, doctor?"
 
Ingram was intrigued by this, he had never seen anything like it, sure he heard the odd story here and there, but nothing quite like this. He found it a bit peculiar that so many things in Damien's reports were so vague, it wasn’t much to work with, he was going to have to investigate further on his own. Maybe even find the original police report, to really map out how the crash occurred to lead to this result. It was all over the news, but the news never covered details, merely just a headline to catch the attention of its viewers to then move on to the next, more exciting segment.

Hmm.

“Sure, it does. But, what do you prioritize now, then? If not the fabulous hairstyles and flashy clothes?” He was going to go on, but he stopped for a moment.

“I can see that you don’t really wanna elaborate, and I get it, you’ve been repeating the same thing over and over to everyone that comes in contact with you, it gets old quick. I appreciate you being forthcoming with me, you are not required to do that, you know, you could walk out of this office right now if you really wanted to.” Ingram gestured to the door. “But, i’ll tell you this, working alone may feel safe and easy now, but it will only close doors and leave gaps that need to be filled. It is important that we find safe places to heal and change, whether it is for the better or worse. I feel as though you are not offered that right now, I can see a deep longing inside you for understanding. Pills and judgement and scared loved ones who only want you to fit back into a mold that you no longer fit into, are not understanding.”
 
Damien looked down at his hands. Dr. Ingram was getting uncomfortably close with some of this. He didn't know how to answer or even if he should answer. Perhaps silence would be best? He wasn't sure. If he answered, the Doc could read into his words or twist them, but silence might give him a different type of answer. The Doc was so close... and yet not. No one understood, and they couldn't. How could he possibly tell people the truth? They would lock him up! He needed proof.

"I already told you what I prioritize," he finally replied. "Answers. Seeking answers to questions. Learning. That is important. People are not as important at this juncture. And," he glanced at the clock, "there is still a good fifteen minutes on the clock, and if I leave, my mother will have a conniption fit."
 
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