Memories with the Shamaan

      You sit in the big armchair. Your elbows lean over the arms, your hands hang limply above your thighs.
      The woman sitting across from you has her legs stretched-out, her feet resting on the coffee table. She's sort of lounging on the couch -the one you should, in all theory, be lying on.
      "How long will you sit there?" she asks, looking at you from behind her glasses.
      You say nothing. In all truth, there's absolutely nothing to say. Mark found you back home. She knows that. Her called you New Year's Eve. She knows that. He did it again. She knows that, too.
      Who cares if your silence wastes an hour's worth of tape? You've become very tired of telling this woman all of your secrets. Of knowing that the tape-recorder on the coffee table is making a direct and complete copy of everything you say.
      She sighs and looks at you, sitting-up and planting her feet on the floor as she removes her glasses. Classic demonstration of irritation. Maybe she'll let you go early today. Maybe she'll send you off and tell you to never come back...only in your dreams.
      Neither of you says anything. Time begins to pass at a tortuously slow rate. But there's no way that you're going to let this woman -this professional psychoanalyst- win. You've done nothing but pour your soul to this woman. You're sick and tired of listening to what others have to say about your psyche. Fuck them all.
      "How are things going since we last spoke?" She asks the question as she places her glasses back over the bridge of her nose.
      You say nothing. Five minutes pass.
      She sighs a little. "How did your friends react to what you told them?"
      You say nothing.
      "How was the group counselling?"
      Still silence.
      She sits up and glowers at you. "Don't you dare start this sulking bullshit! I raised three teenagers. I know what's going-on in your head. You! The whole world revolves around you! Don't you start this bullshit of saying nothing. Got it?" She's silent for a few minutes. "You are a child," she says strongly, almost with an accusing tone. "Yes, I know that you're twenty-one. But you are still a child. And, unfortunetly, you are a child that has taken more shit than you should be able to bear."
      She's silent again. She pulls off her glasses, drops them onto the table, and runs her hands over her face.
      "And that's saying a lot, hon. I've seen people who've lost everything and not get up. I've never seen anyone take this much shit and still be standing."
      You want to say so much, but you can't find the most basic form of communication. Insolent teenager remains.
      "I know that you resent the fact that I keep poking into your thoughts. But you have to accept it. And you have to start letting everything go."
      How's that for a different approach to psychological therapy? The last counsellor you saw a definite fan of dancing around with a night-light and a rifle. This woman, however, prefers to run full-out into the deepest shadows carrying nothing more than bawled fists.
      She watches you now. Waiting for you to make the next move.
      Your eyes lock onto hers. And, immediately, flashbacks swarm through your thoughts. Everything flashes before your eyes.
      Joanne isn't sitting before you now. Mark's watching you. He's sitting there, staring at you with a...a hunger in his eyes. You know exactly what he's about to do. You know that, in only a few seconds, he'll be on top of you again and you won't be able to fight him this time.
      A cold sweat is pooling over your skin in heavy beads. You can feel them slipping from your forehead, along your temple and cheeks, and down your neck.
      His eyes are roving over you -his beautifully dark, emerald green eyes. His perfect teeth, that form the most enchanting smile, now become his ravenous grin of hunger.
      He stands, slowly, and stalks toward you. He's within arms reach. The corner you're pressed into provides no possible means of escape. You're trapped -physically and mentally.
      Vanilla and cigarettes. The scent invades you. Your poor-excuse of a lunch -an apple and toast- begins to rise from your stomach and slips along your throat.
      His hand grabs at your shoulder. Your breath stops and starts in a chaotic mess of panic. You can feel your heart slamming against your chest cavity. A dull throbbing begins to pound at the inside of your skull, all along your right temple. Your right eyes stings and, with a twinge of horror, all vision therein fades to shadows and darkness.
      "Please don't," you whisper pathetically as you pull your head under the quasi-protective shield of your hands and forearms.
      He's never relented before. He's never shown a solitary ounce of mercy.
      His fingers clench around your upper right arm. His nails, always so seemingly dull, dig and tear into your flesh. The grip tightens. He whispers something hoarse and incoherent. The grin on his face is now nothing but the most malicious and terrifying smile. The once beautiful eyes glower at your from beneath dark brows with a merciless, ravenous, and violent desire.
      Panic swarms you as tidal waves of horror slam you almost through the floor. Your breathing is so ragged, stressed, and irregular that everything is beginning to spin. Perhaps, by some form of miracle, you'll pass-out before you can remember anything.
      Silently, you beg for death -mercy, really.
      The God you grew-up with showed mercy and kindness. Yes, His wrath was vengeful and His judgment absolute, but what could you have possibly done to incur this horrible wrath?
      Every day of your existence was lived according to His will and His laws. Every ounce of who you were was devoted to His name. Only after Keith started to lose control did you waver beneath His eyes. It only after Keith took his own life that you defied God's omnipotence. It was only after the man before you took every remaining fragment of your soul that you defied God's will and left Him in search of your true beliefs.
      How can it be that, with nearly two billion souls on this planet, God would hold such a cast-iron grip on your existence? Why would He who is 'all-mighty' give a damn about how you lived? Or better yet, how could such omnipotence cast you into such a hellish existence? How could anyone do that?
      You pull your knees up to your chin and shut your eyes as tightly as you possibly can. Your entire body is shaking. The unforgiving and ice-like grip of death slips into your chest and envelops your heart, lungs, and soul.
      Searing tears creep along the sides of your face. Your voice shatters between sobs. Your words are only desperate pleas that he stop, that he not take the minuscule bit of you that has survived everything.
      The wall that you're pressed against is beginning to spin -faster and faster. The floor is moving in sync with the walls. Your breathing is coming faster and faster, too. You know that there isn't enough oxygen in the room. You know that the merciless grip on your elbows is dragging you away to some god-awful destination. You know exactly what awaits you at the end of that road.
      And then, everything stops. The spinning, your lurching stomach, your racing heart, your thoughts. Everything dies.

      "Sweetie?"
      You shut the word from your mind. Keith's voice is soft and apologetic as he speaks.
      "I never meant to hurt you," he says, wrapping his arms around your shoulders and holding you close.
      "You never did," you answer gently.
      He frowns and kisses your temple. "Don't lie to me. Please. Even if you think it's going to help. Please don't lie to me about the things I've done."
      You look up into his dark eyes. "I'm not lying. Bones and bruises heal. The important thing is that you're getting help."
      He smiles, though only a little and brushes the side of your neck with his fingers. "I won't ever hurt you again. I will never do it again."
      The warmth from his body pools between you both. You step a little closer and hold him, resting your head against his chest.
      Every word he says is the truth. He won't ever hurt you again. You believe him now. You know he won't -can't- ever do anything again.
      You can feel him kiss the top of your head and hug you close. His breath on your neck is warm and soothing.
      Nothing matters anymore. All the things you've both endured -survived- melt away into the earth you're standing on. Everything is exactly the way it's supposed to be. No one will ever hurt you again. Keith will protect you. He'll hold you, share your grief, help you stand, never let you fall. He will forever be with you. He'll never hurt you again. Nobody will.
      "Sweetie? Can you hear me?"
      That wretched voice again. Damn imagination trying to ruin everything!
      You shake your head softly and shut your eyes. You take a deep breath and absorb Keith's scent. Dragon's blood and lavender. The Dragon's Blood is his favourite incense, but the lavender is something you only discovered after having lived with him.
      "I like the shower stuff," he explained with a trace of embarrassment. "It smells really nice and my skin doesn't get irritated."
      You had smiled and, the following day, had bought him a mess of lavender-scented shower products.
      "I remember that day," he says to you very softly. "It was probably one of the sweetest things you ever did for me."
      You look up into his eyes and wonder how he knows what you were thinking.
      "Precious," he says gently, "It's time that you go."
      Go? Go where? You can't help but feel panic rising in your throat as the air surrounding him becomes ice-like.
      "Precious, just let me go. Nothing will happen. You'll be happier this way. Just let me go."
      He says all this with a very warm smile.
      "I can't lose you again," you whisper as soft tears escape you.
      He says nothing. His smile fades to a frown and his eyes darken to empty sockets. An instant later, you stand completely alone. Your breath floats before your eyes in small white clouds.
      "Sweetie?"
      Again that voice. And with this third calling comes a flood of memories.
      Very slowly, you open your eyes to see Joanne kneeling before you. There's nothing to say as you breakdown and beg that the gods just end your existence. There's nothing to stop your tears anymore. The world has turned its back on you. It did that a very long time ago. And now -only now- do you realize just how very alone you are.