Brother, You Alright?

"Mr. Williams, I appreciate you coming in today. But if you aren't ready to speak, it’s going to be very difficult for us to make any progress," she said.

She had that soft, measured, clinical voice. Like she was trying to dissect my brain just by looking at me. I didn't answer. I just sat there with my hands crossed over my legs, elbows on my knees, staring at the floor. No words. Nothing came out.

It was a foggy morning outside. The kind of cold air that fills your lungs completely when you take a breath. I had been jogging earlier this morning. Hell, I wanted to run right out of this room right now.

I raised my head, looked at Miss Shrink, and just gave a slow nod-shake of my head. I stood up and walked toward the window.

"Can I smoke in here?" I asked, glancing outside. The streetlights were barely piercing through the thick fog.

"I'd prefer you didn't. This is a smoke-free facility," she said, her voice completely flat and professional.

I ignored her, took out my lighter and a pack of Marlboros, and lit one anyway. I cracked the window open. She exhaled a quiet breath but didn't take her eyes off me.

"Mr. Williams, you walked in here voluntarily, yet you're choosing to disengage. What's making it difficult for you to connect with me today?" She pushed her glasses higher up on her nose.

I leaned against the window frame and watched the cars passing by. Down below, some guy was trying to hail a taxi with no luck.

"I did not come because I wanted to. I must obey orders," I said, my voice quick, sharp, and final.

She made a small note in her file. "I understand you're answering to a mandate, but you still chose to show up. I was informed that you've recently experienced a highly distressing event. You don't have to recount the trauma right now if you aren't ready. But carrying it alone isn't sustainable." She put the notebook down and reached for a cup of coffee.

"Is the coffee good in here?" I asked, watching her set the mug back down.

"It serves its purpose," she answered, keeping her tone completely neutral.

I shrugged and went back to staring out the window. A dog was pulling its owner so hard down the sidewalk that the guy had to grab onto the street railing to keep his balance.

"Processing deep grief out loud can feel overwhelming," the shrink spoke up again. God, her calm demeanor was annoying. "Sometimes, putting it into words on paper can act as a safe release. Just for yourself—an unedited outlet. No one else ever has to read it. Would you be open to trying that?"

I paused. It wasn't actually a bad idea. I took my cigarette, dropped the butt straight into her half-empty coffee cup, and walked out.

Startled, she stood up. "Mr. Williams..."

But I was already gone. I walked fast down the stairs—I don't take lifts, stairs are healthier. I grabbed my car keys and my leather jacket, and within twenty minutes, I was home. That's how long it takes to get from a shrink's office to downtown Manhattan when you're speeding in an Audi.

I walked into my apartment. Clothes were still scattered everywhere. The smell of dust, mold, and dampness hit my nose, straight to my brain. I really needed to clean this place up.

I searched the cupboard for something to eat and found a pack of crackers. It would do.

Moving from the kitchen to my study, I looked at the shelves. There were books I’d only opened a few times—some stuff by Erwin Rommel, some by Marcus Aurelius, and other war leaders. Honestly, I’d only read Rommel thoroughly. The rest I got as gifts. I mean, for real, who gives a man a book as a gift? Stupid.

I walked over to the desk and blew the dust away. Opening the drawers, I looked for a pen and paper and found some. I set them on the table, sat in that creaking old chair, and just stared at the blank page.

Images started flashing in my head.

Two boys laughing, climbing trees in Central Park. Throwing pinecones at each other until one falls out of the tree and the other begs him not to cry.

Two guys sharing a beer on the coast, watching the waves.

A kid holding a plush tiger, running down the stairs after hearing the doorbell, waiting for his father.

A mother with a small boy feeding ducks in Central Park. They were crumbling bread, and the boy ate one piece himself while throwing the other to the duckies.

I smiled, taking a deep breath to steady my hands. She said write to help yourself. To let it out.

I put the tip of the pen to the paper.

Outside, the wind started to howl. Lightning flashed through my room, illuminating the dark corners. I stood up to pull the curtains closed. People were still walking around out there, totally chill, like nothing was going on. The neighbor's kids were playing ball.

But then I heard the rumble of thunder. Or was it something else I was hearing?

I sat back down and stared at the blank paper.

I saw a man with a gun, thinking he was above everyone.

I saw the same man crying in a dark alley behind some bar, hidden from the eyes of the world.

I saw a man who thought he was Iron Man—well, he would be Iron Man, if Tony Stark had never stopped selling weapons.

I saw a cold-blooded killer holding the lifeless body of a five-year-old.

The thunder grew louder in my ears, and my hands began to shake violently. I clamped my right hand down with my left, trying to force it to stay still, trying to make it write something.

In the end, the pen slipped and hit the ground. The chair scraped loudly against the floor.

Within minutes, my black leather jacket was gone from the couch, and my front door lock clicked shut.

I walked for about ten minutes—the time it takes me to reach "Old Johnny's." It’s a local bar owned by, well, old Johnny. I walked inside. The usual casual crowd was there. Mostly stupid teenagers or divorced men. A few hookers looking for a free drink or a paid gig. They weren't bad at it though, and not too expensive either.

I sat at the counter.

"What are you drinking, Captain?" The bartender, Matt, smiled warmly at me. He had broad shoulders and a thick, Freddie Mercury-style mustache.

"Scotch, neat," I said, my voice low and fast.

"Rough day, eh?" he asked, wiping down glasses and pouring my drink. He chuckled, "Should probably leave you the whole bottle by the looks of you."

I grabbed the glass and took a sharp sip. "Shut up, man," I muttered under my breath, shaking my head.

I leaned against the bar, turning around to face the corner tables where a few girls were sitting. I thought about approaching them. Then I decided against it.

"Hey, at least the weather cleared up. It was foggy earlier, but it's pretty sunny right now," Matt chimed in with a smile.

I sighed. Sunny? It wasn't sunny.

I ran a hand through my hair, downed the rest of my drink, and left. The bar was annoying me. I walked fast, hands shoved deep into my pockets, but my back stayed perfectly straight. My eyes automatically tracked every alley, every single person passing by. It’s exhausting, my life.

When I returned home, I tossed my boots into the corner. I lit another smoke and decided to tackle that damn paper again.

The thunder returned in my head, and the apartment got dark quickly. I went to find a candle, tossing my jacket onto the couch and pulling off my stained white shirt. I ran a hand over my abs. Still there. Still hard and in good shape.

Right, the candle. I realized I didn't actually have any. Never mind, my eyesight is good in the dark anyway.

So, the weather wasn't sunny at all. It was stormy. The room was pitch black and smelled of sweat, whiskey, and dust. The air felt stale and sour.

The paper just sat there, completely empty. For a long time, it was just blank. Nothing.

Images kept flashing, and I could hear cries, explosions, and that endless thunder. But one specific face kept coming back, pushing through all the chaos.

A big, wide smile. Buzzed blonde hair and ocean-blue eyes, just like mine. Except my hair is dark. It was a face that smiled with the eyes too—squinty at the corners, with familiar lines around the mouth and forehead. A beautiful face.

Suddenly, my hand moved. My fingers finally got the signal from my brain.

Slowly, they wrote one single letter: T

I stared at it for a long time. And then, the world suddenly went completely blurry.