Friday
MY FIRST IMPRESSION of Aleksander was that he looked as if he was very disturbed, eyes darting around the room, searching for the nearest exit as if I would have tried to kill him right there. And this made me smile. Of course, I wouldn’t have killed him, and however much I would have liked to reassure him of that, I thought it would only make him even more apprehensive. We were very different, after all.
I wondered if he would say something, or it would fall down to me to initiate some sort of conversation. In those moments, the office felt almost as if it was shrinking down on just the desk and chair on either side, the writing on what seemed to be endless supplies of crisp, yellow legal pads with nice pens that never ran out of ink, the clock stretching farther and farther as the time went by so slow and so quietly I could hear the snowflakes landing on the windowsill clearly, a distinct flutter, then a sad little whimper as they melted away to nothing. I imagined that this was the noise that would soon leave Aleksander’s downturned mouth, and the same disparaging noise traveled through my eardrum, a ringing sound, and I knew then I couldn’t wait any longer for him.
“It’s not very nice out today, is it?” I asked. Despite whatever he might say, I was perfectly happy with how bleak the weather was, it was like it understood me, and with each passing minute my mood improved.
“This is nothing,” he said. As he spoke I noticed the way his words sounded, as if he had drawn them out and pushed them together all the same. From this short sentence began my immense fascination with the man sitting across from me, and with it, the room seemed to expand, and the time seemed to catch up to where it was supposed to have been.
“But, do you like it?” I asked. I had made it a practice to ask about the weather first, get a little of their tastes drawn out before I served the main course. And serve I would, though this time it was more like my fascination took over, I became irrational, forgot what I had planned to ask, for him to tell me.
He shrugged. “I think it is perfectly fine,” he said matter-of-factly, then gave a little smile that tugged just the slightest bit at the corners of his eyes. I smiled back, then leaned forward in my chair, both elbows on the desk, hand holding the pen above the pad.
I looked him in the eyes. “Why are you here?” I asked.
“I thought you might have a file,” he said.
“I do,” I told him, “but I don’t read them in advance. I ask for your story from you.”
“Interesting practice,” he said.
I think he might have even been close to laughter, with his perfect face. He looked so youthful, so full of life there, but as he finished some seconds later his face retreated into some dark corner, expression darkening. I became more and less curious at the same time about this man, so youthful but so disturbed, though I wouldn’t know how much until the end of those forty minutes I’d spend with him that day. But to me, he was still so perfect, still like snow, clear, clean, light with life but darkening with life too. I thought very straightforwardly most days in this office suffocated by the walls that felt so close to me. But Aleksander made it so different, and maybe that was why I was so taken by him. But then again, he made it so easy. Even in his mentally ill state, he was so perfect, so charming, so enticing I would chase after him long after I dismissed him for the day.
“I think of it as more of an attempt deeper understanding,” I said, “After all, a file can only go so far.”
“Okay,” said Aleksander, “Where do I begin?”
“Wherever you think is best,” I said.
I remember him clearing his throat, comically, and the face he made as if contemplating something of a deep philosophical significance.
“I don’t know if I could exactly place where it all went wrong—the sixth grade, maybe? Up until then my life had been lived as though it was through a magnifying glass—I was there, yes, but the way I lived seemed to be through such a small viewing range. I wasn’t supposed to see the real world, and when that glass broke, I was flooded with the horrors of what was really there. I started to see and hear things that year. I started to think that people were after me. I started to-to live in my delusions.”
“Delusions of what?”
“Not of grandeur,” he continued, “I never even thought about it as a child. I was satisfied with my life. I lived the life of someone who always was running from some dark creature, of what I don’t know. I believed that I was completely alone and that only I could save myself, and that I was failing miserably at it. I believed that all I needed was success in whatever I did, and that, despite any of my achievements, I was a failure.”
“Do you still believe these things now?” I asked, writing it all down.
“Of course I do. Why would I even be here if I didn’t?”
Aleksander paused for a moment. He again searched the room with his eyes, looking at my hand holding the pen as if I was someone evil, someone to be feared. As if I was a hunter and he was the prey, in my tiny, cramped office. There would be no chase, he knew.
“There isn’t much else to say,” Aleksander told me after a few minutes had passed. He glanced at the clock and then the door.
“I can’t possibly believe that,” I replied.
“You didn’t live my life,” he said, “only I did and only I am.” Aleksander rose from his seat across from me.
“Not even half your session is over,” I called out to him as he closed the door. I leaned back in my chair and closed my eyes. What was I to do ? I knew then that I wouldn’t be able to help him. I didn’t want him to be under the spell of medication for the rest of his life. I didn’t want him to live life through the glass again.
I knew what I did wasn’t helpful. She wasn’t helpful. I couldn’t have possibly thought, after all that he’d gone through he’d be ready to trust me completely. I highly doubted that he trusted anyone at all. I also doubted he’d be back next week for his next session. He didn’t—couldn’t trust me. I was just a girl.
I SWALLOWED THE laxative in my office later, naively waiting like I’d been all day. Somehow I thought that Aleksander would return. I had time on my hands, to do anything I wanted. Out of anything I could have chosen, I chose to swallow laxatives on an empty stomach. They were small and green, and chewable, but I swallowed them whole. My mother bought the same kind, stashed away underneath her makeup drawer. At thirteen was the age I learned to steal without remorse. I looked down at the bottle, contemplating more.
It would be fair to say that this version of me was addicted to laxatives. The feeling of emptiness did just the trick in a world that always kept your mind full. I believed that was the only way to be truly happy—to be empty. Of course one of me would tell you that mental clarity was the only way to be truly happy. But that’s a trick. Who is mentally clear all the time? Not me. No, not me at all.
As I felt the pill slide down my throat, I thought of Aleksander. I wondered if he also felt the only way to be happy was to be empty. I sighed. I’d never see that face again, would I? Those alluring eyes, distrust evident in their glow. I thought of him as an idol, someone to be observed as if he was an ancient text, or a piece of art. What was I in this world, I thought to myself selfishly. If anything I’d be that little bottle in my desk, in my bathroom cabinet, on my nightstand, on the kitchen counter. That was me. A little plastic bottle full of green pills. Then there was him—a piece of art, not to be touched, not to be disturbed. I was easy to use, just push the top and screw loose. You could dump out my insides and pick which one you wanted. He was perfect. I was just me, just a girl.
In those moments, I was no one, no one but Rosalie.
