The Echoes of a Bitter Memory

Cara lay on the big white sofa in the middle of the room, hands crossed as if she was mad she got detention for yet another one of her “harmless pranks.” She expected any moment her English teacher to barge in and give her an earful about the importance of etiquette, to which she cared little, hence why she found it so hilarious when Mrs. Cobble acted like her words meant a little more than a pointless gabber to her.

Of course, this wasn’t a detention. Unfortunately, it wasn’t going to end with a slap on the wrist, and unfortunately, she was here of her own volition, for if she had endured one more day of this torment, the sheer pressure would have ended her sooner than whoever or whatever was the producer of it.

The sterile beige walls were driving her even madder with each passing minute she waited, with only an abstract painting hanging opposite the large window to focus her scattered attention on. How ironic was it that she came here precisely to get rid of that madness?

She heard the door creak, and at last, her long wait was over. A feeble sigh of relief escaped her lips as she watched the doctor walk in. He was dressed formally, his white checkered shirt fitted tightly around his physique, matching the rest of the interior; his messy, black hair was the only dark spot in the room. He appeared to be around his late twenties, not much older than her. She had expected someone in his mid-fifties to roll up in a white coat, with a gray beard and bags under his eyes that flicked every time he took a puff from his pipe, not the type of physician you would see in a typical young adult TV drama.

Her relief was quickly washed away as soon as he extended his hand to shake hers.

“Eric Haralson, pleased to meet you,” he greeted her with a charming, dimpled smile, only to be met by a cold shudder and a retreat as if she was going to shake hands with Death herself. “Is something the matter?” Eric asked, both confused and concerned over the girl’s strange reaction.

“I’m so sorry, Doctor Haralson. My name is Cara Stoneman.” Cara shook his hand awkwardly and with a slight hesitation. “I’ve been wary of people lately, especially men.”

“No need to worry, this is a safe space after all. And please, call me Eric,” he reassured her. “Have you been to a psychiatrist before?”

“No. I just thought to myself: ‘Man, it’s about time I get my shit together’” She let out a faint laugh, after which her face switched to her neutral expression. “I’m sorry for cursing. I don’t know what’s wrong with me... well, it’s many things, hence why I’m here, right? Anyway, I’ll shut up for now lest I embarrass myself even further.”

“This is a therapy session, after all, so there will be a lot of talking. I’m not here to judge, but to listen.”

“I know, I know. So, how does it work? You put me under hypnosis or something? Give me antidepressants? Put me on different types of drugs and see which one scrambles my brain the least. Heck, at this point, I might let you drive an ice pick through my tear canals so long as you get this mess fixed,” she shrugged,staring at the clouds through the window, her leg fidgeting up and down as if it were possessed by a rather agitated ghost.

“I’ll do no such thing,” said the doctor. “I understand it might be scary at first when you come into my office. Often the topics we discuss aren’t particularly pleasant to discuss. I’ve had patients whose lives could make a war veteran gag in horror and disbelief. It is my job to help them process their emotions and hopefully lead a better life despite their trauma.”

“What if they are utterly screwed?” Cara lifted an eyebrow, still skeptical over the whole process, but still, without any better options left.

“I like to think there is hope for everyone,” he once again tried to reassure her. His hazel eyes were desperately trying to meet hers, but the young woman did anything in her power to avoid his gaze. A crimson lock twirled between her slender fingers as she searched for a random spot on the wall to stare at while the therapy session was in progress.

“Is there really?” Cara asked somewhat absentmindedly. “I would love to believe that too, but there is this pesky little thing called logic that begs me to believe otherwise. I guess it’s the same with God, a part of me wants to shut my brain off and imagine he’s there somewhere in the skies looking out for me but yet again,” she shrugged. “Why is he allowing for all of this suffering to happen to even some of his most devoted followers?”

“Do you perhaps have someone in mind?”

The question caught her off guard. She answered with a smile and a hidden mischief in her vivid, green-yellow eyes.

“I see what you did there. You’re good. It was eventually going to come to this, right? You were going to ask me about my relationship with my father, or rather lack thereof. You therapists sure love that question.”

“You don’t need to answer anything that you don’t feel comfortable with right away. We can work through it with time.”

“Nah, it’s fine,” Cara waved it off. “My father died five years ago, it’s too late for us to mend our relationship anyway.”

“May I ask what was the reason for his passing?”

“He starved himself,” she said, seemingly unbothered by the question. The doctor gave her a puzzled look as he moved his eyes from his notebook. “I mean, it’s not because he was struggling with his self-image or anything. He just kind of gave up on life, if that makes sense. Guess his beloved God didn’t answer his prayers after all.”

“Were you close? What did you do when you heard of his passing?”

“I was sad, obviously. He wasn’t perfect, but he was still my father. Even though he was stern and used to slap me when I was a child, I still loved him,” she bit her lip as she fidgeted with the zipper of her purple hoodie. “Thought the day he died wasn’t the day I lost him. It was a year before that. When my mother left him.”

“Do you think your parents’ divorce might have triggered his depression?”

“Oh, no, no. They didn’t divorce. Neither of them believed in divorce,” Cara shook her head. “My mom just up and left. She packed her bags, put on her makeup, said ‘sayonara,’ and left. Well, maybe without the last part, but you get the idea.”

“How old were you at the time?”

“Nineteen, I had already moved out at that point to live with my now ex-boyfriend. I didn’t talk much with either of my parents, besides the occasional ’Hi, how are you?’. I talked more with my older brother, we had a lot in common, after all, we both grew up in the same shitty household. He was a bit of a jerk most of the time, but with older brothers that’s a given,” Dr. Haralson nodded with a faint smile as he wrote something down in his notebook. “Do you have siblings, doctor?”

“Me? No,” He shook his head, though a bit hesitantly. “Some say, it’s better that way.”

“As irritating as he was, I don’t know what I would have done without him. His dumb jokes were always there to cheer me up whenever I was feeling down, but now...” Cara sighed, driving her fingers into the fabric of her sleeves. “I didn’t come here to talk about my family, you see. We sure had our issues, but nothing compares to what I went through the other day. It’s the reason I came to your office, and perhaps had I taken action earlier none of this would’ve happened. I think…”

An uncomfortable silence filled the room.

“And what was that?” The doctor asked her bluntly to prompt her into speaking.

“I should have started our conversation with this, but to tell you a little bit about myself, I’m the vocalist of a rock band. We’re called ‘Ikonoklast’, I doubt you’ve ever heard of us. Most of our fans consist of friends, and friends of friends, and our bassist’s mom who comes to every single show and sings along to the lyrics of our songs after she’s had a few drinks. She’s our biggest fan by far,” Cara offered a smile before her expression sank into gloom. “And there is also this guy. The first time I saw him, he was sitting in the back, possibly even hiding. With each show I noticed him coming closer and closer to the main stage. I never once had the chance to take a good look at his features. His face was always obscured by a black surgical mask. He was always wearing a hoodie with our band’s logo on it. Whenever I glanced at him, I saw him staring at me, intently.”

“A secret admirer?” Dr. Haralson suggested.

“I thought so too; he was at each venue we played. Always coming early. If we played at a bar, he would be the first to show up there, before it even opened. I didn’t think much of it at first, but then I began seeing him outside of our concerts. When I went out for groceries, he knew all of the shops I frequented and my workplace, I’m pretty sure he even knew where I lived. I could have sworn I’ve seen him a few times outside of my apartment.”

“You said you’ve never gotten the chance to have a good look at his features. Are you sure it was him that followed you on all of these occasions?”

“Absolutely,” she nodded confidently. “At least most of the times, I was sure. He was always the same height, had the same mannerisms, and had the same aura around him, as weird as it sounds. And I knew he was stalking me. I tried confronting him a couple of times, but he just vanished like a ghostly apparition. I began thinking he was a figment of my imagination, a made-up character, but he is real, I tell you. He is as real as you and me, I had the misfortune to find for myself,” her voice was stone-cold. The atmosphere shifted as if the air around them was swallowed in an icy mist. Her grimace spelled pure apathy. She clenched her hand into a tight fist that she quickly tugged away into the pocket of her hoodie.

“You met him face to face?” The doctor speculated, turning his attention to her trembling leg, and the annoyance on her face when she realized she was no longer in control of its rapid movement.

“I did... I mean, not quite,” she took a moment to collect her thoughts. “It was dark, I had taken one too many drinks for ‘liquid courage’ before going on stage. I usually didn’t feel nervous when it came to performing in front of other people, but that night I felt the need to put the blur filter on before the show started. I’ve had a shitty day before that, I didn’t feel like letting this damn stalker make it even shittier. So we go up, we play, the show is over, lights out, we all go home. All but me. I stayed because I didn’t feel like talking to my roommate, we had a fight before I went out over some stupid sh- I mean something trivial. Never mind. I stay until closing hours, and guess who I see lurking in the shadows like a wild cat pouncing on its prey.”

“And what did you do then?”

“I went up to him, of course. I was getting sick of him following me everywhere, so I decided to have a chat with him and see what was so interesting about me. So, I get up, grab my backpack, and head to the booth where he saw me sitting, “she gestured with her hands as if she were trying to replay the scene.” He sees me, and as always, tries to run away. For a split second there I could tell, he had this frightened look in his eyes. We get outside, and man this batard can run! At least more than I ever could in those stupid high heels and after a few cocktails. My head was spinning like a carousel; I remember all the lights merging around me, making everything feel like it was going in slow motion. I thought the cold air combined with sprinting down a few blocks would sober me up, but I thought wrong. It only made me feel dizzier, and eventually I,” she almost choked on her words. “I fainted.”

The doctor’s eyes widened with concern. He placed his notebook down on the glass table that separated him and his patient. The air stood still. For the first time, Cara mustered the strength to look him in the eye. She bit her lip nervously.

“I can see how that can be quite an unnerving situation to be in,” said Eric. “Was there anyone to help you out?”

“Well, that’s the scary part. I woke up in my room.”