Chapter 1

Looking for some serious criticism here. Honestly, would you continue reading this after the first chapter?

 

“It’s the most disturbing thing in the world,” Brian Lyndon Keats said.  He looked away to his left at a bookshelf filled with subjects ranging from child psychology to pedophilia and then leaned forward, groaning as he rested his head in his right hand.  His black, painted fingernails gently brushed the eyebrows of his smooth, thin face.  He had a prominent but not unusually large nose, thin lips, and skin slightly whiter than the average Caucasian, even though the muffled sunlight coming in through the shades gave him and everything else in the small office room a light orange glow.  A black T-shirt wrapped snugly around his five-foot, nine-inch, one hundred and forty-five pound frame, yet the red, flannel shirt toned down whatever attempt he made at a Gothic appearance.  His shoulder length, dyed black hair hung in perfect combed strands, pressing flat to his face without any split ends.  He had a tendency to either writhe or sit catatonically still when he felt uncomfortable.  He wanted to do the former, but the bruises all over his back made any tight muscle spasms a painful impossibility.

    

            “- but for some reason it’s the only time I ever feel any comfort,” he continued, looking up at the doctor.  “This dream I’ve been having for as far back as I can remember.  I’m in this hospital room, lying on this cold metal table.  It doesn’t look like a hospital, though.  It almost looks like it’s in someone’s basement.  There are these people around me, but I can only see them out of the corner of my eye.  I’m looking at this guy; his back is turned to me.  He has this tattoo on the back of his head - an eyeball, just a black oval on its side with a circle in between.  He’s going through all of these surgical instruments.  All of a sudden I start feeling this excruciating pain on the side of my head, and even after I wake up I can still feel it.  I have this scar too,” he said gently running his finger along a half inch healed up scar a little to the side of his right eyebrow.

 

            “And why do you think it is that you feel comfortable, Brian?” Dr. Bronson said.  In his mid-thirties he had a very square, muscular jaw that belied the soft, compassionate tone of his voice.  His short, blond, spiked hair and thin, carefully manicured goatee looked like the product of about two hundred dollars at the local salon while his robust build could’ve easily gotten him on the local football team.  However, his khakis pants, green button up shirt, blue suede vest, and thin brimmed glasses screamed intellectual know it all.  He sat with his legs crossed in a brown leather armchair.  A notepad rested on his lap and he held his pen firmly to the paper, waiting for an answer.

   

          No response.

 

 

 

          “Brian, did you ever think that you’re focusing so much on these dreams because you’re trying to ignore something else that’s going on in your life?”

 

          “Maybe,” he muttered.

 

 

          “Okay,” he said, nodding with a seemingly sincere but nonetheless pseudo-satisfaction.  “What else is going on, though?”

      

          Brian put on a false show of confusion, biting his lip.  He knew what the doctor was talking about, and he felt the blood rise to his face as tiny beads of sweat formed around his hairline.  He felt the doctor’s eyes bearing down on him and pressuring him to answer.  Worst still, he knew Bronson saw his redness, but he still tried frantically to keep a calm exterior.

     

            “You don’t have to be afraid to talk to me, Brian.  I’m not here to judge you.”

 

 

            “Bullshit,” he thought.  He knew the tone of that voice.  Behind those eyes he could practically feel that powerful, almost lustful yearning for moral superiority emanating from the doctor, penetrating him in a prison style, psychic rape.  His stomach churned and his chest slowly collapsed in on him.  He glanced around the room at the old, colonial, wooden desk with a ceramic spread eagle at the corner used as a paper weight, then the Oriental rug under his feet and finally the brown leather sofa behind Bronson next to the oak door.  He could still feel Bronson’s, curious, compassionate stare penetrating deep and cutting through him as he kept his mouth closed and practically hyperventilated through his nose.  He glanced back at him, then over at a landscape painting of some hills and valleys.  He bit his nails again.

 

          “Brian, if you can’t talk to me than that only proves to me that you’re afraid.”  He never lost that compassionate tone from his voice.

 

 

          Brian felt the pressure increase and he slowly dug his nails into his legs as he tried to keep a calm look on his face.   “What do you mean?” he said softly just before he thought to himself, “Please don’t talk about last Friday”.

 

 

          “Last Friday,” the doctor said as he reached over for a manila folder on his desk to the side of him.  “At least according to this police report from an officer Vincent Consopolus, there was a little bit of a domestic disturbance,” the doctor continued.  “Would you like me to read it to you?”

 

 

          Before Brian could say ‘no’ the doctor began reading.  “On Friday night, 11:30pm I received a call from Ms. Henrietta Booth of 16 John Street concerning a neighbor of hers, a Mr. Brian Keats.  According to Booth, Keats was outside yelling numerous obscenities at his roommate, Ms. Michelle Brodrick.  Ms. Booth quoted the following lines from Mr. Keats: ‘You f*****g c**t.’”  He glanced up at Brian, pausing so that the young man could feel the intensity of his words.  Bronson went back down to the paper.  “W***e, I hope you get yourself raped tonight.”  Once again he glanced up at Brian.  “‘B***h-’”

 

 

          “I get the picture, Brian muttered running his fingers hard over his sweat-dampened scalp.

 

          “Please let me continue, Brian.  ‘B***h, when you get back here I’m going to blow your f*****g brains out and paint the house with your blood.’  Also according to this it took three officers to hold you down.”  He gently closed the folder and put it back on his desk.  He gave Brian his gentle stare for a second.  “Why were you so afraid of me bringing this up, Brian?”

 

            “What do you mean?” he said.

 

            “Brian, please stop with the false ignorance.  You’re clearly nervous.  Now, please, tell me why you’re so afraid of talking about this.”

 

            No answer.

 

            “Were you afraid that I was just going to throw accusations out at you and make you feel like a monster?”

 

            “Exactly,” Brian thought.

 

            “Because, if that’s what you thought, Brian, I can assure you that the only reason I’m here is to help you with your problems.  Remember, I’m your friend.  I’m your partner . . .”

 

            “Partner?” he thought.

 

            “ . . . I’m the one who’s going to guide you out of this dark cave that you’re in now,” the doctor continued.  “Do you understand what I’m saying?” he said, reaching out to Brian.

 

            Brian winced his hand back.  “Yeah, I understand,” he said, still avoiding eye contact with Dr. Bronson.

 

            “Good.  Now tell me, where was Michelle going that night?”

         

          “I don’t know.  A party or something, with this guy across the street, Jason,” he mumbled.

 

          “And that angered you?”

 

          “A little, I guess.”

 

          “Why?”

 

          Brian just paused.  He looked back down at the floor, shaking his head.

 

          “Brian would you be offended if I told you why you’re acting the way you are?”

 

 

          He sighed, shaking his head and bracing himself.

 

          “You found out that you were HIV positive last year, correct?”

 

 

            Brian’s stomach lunged up into his ribs and slowly caved in on itself as all his most nauseas gases bubbled up.  He could still remember that nurse from five years ago, sitting down in front of him, gently putting her hand on his, and uttering twelve simple words that would doom him to the knowledge that he would be permanently ostracized from the basic human satisfaction that only a close sexual relationship could bring – “Brian, we got your test results back.  You’ve tested positive for HIV.”

  

          “And you’re probably suffering inside a lot, aren’t you?”

 

 

          His stomach slowly calmed.  Maybe Bronson did understand him.

 

          “Do you think that the reason you want her to suffer is because-”

 

 

          Brian waited with anticipation to hear the words ‘because you want people to feel your pain.’

 

          “- you’re a misogynist, Brian?” the doctor said.

 

          “What?” he said with a glare of confusion.

 

          “A woman hater, Brian.”

 

 

          “I know what a misogynist is.”

 

          “There’s no reason to get angry with me, Brian.  I’m not trying to hurt you or offend you.  It’s perfectly natural for you to feel those types of impulses towards women.  Unfortunately, we live in a society that conditions men to see women as little more than household servants and sex objects.  In fact, it encourages it.  The reason why you were offended by Michelle going out was because these impulses that have been taught to you since childhood all of a sudden subconsciously kicked in.  By leaving the household she was expressing her freedom and therefore offending your dominance over her.  Don’t you understand, Brian? –  focusing on your HIV and these dreams – it’s just you subconsciously trying to run away from your true feelings.  I used to feel this way too.  It’s okay to admit it, but listen, the only way you’ll ever find any true sense of happiness in life is to face your demons straight on.  Now, you’ve already taken the first step and allowed Michelle the . . .” he paused, putting his forefinger to his persed lips, thinking of the most polite way to say what he had to say.  “You’ve already given Michelle permission to pursue the pleasures that someone with your condition couldn’t possibly give her, correct?”

 

 

          Brian sighed, nodding his head.

 

            “So why not indulge in this open relationship?  Let Michelle freely pursue her needs and you pursue yours.  A man and a woman can still be in a relationship, yet freely express their love for others.  Do you understand what I’m saying, Brian?”

 

          “Excuse me, Doctor Bronson,” said a woman over the intercom.  “There’s a Mr. Levine here to see you.  He says he’s been waiting here for twenty minutes.”

    

          Bronson looked up at the clock.

 

          2:20 pm.

 

          “Oh Jesus Christ,” he muttered.  “Julie,” he yelled into the intercom.  “Tell Mr. Levine I’ll be right there.”  He turned back to Brian, already at the door and turning the knob.  “I’m sorry,” he said. “We’ll have to continue this next week.  Oh, which reminds me.  I’m not going to be here.  I’m filling in for one of my colleagues at Fuller.”

 

            “The nuthouse?”

 

            “Relax, Brian, the psychiatric ward is two levels above us.”

 

            “What about the basement?”

 

            “That’s just an urban legend, Brian.  There’s no hidden dungeon where we torture and experiment on the criminally insane.”

 

          “Sure there isn’t,” he muttered.

 

          “Oh, and Brian,” he said with a pause in between as he looked up at him with a glassy eyed, dramatic look that could’ve drove even the most cynical critic to tears.  “I believe in you.”

 

 

          Brian smiled and nodded before he slammed the door behind him.  “Yeah whatever, you f*g.”

Author's Note

Ignore the font. I have no idea why it starts out black, goes to gray, and then the last two sentences look different.

Reviews

[is this a fork? or an a..]

discriptions are distracting, it's hard to stay focused on the dialogue because they are so long and detailed..

[R J Askew]

I am a vicious reader of stories as I prefer poetry. But I will read the occasional story if it puts an arm-lock on me. Otherwise I will definitely wriggle free and be off. I think you gave me wriggle room in the first graph here because of the adjectives and the time taken to build the picture. I liked the 'black-painted fingernails' and that may have been all I needed in the first graph as I could then complete the rest of the picture myself, but you added more and more detail and I lost interest by-the-adjective. You could have sneaked some of those details in later on.