Tied up hands

This story is not very straightforward. Some people may understand it, some may not. I just hope it touches those who do.

Do you even know why I’m here? Why I’m on this couch in front of you, next to this painting of hands tied together by a rope? Do you even want me here? Do you feel like the hands represent you? Or are they just another painting you are forced to analyse to pass the time?

Your words don’t mean anything to me. You’re here for the satisfaction, I’m here for reasons I’m not sure of at the moment. I don’t care about those hands.

If you don’t know why you’re here then why did you choose to come?

Because I know what happens when I walk out the door. I walk out and face the purple walls. Funny, I always thought the other side was black.

Yet you still claim to not know why you’re here?

No. It doesn’t make sense. Stop re-wording your own questions.

Do you know your options? Why are you sitting alone in this room? How are you alone if I’m here? What do you picture on the other side?

I am aware of my options. I could sit here forever, I could swallow science in small pieces, I could carve my feelings into a familiar surface, or I could leave. To the other side.

I’ll ask you again, why am I here?

You’re here because I’m here. I asked you to come. I said it, and now you can go.

Are you sure you want me to leave?

Yes.

Alright. Then I’ll go.

Wait, before you go, can I ask you a question for a change?

Yes.

Why did you agree to come? After everything I’ve done to do, why did you agree to come? Was it actually for the satisfaction of feeling like you made life easier?

Yes. Why was that so hard for you to believe?

I’m not those hands. I am not weak and helpless. You should take that painting down.

No, I think I’ll leave it up. Remind yourself, those are not your hands. Goodbye.

She sits alone in the empty room, facing the painting with the tied up hands.