The Artist, the Easel and the Paint
Mar 19, 2022 20:58:23 GMT -5
TheDistinguished and Dylan Thomas like this
Post by King Incredible on Mar 19, 2022 20:58:23 GMT -5
“There’s nothing wrong with me.”
I sit in a chair, awkwardly and uncomfortably, across the room from my two siblings and psychotherapist Dr. Jack Uberman, in his therapy room at Wavelength Therapy in downtown Halifax, NS. The lighting in the room is dim and there are black out curtains, but the strong sunlight from beautiful weather outside tries to break through around the corners of the curtains. My sister, Em, starts to cry a little, as she grabs a tissue from her purse while my brother, Myles, shakes his head.
“Ian,” Em started, emotional, “we all love you–”
“I know–”
“--And we’re only doing this intervention so we can help you–”
“I don’t need help–”
“Bro,” Myles flabbergasted, “yes, you do.”
“That’s not going to help,” Dr. Uberman said calmly to Myles, writing some scribbles in his notepad.
“I’m sorry,” Myles exclaimed, brushing back his hair, “I’m just concerned for Ian’s wellbeing.”
“We all are,” Dr. Uberman nodded, as he rose from his chair and moved across the room to his television and turned it on; the picture hooked up to his laptop.
“I know you all think,” I began, frustrated, “that there is something wrong with me. It’s just headaches, I’ve been taking tylenol for it. I’m okay. I got it checked out. I was worried it was a tumor or something, but it isn’t.”
“That’s good,” Dr. Uberman smiled, “I am glad you don’t have any growth… However, Ian, have you stopped to think that perhaps your past has caught up to you?”
“I don’t follow,” I said honestly and confused, “and I would love to stay and chat about this, but the weather is gorgeous out, I have a plane back to Ireland in six hours, and I’d rather spend the little time I have left in Halifax outside and not in here… am I free to go?”
“I can’t force you to be here,” Dr. Uberman explained, “but, I do have a video I’d like to show you. It’s only a few minutes long… would you please watch the video and then if you want you can leave. Is that a deal?”
With a heavy sigh, I nod in agreement, as I sit down in my chair and face the big television. The doctor goes over to his desk and opens a program for playing video files. He opens a file titled “March 7th Incident” and plays it. I look on, beginning with annoyance but my eyes widen and I soon fixate on a replay of the ending of the March 7th massacre where I am standing in the middle of the ring, talking to myself in the third person and bashing a chair into my forehead multiple times. The video then shows the confrontation of CJ O’Donnell as you can slowly see me calm down and return from… from wherever I went.
“This… happened?” I asked, confused.
“You don’t remember this?” Dr. Uberman asked, concerned.
“I remember calling out CJ, and I then remember blacking out and then seeing CJ come out and I had blood on me,” I started to explain, “I thought the blood was from him attacking me… I did that to myself?”
“Yes,” Dr. Uberman nodded, as he glances around the room, seeing my sister full blown crying and my brother shaking his head and his hand covering his mouth, “are you ready to talk about this condition?”
“Condition?” All three of us said in unison.
“Yes,” the doctor sighed, taking off his glasses and cleaning them, “I believe you are suffering from Dissociative Identity Disorder. It used to be called Multiple Personalities Disorder…”
“Wait,” I gasped, trying to make sense of it, “that’s a personality?”
“Yes,” Dr. Uberman nodded, “and that personality is dangerous for multiple reasons. That personality is fully aware he is a personality and not only that, he’s also fully aware of the real you. I’m going to be honest, I’ve only ever seen one another patient with something like this.”
“...And?”
“He ended up developing dementia and becoming schizophrenic,” Dr. Uberman put it bluntly, “and I believe your history of substance abuse has caught up to you, causing brain damage.”
“How do we fix it?” I said, shaking.
“I can’t really say for certain this can be cured,” Dr. Uberman said, “but, we can try to at least prevent symptoms.”
“I have the money, doc,” I nodded, “let’s do… ouch my head–”
Without warning, I begin to hold my head as a very sharp pain starts in the front of my head. I let out a large yell before passing out on the floor. My eyes opened as my brother crouched over me and my sister sobbing next to a doctor.
“The fuck…?”
“He’s awake,” Myles said, alarmed, as he rose and backed off.
“Ian?” Dr. Uberman asked, “are you okay?”
I slowly get up and look at my surroundings, noticing we are in a doctors office and I see a paused video of Ian’s face covered in blood. I smile, and start to laugh maniacally.
“What’s so funny?” Dr. Uberman asked, noticing I was looking at the picture.
“Do you like the painting?” I asked, hiccuping between words.
“I don’t have any paintings, Ian.”
“NO!” I screamed, “I’m talking about Ian! OH! This isn’t Ian, you should know. The video! I was the ARTIST and I used Ian as my EASEL! His blood was my PAINT! FUCKING… FAAAABULOUS!”
“Do you like being artistic… um, what’s your name?” Dr. Uberman asked politely, offering me a drink.
“My name?” I laughed, “my fucking name?! I don’t have a name! I’m just… me! …Wait… I know why you brought Ian here! You’re all trying to get rid of ME!”
“No–”
“Yes!”
Dr. Uberman sighed as Em had caught him off with the wrong answer.
“HA!” I pointed at the doctor, “at least the little slut is honest–”
Before another word could be spoken, Myles punched me in the jaw, knocking me down suddenly. I cock my neck back in a strange and unethical way, as I pounce on him. My sister shrieks as the doctor calls for help. On my brother like an animal, I snarl at him, before looking back at my sister and running out of the office, mowing down a receptionist, knocking her to the ground.
I really, really… really hope it’s me that shows up on Massacre and not boring Ian! Okay, that was mean - Ian is a great wrestler and can put on a good show, but everyone I know now that they’ve seen what I can do will definitely want to see me! Especially since when Massacre comes I’ll be tracking down management and DEMANDING A FUCKING MATCH FOR LUCK OF THE VIOLENT. CJ! YOU IRISH FUCK! Ian and I could’ve been OCW Champion and facing that southern ASSHAT a week from Monday but no you had to ruin it. And not only that - but then have the FUCKING AUDACITY to say you run the shots and you’re in no rush to have a match with us… you listen to me Caleb and you listen good. What’s going to happen on Monday isn’t even a fraction of what’ll happen to you once I get my fucking hands on you!
Before your stupid, irrelevant tag match with tweedle dee and tweedle dumb and the bird bitch, you can watch as I destroy Lobster Mobster. A man dressed in a lobster costume…?! This MIGHT be worse than Muffles the Bunny! You think a lobster can scare us? HAH! Something you need to consider LM is that Ian is used to the mobs, he’s swam with loan sharks, not idiotic crustaceans! He also took out an entire mob family, the Rowe’s! He went to war with drug lords in Key West! You think he’s going to be afraid of some shellfish? FUCK NO! I want you before coming out to ring to smoke your finest cigar that you got because when we’re through with your bright red looking ass… the only thing that’ll be smoking is you, after we tear you apart, claw by claw you stupid fuck… and they say Ian has a fucking mental disorder…
Everything becomes fuzzy as I fall to the ground… and awaken to darkness. I look around, seeing myself on a wharf at Halifax Harbour, and it’s late. The sound of the water crashing against the wooden wharf deafens my screams as I get up, a camcorder in hand and blood all over me. I look down and see what looks like a man, who perhaps was homeless, dead on the wharf, his insides showing all over his body.
“What the fuck…”
Looking around to see if there are any witnesses, I grab the man, dragging his body across the dock before pushing his body into the harbour. I cry heavy, throwing up in the process as I stash the camcorder in my blood-soaked coat and leave the scene before anyone shows up.
I sit in a chair, awkwardly and uncomfortably, across the room from my two siblings and psychotherapist Dr. Jack Uberman, in his therapy room at Wavelength Therapy in downtown Halifax, NS. The lighting in the room is dim and there are black out curtains, but the strong sunlight from beautiful weather outside tries to break through around the corners of the curtains. My sister, Em, starts to cry a little, as she grabs a tissue from her purse while my brother, Myles, shakes his head.
“Ian,” Em started, emotional, “we all love you–”
“I know–”
“--And we’re only doing this intervention so we can help you–”
“I don’t need help–”
“Bro,” Myles flabbergasted, “yes, you do.”
“That’s not going to help,” Dr. Uberman said calmly to Myles, writing some scribbles in his notepad.
“I’m sorry,” Myles exclaimed, brushing back his hair, “I’m just concerned for Ian’s wellbeing.”
“We all are,” Dr. Uberman nodded, as he rose from his chair and moved across the room to his television and turned it on; the picture hooked up to his laptop.
“I know you all think,” I began, frustrated, “that there is something wrong with me. It’s just headaches, I’ve been taking tylenol for it. I’m okay. I got it checked out. I was worried it was a tumor or something, but it isn’t.”
“That’s good,” Dr. Uberman smiled, “I am glad you don’t have any growth… However, Ian, have you stopped to think that perhaps your past has caught up to you?”
“I don’t follow,” I said honestly and confused, “and I would love to stay and chat about this, but the weather is gorgeous out, I have a plane back to Ireland in six hours, and I’d rather spend the little time I have left in Halifax outside and not in here… am I free to go?”
“I can’t force you to be here,” Dr. Uberman explained, “but, I do have a video I’d like to show you. It’s only a few minutes long… would you please watch the video and then if you want you can leave. Is that a deal?”
With a heavy sigh, I nod in agreement, as I sit down in my chair and face the big television. The doctor goes over to his desk and opens a program for playing video files. He opens a file titled “March 7th Incident” and plays it. I look on, beginning with annoyance but my eyes widen and I soon fixate on a replay of the ending of the March 7th massacre where I am standing in the middle of the ring, talking to myself in the third person and bashing a chair into my forehead multiple times. The video then shows the confrontation of CJ O’Donnell as you can slowly see me calm down and return from… from wherever I went.
“This… happened?” I asked, confused.
“You don’t remember this?” Dr. Uberman asked, concerned.
“I remember calling out CJ, and I then remember blacking out and then seeing CJ come out and I had blood on me,” I started to explain, “I thought the blood was from him attacking me… I did that to myself?”
“Yes,” Dr. Uberman nodded, as he glances around the room, seeing my sister full blown crying and my brother shaking his head and his hand covering his mouth, “are you ready to talk about this condition?”
“Condition?” All three of us said in unison.
“Yes,” the doctor sighed, taking off his glasses and cleaning them, “I believe you are suffering from Dissociative Identity Disorder. It used to be called Multiple Personalities Disorder…”
“Wait,” I gasped, trying to make sense of it, “that’s a personality?”
“Yes,” Dr. Uberman nodded, “and that personality is dangerous for multiple reasons. That personality is fully aware he is a personality and not only that, he’s also fully aware of the real you. I’m going to be honest, I’ve only ever seen one another patient with something like this.”
“...And?”
“He ended up developing dementia and becoming schizophrenic,” Dr. Uberman put it bluntly, “and I believe your history of substance abuse has caught up to you, causing brain damage.”
“How do we fix it?” I said, shaking.
“I can’t really say for certain this can be cured,” Dr. Uberman said, “but, we can try to at least prevent symptoms.”
“I have the money, doc,” I nodded, “let’s do… ouch my head–”
Without warning, I begin to hold my head as a very sharp pain starts in the front of my head. I let out a large yell before passing out on the floor. My eyes opened as my brother crouched over me and my sister sobbing next to a doctor.
“The fuck…?”
“He’s awake,” Myles said, alarmed, as he rose and backed off.
“Ian?” Dr. Uberman asked, “are you okay?”
I slowly get up and look at my surroundings, noticing we are in a doctors office and I see a paused video of Ian’s face covered in blood. I smile, and start to laugh maniacally.
“What’s so funny?” Dr. Uberman asked, noticing I was looking at the picture.
“Do you like the painting?” I asked, hiccuping between words.
“I don’t have any paintings, Ian.”
“NO!” I screamed, “I’m talking about Ian! OH! This isn’t Ian, you should know. The video! I was the ARTIST and I used Ian as my EASEL! His blood was my PAINT! FUCKING… FAAAABULOUS!”
“Do you like being artistic… um, what’s your name?” Dr. Uberman asked politely, offering me a drink.
“My name?” I laughed, “my fucking name?! I don’t have a name! I’m just… me! …Wait… I know why you brought Ian here! You’re all trying to get rid of ME!”
“No–”
“Yes!”
Dr. Uberman sighed as Em had caught him off with the wrong answer.
“HA!” I pointed at the doctor, “at least the little slut is honest–”
Before another word could be spoken, Myles punched me in the jaw, knocking me down suddenly. I cock my neck back in a strange and unethical way, as I pounce on him. My sister shrieks as the doctor calls for help. On my brother like an animal, I snarl at him, before looking back at my sister and running out of the office, mowing down a receptionist, knocking her to the ground.
***
I really, really… really hope it’s me that shows up on Massacre and not boring Ian! Okay, that was mean - Ian is a great wrestler and can put on a good show, but everyone I know now that they’ve seen what I can do will definitely want to see me! Especially since when Massacre comes I’ll be tracking down management and DEMANDING A FUCKING MATCH FOR LUCK OF THE VIOLENT. CJ! YOU IRISH FUCK! Ian and I could’ve been OCW Champion and facing that southern ASSHAT a week from Monday but no you had to ruin it. And not only that - but then have the FUCKING AUDACITY to say you run the shots and you’re in no rush to have a match with us… you listen to me Caleb and you listen good. What’s going to happen on Monday isn’t even a fraction of what’ll happen to you once I get my fucking hands on you!
Before your stupid, irrelevant tag match with tweedle dee and tweedle dumb and the bird bitch, you can watch as I destroy Lobster Mobster. A man dressed in a lobster costume…?! This MIGHT be worse than Muffles the Bunny! You think a lobster can scare us? HAH! Something you need to consider LM is that Ian is used to the mobs, he’s swam with loan sharks, not idiotic crustaceans! He also took out an entire mob family, the Rowe’s! He went to war with drug lords in Key West! You think he’s going to be afraid of some shellfish? FUCK NO! I want you before coming out to ring to smoke your finest cigar that you got because when we’re through with your bright red looking ass… the only thing that’ll be smoking is you, after we tear you apart, claw by claw you stupid fuck… and they say Ian has a fucking mental disorder…
Everything becomes fuzzy as I fall to the ground… and awaken to darkness. I look around, seeing myself on a wharf at Halifax Harbour, and it’s late. The sound of the water crashing against the wooden wharf deafens my screams as I get up, a camcorder in hand and blood all over me. I look down and see what looks like a man, who perhaps was homeless, dead on the wharf, his insides showing all over his body.
“What the fuck…”
Looking around to see if there are any witnesses, I grab the man, dragging his body across the dock before pushing his body into the harbour. I cry heavy, throwing up in the process as I stash the camcorder in my blood-soaked coat and leave the scene before anyone shows up.
