#1 Fan Page 34
Mark hid himself behind the group of college boys standing behind her. “Party time!” the crowd cheered and applauded as beer spilled from the girl’s mouth. They returned her to her feet and congratulated her for being the first girl to do a keg stand. But Mark knew what they were thinking; this girl was ready to get laid.
Mark narrowed his sights on the girl as she stumbled towards the house. “Not tonight boys. She’s mine.”
The girl brushed passed by Mark. Her black ponytail brushed under his chin as if telling him to come and get her. It was a game to him. He stalked her all night; noting how much she drank, who she hung out with, and when she left. He spent most of the night ten feet away and she never remembered who he was or the time they spent hanging out during freshman and sophomore years. In fact no one could. His makeover became the perfect disguise.
“Hey Rachel,” a girl shouted over the music. The dark haired girl turned around; her face flashed on Mark momentarily as she turned to her friend. “It’s getting late. We should get going.”
Rachel downed the last of her beer and placed the cup on a counter top. The students became a blur as she followed her friends out the door. Mark’s face twisted into a sadistic smile as he threw his cup away and exited the party.
The Phoenix Blade: Project Justice
Bright white lights. It was the first thing I noticed when I opened my eyes. My head was throbbing; everything was blurry.
“Just relax Mr. Lancaster,” a stern woman’s voice said as she laid a hand on my chest; forcing me back to the bed. “You’ve been through a major ordeal and need rest.”
I tried to push myself up on the bed, but found my arms tied down with thick leather restraints.
“What’s going on? Where am I?”
“Relax, you’re in good hands.”
I craned my neck to look through the window on a solid white door. I thought I saw a familiar face standing outside. She had short brown hair. I wanted nothing more than to get out of that room, but was remanded to the bed. My arms thrashed around; trying to fight the restraints, but couldn’t move them more than an inch from the plain white sheets. My claustrophobia was kicking in; making my heart beat faster; keeping in time with the loud beeps on the machines I was hooked up to.
“Mr. Lancaster, you need to relax.”
But I couldn’t. I didn’t like being held against my will. I was scared and alone; held hostage by some random woman in a white room.
Suddenly, I felt a calming sensation sweep over my body as if every muscle in my body was relaxed and numb.
“There, that should do it,” the woman said as she injected a syringe into my IV. She wiped my eyes; allowing me to see her large frame standing next to the bed. Her blue surgical mask covered her face; keeping her identity hidden.
“What did you do to me?” It was the only words I was able to speak before the room blurred and faded.
“He should be out any second.” The woman’s voice echoed as if she was talking down a long hallway.
“Good bring him downstairs,” a stern male voice said. I could hear a loud long beep as I was wheeled out of the room forcefully.
Trapped Inside
Let it be known that this was not my decision to write this. It was something I was forced into it by my therapist. She told me it would help me deal with my issues; to work through the traumatic events that drove me to therapy in the first place. I think it’s a load of bullshit. I went to the stupid sessions. I was even going three times a week, but they were a waste of time. I never got anything out of them. I would sit there for an hour at a time waiting for Dr. Mary Barron to tell me how to fix my life; how to “cope” with the horrific scene that was etched into my mind; rid myself of the nightmares that plagued me every night. But she never did any of that. Instead she sat there with a blank stare waiting for me to open up while continuously asking me “how does that make you feel?”
I hate that question. Every fiber of my body wants to scream how do you think it makes me feel? You’re the therapist. You should be able to tell me. Instead I sit there in disturbed silence; glaring at Dr. Barron and her scarlet red rimmed glasses and her frizzy black hair that humorously reminded me of someone who had their finger stuck in a light socket. I bear the thought of sitting in her office one more time. It’s why I decided to end my sessions with her.
Life has been more comfortable since I decided to end my therapy sessions. In fact, life has been so much better since I decided not to leave my Brooklyn apartment. It was taxing at first. Work was my biggest struggle. But after coxing the Human Resource Manager and my lawyer to meet me at my house, I was able to convince them to let me conduct my daily work responsibilities from home. I guess that’s what happens when your lawyer threatens a lawsuit based on an anxiety disorder.
“Justin, you need to continue your therapy sessions and follow the doctor’s recommendations.” It was the stern warning my lawyer felt the need to give me.
“Are you kidding me? I want nothing to do with that woman or with therapy. It’s a giant waste of time.”
“I’m sorry you feel that way, but you need to go. Your job and our case depend on it.”
“I don’t care. I’m not going back out there. Besides, we’ve already established I’m fully capable of getting all of my work done from here.”
“Yes, but if the court finds out you haven’t been going to therapy, they could use it against you. They can say you’re just being lazy and that you want to work from home so you can slack off.”
“So what?”
“So they can either force you to return to work or worse. They can fire you and sue you; sue us.”
So here I am; sitting at my desk overlooking the streets of Brooklyn; forced to comply with Dr. Barron’s orders while we arrange a new schedule of sessions. Why can’t they leave me alone? Why can’t everyone just let me live my life of solitude in peace?