The Doctor's couch was a disinfected black leather one, squeaky cold as I slid down it. I couldn't imagine getting hypnotized, perhaps tortured?
I've had worse, like getting stuffed in a broom closet, almost swept down a storm drain. And my allergies had a flare for dust. I watched particles dance in the filtered sunlight. Evil swarms of micro-bugs.
"Are you comfortable?" said Doctor Muse, looking down with his wired spectacles barely clinging to the bridge of his nose.
"I'm workin on it Doc. Maybe, I don't belong here?"
"Just look at me. I'm a manuscript. I can handle criticism. I've got marks to prove it. Why sir, I've been flogged, socked and soaked, and these paper cuts didn't all come from an abusive critic neither." I bent over a corner of myself, as if to whisper, "Dr. Muse, you should have that poor week-kneed sap of an author on this couch, the one who waits out there for me. He has issues."
His disheveled white hair, loosened tie, planted brow, pressed toward me. "I see. I see. Do go on."
"I...I 'm afraid I can't."
"NO. I insist this will be liberating for us all."
"That's just it Doc. I'm a has been. I don't really have an identity crisis. So I've been shelved. Besides retirement looks pretty good about now, way better than getting dragged all over town, coughing on fumes, or feeling the cold wind up my back, clinging to an author's dream."
"Interesting, go on." He dug in with his swivel chair, until it smacked the couch.
"Well here goes. There's this diary, a Miss Diary that is, and I, well... I fell into her one day. She's pretty hot. I MEAN SMOKIN HOT! And for me Doc, that can be scary."
"Yes, go on. Don't be afraid to let it out."
"I wasn't lookin for love or anything, mind you, but when I started reading her, I fell for her like kindling to a roaring flame.
Now I got to be careful not to cry, but she can tell you things worthy of a Pulitzer Prize. She can tell you things about the author's childhood, how... how when he was only two, he witnessed his father chase his mother around the house until he caught her, and beat her with a chair. Then he dragged his mother by the bloody head of her hair down the cellar stairs.
Years later, he started having flashbacks, he kept remembering bits and pieces--his mother pleading for her life, begging their father to think of the kids, while she was getting pummeled.
He blocked most of it out, until one day when he was eighteen; he visited his mother's apartment, before he was to leave for the military, and asked his mother what happened? She told him. But he asked her about his big sister, who blocked his path from getting in harms way.
His mom looked at him with a puzzled face, and told him, 'your sister wasn't there that day; she came home alone to find the bloody mess.'"
"Don' stop now! Tell me what happened next."
"You see Doc, that's when he knew, and he remembered..."
"Remembered what? WHAT?"
"It was an angel! And it had a certain glow, like a fire, a cherub blocking the living room, like in the garden of good and evil. Why, it wasn't his sister at all!"
I watched as a tear fell off the ridge of his nose. It was a pearly torpedo falling toward me! I dove out of the way with the help of a breeze. "Whew! Doc, be careful. I'm not ready for a watery grave."
He pulled off his glasses, and wiped his eyes. "That's all for today. What we shared will be held in the strictest confidence. But I think I can help our author, and poor Miss Diary."
"I love her so much. I just want her to be set free," I said. "She has SO much to offer this broken world. Shame on our author and creator for holding her hostage."
He opened the door, and peaked outside past his secretary, Miss bridges, and said, "My author friend. Come on in here. PLEASE. We need to talk."
"I know the plans I have for you," declares the Lord, "plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future." Jeremiah 29:11 (NIV)
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