Dr. Bridges

7th of Nextious, in the Waning within the 1st year of the third cycle, 2:50 p.m.

            *click* The sound of Rick locking the door to his apartment sounded muffled in the long empty hallway, the auditory equivalent of a painting with a tiny boat dwarfed in a vast ocean. His left hand held the simple smooth wood handle of a molasses-colored cane that he used to support his weight after Kite shot his foot. Turning from his door, he limped down the quiet hallway. This was his life now, limping. Bone had been shattered, muscles and ligaments irreparably torn. Technically he could have had his foot amputated and then replaced with a fully functioning metal foot, but the price for that was in the thousands. So, he limped.

            Mentally he felt foggy, he had three memories and yet he had a hard time deciding which was his. Every moment took effort to try and just live as Rick without the memories interjecting. Just this morning he had gotten up and made his bed, washed his dishes (even though there were still some clean ones in the drawer), and threw away the bottles. Mentally he knew that he had never done that before, Alice had been the clean freak, yet he felt as though he could not start his day without cleaning and organizing. His shirt and pants were freshly ironed, and the stains were removed.

            Stepping outside he leaned his head back and breathed in the humid ocean air. The sky was a beautiful white, perfect for poets and for clearing the mind. The Summer solstice was only a few days past so even the nights were still bright, keeping him from falling to far into the dark.

His confusion of actions made no sense, he was still Rick. Memories did not constitute a person. He liked old films, cranberries, and coffee. He wanted to help others, not harm, and he kept a messy house. These were concrete facets of his personality, and yet the memories from Alice and Kite were trying to overthrow his foundation.

Rick sighed and concentrated on watching his feet, counting his steps, not thinking. One normal step, one step with the cane. People gave him room on the sidewalk now, making way for the cripple. Children stared wide eyed, adults asked if he needed anything, and other poor cripples would nod at him in commiseration.

The *mew* from a cat distracted Rick from his thought, and he managed to catch sight of the tabby before it dashed out from behind a garbage can. The hand on his cane tightened till his knuckles were white, he wanted to squeeze it, feel it squirm until he felt the… “No” Rick said aloud causing some people to look at him out of the corner of their eyes before they hurried on their way. He stared at the ground, tears formed, but did not fall, he was Rick Arthur Estle, ex-detective, and a man who would find a lost cat for only 2 G. To struggle to contain his desire to kill an innocent animal was not who he was.

After 30 minutes of navigating the crowds, he sat in a chair opposite Dr. Bridges. “How do you feel?” the doctor said with a kindly smile, like he did for every session.

Rick sighed and leaned his head back and looked at the popcorn ceiling of the office. Mentally he would connect the dots into esoteric patterns or into vaguely humanoid angular faces. “Tired.” He replied after a few minutes of quiet. He had not needed to wait to give his answer to the question he just wished he could have found something better to say.

“Have you found another job?” The doctor questioned him in the same kindly tone.

Rick made the outline of an angular cat in the ceiling with his eyes. He was not intentionally forcing the doctor to wait for his answers he just felt so empty inside. Closing his eyes, he answered “No.”

“Have you met with your friend Brick recently?” The continuous clawing calm kindliness of the voice continued.

Rick felt conflicted about the guys at the station paying for this psychologist, because he knew most had wanted him sidelined a long time ago. He appreciated the doctor for trying to help but he wanted nothing to do with anyone. Rick had stood up Brick at their last two get togethers, he felt bad but… but he could not stand the pity he saw within Brik’s eyes. Rick began to open his lips to reply no when the doctor’s voice cut in.

“I am here to help. Is there a reason you wait nearly three minutes between answers?”

So kindly, so, so, so false. That kindliness had to be a front, a farce, a figment the doctor had created to put him at ease. Rick gripped the chair and closed his eyes before yelling towards the ceiling. “Maybe if you emoted like a human! Your one note, kindly, grandfatherly, image that you project is something I have come to dread” Rick knew what he was saying was unfair and not like himself, yet his mouth kept moving. “Maybe if you acted like a human and not a thing of nuts and bolts in a flesh suit!” Rick felt out of control as he stood, wobbly without his cane, grabbed the lamp and threw it at the wall, destroying the sheet rock. He was shaking with emotion, yet he could not figure out what emotion. “I DO NOT MEET WITH MY FRIEND BECAUSE I DISPISE THE LOOK ON HIS FACE! The kind of face you see people put on when they give a beggar money knowing full well the money is only going to drugs and booze. Yet the giver wants to feel like a good person while also feeling like the superior human to the receiver. Are you happy with my answer now?”

The doctor simply looked at him and he felt his cheeks color. He never raised his voice like this. He dropped his head as his chest twisted in knots within himself but separate from himself, Alice, seemed disappointed with him. He looked at Dr. Bridges, tears leaking hotly down his face as his legs gave way beneath him and he sat on the floor back against the chair. “You would be right.” Doctor Bridges said softly. “I am happy with your answer, you have given me something to work with. You have been through shock, sorrow, and grief and now you are bombarded by memories of those who caused it. It is difficult to move past death when you are reminded of it daily. I think part of your issue is that you view pity as evil while also being afraid of losing yourself to your memories.”

“They are just memories.” Rick mumbled.

“I believe your actions prove they are not. You need to learn to use the good things about the memories and the good habits they give you and to discard the bad. The most practical practice you can do is sit with a friend and focus on being Rick. Not Kite. Not Alice. The pity you feel for your friend comes from concern and concern for you comes from his love for you. Count yourself blessed that you have someone in your life willing to take pity on you.

“Fine.” Rick sighed. “I will take time to do that.”

“You need to heal but go at your own pace. I have a friend who runs the theatre at the top of The Crick District, you could work there as little or as much as you want. Then you can make some money but also take the time to heal.”

“I will think about that.”

“Good. Go home and think. Then let me know what your decision is.”