Cry for Help
by J. Timothy Floyd
“I’m here for a three o’clock session with Dr. McCullough. Is he ready for me?”
The woman standing behind the counter was poised and attractive--copper red hair and a statuesque body. She studied the desktop for a few moments. “You must be Mr. Mason. I see this is your first visit with us.”
“Alex Mason,” the client replied. “You can call me Alex.”
“Hello, I’m Dr. McCullough,” the woman replied. “My admin is out sick today, so I’m doing double duty.”
The client hesitated, stammering. “You’re Dr. McCullough? Dr. Corey McCullough? I was thinking you’d be a guy.”
She smiled. “That’s the Old World, Mr. Mason. Most of the practitioners in the field today are women. That’s not a problem, is it?”
“No problem,” he winked, licking his lower lip nervously. “All the better.”
“Come back to my office,” she replied.
The adjacent room bore all the markings of a sophisticated professional. A wall behind the desk boasted an array of academic degrees and professional awards, all in matching black frames with gold edging. The lighting was chill and urban. After a few moments, the doctor approached an armchair near a window, gesturing for Alex to take a seat in a matching chair nearby.
“Make yourself comfortable, Alex,” McCullough began. “Take a couple of deep breaths and relax. You can begin whenever you’re ready.”
“I don’t know where to start.” He slumped in his seat, spreading his legs. “What I really need is a prescription for something that will knock me out. I haven’t been able to sleep for a week!”
“I understand,” the therapist responded. “Sometimes clients like to start with how they’re feeling at the moment. Try to identify one emotion you’re experiencing right now.”
Mason hunched forward, nervously drawing his legs underneath him. He struggled for words before muttering, “Angry. I’m very angry!”
“That’s a good start. Why don’t you tell me about that?”
“Can’t you just write me a prescription for sleeping pills? I’m wide awake all night like some kind of vampire. I seriously need some sleep.”
McCullough smiled gently. “First, tell me about your anger. You feel angry because…?”
“Because I’m a fuck-up!” he blurted out. “I screw things up and piss people off! I can’t get through a day without somebody treating me like a piece of crap! It’s like there’s this code that everybody knows about but me.”
“You’re angry at God?”
“No. Why would I be angry at God? I’m not some raving atheist!”
“You mentioned a set of rules everyone else seems to understand. Where do you suppose everyone else acquired the rules?”
“I’m talking about the stuff parents teach you.”
“You think your parents failed you?”
“Okay, maybe it’s your conscience,” he scrambled.
“And you don’t have one--a conscience?”
“You don’t think I’ve got a conscience?” he snarled. “You think I’m a sociopath or something like that?”
McCullough intertwined her fingers and rested her chin on them. “You had mentioned a code that’s understood by everyone but you. Is someone to blame? What do you think?”
“I think you sound like my girlfriend. She told me I’m broken—that there’s something wrong with me. You wanna know why I’m angry? She actually told me--get this--that whenever she’s with me, it makes her wonder what’s wrong with her. So, I was making her crazy, too?”
The doctor studied her client’s face. “She broke up with you? You broke up with her?”
Mason glared. “Who said we broke up? Why would you think that?”
“You spoke about her in the past tense, Alex. But you’re still together?”
“It’s complicated. What kind of pills do you normally give for major league insomnia?”
“Pills aren’t always the answer. Why don’t we talk about another relationship that makes you feel rejected or angry?”
“Okay, I’m a Marine. I did three years in the Corps--even deployed to Afghanistan for six months. It’s 120 degrees in the desert over there. No highways, just tracks through the sand. I went through hell for the good old Semper Fi, but they booted me out anyway. Article Ninety-One!”
“A medical discharge?”
“Mmmm… you could say that. I sent another guy to the hospital.”
“How did that happen?”
“I whipped his ass. He was an officer.”
“Okay. Go on…”
“He wouldn’t get off my case; one thing after another, twenty-four-seven. He didn’t like me--said I had a bad attitude. Nobody is gung-ho about latrine duty every other day. He started in again when he found me in the rack one day, so I got up and punched him. Then I whacked him again and kicked him a couple of times.
“That’s interesting, Alex,” the doctor interjected. “The military code of conduct would be very familiar to you, yet you struck a superior officer anyway. How do you explain that?”
Gazing at his feet, Mason began to crack his knuckles. “It’s not like I’m stupid. You don’t hit an officer. You ask before you borrow someone’s car. You don’t hurt a girl. You don’t have to be a brainiac to know that. But sometimes… a lot of times… there’s just something boiling inside me, Doc! It’s like there’s a trigger in my head, and somebody else squeezes it. Does that mean I’m crazy?”
“We all cross the line more often than we want to admit. Quite often, we can’t even explain why, but there’s only been one perfect human in all of history. The rest of us have to ask for help. Is that why you’re here, Alex, or did you just come for a prescription?”
“I don’t know. Maybe nobody can help me. Maybe my girlfriend was right when she said I’m psycho or have a screw loose or something. She said it was like I never respected her, but that’s not true. I needed her.”
After a long silence, the therapist spoke softly. “I’m still listening…”
“She said I made her crazy! She’d break up with me one day, but then we’d talk or text, and she’d come back again. She finally moved out, but we couldn’t stay away from each other. The last time I went over there, she told me she’d made an appointment with you. She wanted to know why she was obsessed with me. She was afraid that she was crazy, too.”
“Interesting. What’s your girlfriend’s name, Alex?”
“Why?”
“She represents something you fear. It’s important to identify your fears. Can you speak her name?”
His voice took on a choking quality. “Mason. Alex Mason.
“But… you’re Alex Mason. Aren’t you?”
The client gazed out the window. “Alright, I’m Vince Norris. Yesterday, I called to confirm Alex’s appointment; to find out the day and time. She couldn’t be here, so I decided to come in.”
“It’s important that you’re honest with me, Vincent. You told me that you and Alex had not broken up, but you continue to use the past tense when you mention her. Tell me why.”
“Don’t ask me, Doc.”
“You weren’t honest about your identity when you arrived today. Therapy only helps if we’re completely transparent. What is the true status of your relationship with Alex?”
“This is confidential, right?”
“Doctor-client privilege means a therapist cannot be compelled by law to divulge personal details shared by a client. Why do you ask?”
The faint sounds of cars and buses in the street drifted through the window. There was a gentle whoosh as the air conditioning clicked on. Finally, the client looked up, tears streaming down his face.
“She’s dead. It happened just about a week ago.”
“I’m so sorry, Vincent. That must have come as a terrible shock.”
“I hurt her. I killed her, but it was an accident.”
Dr. McCullough hesitated. “You mean there was a crash? You were driving?”
“It wasn’t in a car. We were at her apartment. We got in another fight when I saw your name on her phone. So, she told me about this appointment with you- that she wanted to be strong enough to get me out of her life forever. She wanted help to move on and find somebody normal. That’s when something went off in my head and I grabbed her. I promised her I could change. She kept saying no, and I kept holding her tighter and tighter till she dropped straight down to the floor. That’s when I realized I had really hurt her. I swear I never meant to do that.
“One of the neighbors found her there the next day. I slept over with an old girlfriend who told the cops I was with her all night, so I have an alibi. But I haven’t been able to eat or sleep since it happened. I can’t get motivated. I’m going to lose my freaking job if I don’t get this squared away. Is there anything you can do to help me, Dr. McCullough?”
“Only God can help you, Vincent.”
“I don’t mean like that. I mean, can you write me a prescription for sleeplessness… for anxiety or something? By the way, you called me Vincent again. Alex was the only one who used my proper name. That’s creepy.”
The therapist stood and walked over to her desk. “I should be more candid with you now, Vincent. I’m not Dr. McCullough, but I did make an audio recording of our session today.”
The client’s eyes widened. “Where’s the doctor? Who are you?”
The woman smiled. “Dr. McCullough will be resting peacefully on the bathroom floor just a bit longer. His hands and feet are bound with duct tape in case he should awaken prematurely. My name is Mason. Abby Mason. Your late girlfriend Alex was my sister, scum bag.”
She lifted her hands from the desk drawer, revealing a semiautomatic handgun aimed directly at the client. The young man remained frozen in his chair, searching for words.
“This isn’t really happening,” was all he could manage.
“That’s what I thought when you called yesterday, asking the correct time for Alex’s appointment. I was dumbstruck. You see, I was the one who begged her to see Dr. McCullough. I’m his admin, Vincent. I had recognized the sick way you were controlling my sister, alienating her from family and friends so you never had to face us. I was hopeful my boss could bring her back to her senses. Unfortunately, you strangled her before he could meet her. We buried my baby sister two days before you called.”
Abby crossed the room calmly, still holding Vince at gunpoint. Her every move projected icy confidence. By contrast, the disgraced ex-Marine sat there sullen and breathing heavily.
“What are you going to do to me?”
Click. Abby pulled back the slide on the weapon, releasing a round into the chamber. She watched him with a mixture of contempt and sorrow.
“I suppose I could just call the police and turn you in, along with the audiotape of your confession. Or I could exterminate you right now and get out of Dodge. When Dr. McCullough finally gets out of the bathroom, he’ll surely fire me and maybe even press charges. I doubt returning to normal will ever be an option for me.
“Life happens in the choices, doesn’t it, Vincent? We know the code, but sometimes it’s impossible to do the right thing. Your heart is at war with your mind, instinct against clear thinking. We can never fully trust ourselves, can we?
“I know the right thing would be to hand you over to the authorities. But even though I know that would be best for me in the long run, my gut is tied in knots because it would feel so unsatisfying. Shooting you in the groin, then in the head, would be like instant therapy. See the problem? I seriously need help, Vincent. There’s just something boiling inside me, and nobody understands that better than you.
“What does your gut tell you, Vincent? What would you do?”
The woman standing behind the counter was poised and attractive--copper red hair and a statuesque body. She studied the desktop for a few moments. “You must be Mr. Mason. I see this is your first visit with us.”
“Alex Mason,” the client replied. “You can call me Alex.”
“Hello, I’m Dr. McCullough,” the woman replied. “My admin is out sick today, so I’m doing double duty.”
The client hesitated, stammering. “You’re Dr. McCullough? Dr. Corey McCullough? I was thinking you’d be a guy.”
She smiled. “That’s the Old World, Mr. Mason. Most of the practitioners in the field today are women. That’s not a problem, is it?”
“No problem,” he winked, licking his lower lip nervously. “All the better.”
“Come back to my office,” she replied.
The adjacent room bore all the markings of a sophisticated professional. A wall behind the desk boasted an array of academic degrees and professional awards, all in matching black frames with gold edging. The lighting was chill and urban. After a few moments, the doctor approached an armchair near a window, gesturing for Alex to take a seat in a matching chair nearby.
“Make yourself comfortable, Alex,” McCullough began. “Take a couple of deep breaths and relax. You can begin whenever you’re ready.”
“I don’t know where to start.” He slumped in his seat, spreading his legs. “What I really need is a prescription for something that will knock me out. I haven’t been able to sleep for a week!”
“I understand,” the therapist responded. “Sometimes clients like to start with how they’re feeling at the moment. Try to identify one emotion you’re experiencing right now.”
Mason hunched forward, nervously drawing his legs underneath him. He struggled for words before muttering, “Angry. I’m very angry!”
“That’s a good start. Why don’t you tell me about that?”
“Can’t you just write me a prescription for sleeping pills? I’m wide awake all night like some kind of vampire. I seriously need some sleep.”
McCullough smiled gently. “First, tell me about your anger. You feel angry because…?”
“Because I’m a fuck-up!” he blurted out. “I screw things up and piss people off! I can’t get through a day without somebody treating me like a piece of crap! It’s like there’s this code that everybody knows about but me.”
“You’re angry at God?”
“No. Why would I be angry at God? I’m not some raving atheist!”
“You mentioned a set of rules everyone else seems to understand. Where do you suppose everyone else acquired the rules?”
“I’m talking about the stuff parents teach you.”
“You think your parents failed you?”
“Okay, maybe it’s your conscience,” he scrambled.
“And you don’t have one--a conscience?”
“You don’t think I’ve got a conscience?” he snarled. “You think I’m a sociopath or something like that?”
McCullough intertwined her fingers and rested her chin on them. “You had mentioned a code that’s understood by everyone but you. Is someone to blame? What do you think?”
“I think you sound like my girlfriend. She told me I’m broken—that there’s something wrong with me. You wanna know why I’m angry? She actually told me--get this--that whenever she’s with me, it makes her wonder what’s wrong with her. So, I was making her crazy, too?”
The doctor studied her client’s face. “She broke up with you? You broke up with her?”
Mason glared. “Who said we broke up? Why would you think that?”
“You spoke about her in the past tense, Alex. But you’re still together?”
“It’s complicated. What kind of pills do you normally give for major league insomnia?”
“Pills aren’t always the answer. Why don’t we talk about another relationship that makes you feel rejected or angry?”
“Okay, I’m a Marine. I did three years in the Corps--even deployed to Afghanistan for six months. It’s 120 degrees in the desert over there. No highways, just tracks through the sand. I went through hell for the good old Semper Fi, but they booted me out anyway. Article Ninety-One!”
“A medical discharge?”
“Mmmm… you could say that. I sent another guy to the hospital.”
“How did that happen?”
“I whipped his ass. He was an officer.”
“Okay. Go on…”
“He wouldn’t get off my case; one thing after another, twenty-four-seven. He didn’t like me--said I had a bad attitude. Nobody is gung-ho about latrine duty every other day. He started in again when he found me in the rack one day, so I got up and punched him. Then I whacked him again and kicked him a couple of times.
“That’s interesting, Alex,” the doctor interjected. “The military code of conduct would be very familiar to you, yet you struck a superior officer anyway. How do you explain that?”
Gazing at his feet, Mason began to crack his knuckles. “It’s not like I’m stupid. You don’t hit an officer. You ask before you borrow someone’s car. You don’t hurt a girl. You don’t have to be a brainiac to know that. But sometimes… a lot of times… there’s just something boiling inside me, Doc! It’s like there’s a trigger in my head, and somebody else squeezes it. Does that mean I’m crazy?”
“We all cross the line more often than we want to admit. Quite often, we can’t even explain why, but there’s only been one perfect human in all of history. The rest of us have to ask for help. Is that why you’re here, Alex, or did you just come for a prescription?”
“I don’t know. Maybe nobody can help me. Maybe my girlfriend was right when she said I’m psycho or have a screw loose or something. She said it was like I never respected her, but that’s not true. I needed her.”
After a long silence, the therapist spoke softly. “I’m still listening…”
“She said I made her crazy! She’d break up with me one day, but then we’d talk or text, and she’d come back again. She finally moved out, but we couldn’t stay away from each other. The last time I went over there, she told me she’d made an appointment with you. She wanted to know why she was obsessed with me. She was afraid that she was crazy, too.”
“Interesting. What’s your girlfriend’s name, Alex?”
“Why?”
“She represents something you fear. It’s important to identify your fears. Can you speak her name?”
His voice took on a choking quality. “Mason. Alex Mason.
“But… you’re Alex Mason. Aren’t you?”
The client gazed out the window. “Alright, I’m Vince Norris. Yesterday, I called to confirm Alex’s appointment; to find out the day and time. She couldn’t be here, so I decided to come in.”
“It’s important that you’re honest with me, Vincent. You told me that you and Alex had not broken up, but you continue to use the past tense when you mention her. Tell me why.”
“Don’t ask me, Doc.”
“You weren’t honest about your identity when you arrived today. Therapy only helps if we’re completely transparent. What is the true status of your relationship with Alex?”
“This is confidential, right?”
“Doctor-client privilege means a therapist cannot be compelled by law to divulge personal details shared by a client. Why do you ask?”
The faint sounds of cars and buses in the street drifted through the window. There was a gentle whoosh as the air conditioning clicked on. Finally, the client looked up, tears streaming down his face.
“She’s dead. It happened just about a week ago.”
“I’m so sorry, Vincent. That must have come as a terrible shock.”
“I hurt her. I killed her, but it was an accident.”
Dr. McCullough hesitated. “You mean there was a crash? You were driving?”
“It wasn’t in a car. We were at her apartment. We got in another fight when I saw your name on her phone. So, she told me about this appointment with you- that she wanted to be strong enough to get me out of her life forever. She wanted help to move on and find somebody normal. That’s when something went off in my head and I grabbed her. I promised her I could change. She kept saying no, and I kept holding her tighter and tighter till she dropped straight down to the floor. That’s when I realized I had really hurt her. I swear I never meant to do that.
“One of the neighbors found her there the next day. I slept over with an old girlfriend who told the cops I was with her all night, so I have an alibi. But I haven’t been able to eat or sleep since it happened. I can’t get motivated. I’m going to lose my freaking job if I don’t get this squared away. Is there anything you can do to help me, Dr. McCullough?”
“Only God can help you, Vincent.”
“I don’t mean like that. I mean, can you write me a prescription for sleeplessness… for anxiety or something? By the way, you called me Vincent again. Alex was the only one who used my proper name. That’s creepy.”
The therapist stood and walked over to her desk. “I should be more candid with you now, Vincent. I’m not Dr. McCullough, but I did make an audio recording of our session today.”
The client’s eyes widened. “Where’s the doctor? Who are you?”
The woman smiled. “Dr. McCullough will be resting peacefully on the bathroom floor just a bit longer. His hands and feet are bound with duct tape in case he should awaken prematurely. My name is Mason. Abby Mason. Your late girlfriend Alex was my sister, scum bag.”
She lifted her hands from the desk drawer, revealing a semiautomatic handgun aimed directly at the client. The young man remained frozen in his chair, searching for words.
“This isn’t really happening,” was all he could manage.
“That’s what I thought when you called yesterday, asking the correct time for Alex’s appointment. I was dumbstruck. You see, I was the one who begged her to see Dr. McCullough. I’m his admin, Vincent. I had recognized the sick way you were controlling my sister, alienating her from family and friends so you never had to face us. I was hopeful my boss could bring her back to her senses. Unfortunately, you strangled her before he could meet her. We buried my baby sister two days before you called.”
Abby crossed the room calmly, still holding Vince at gunpoint. Her every move projected icy confidence. By contrast, the disgraced ex-Marine sat there sullen and breathing heavily.
“What are you going to do to me?”
Click. Abby pulled back the slide on the weapon, releasing a round into the chamber. She watched him with a mixture of contempt and sorrow.
“I suppose I could just call the police and turn you in, along with the audiotape of your confession. Or I could exterminate you right now and get out of Dodge. When Dr. McCullough finally gets out of the bathroom, he’ll surely fire me and maybe even press charges. I doubt returning to normal will ever be an option for me.
“Life happens in the choices, doesn’t it, Vincent? We know the code, but sometimes it’s impossible to do the right thing. Your heart is at war with your mind, instinct against clear thinking. We can never fully trust ourselves, can we?
“I know the right thing would be to hand you over to the authorities. But even though I know that would be best for me in the long run, my gut is tied in knots because it would feel so unsatisfying. Shooting you in the groin, then in the head, would be like instant therapy. See the problem? I seriously need help, Vincent. There’s just something boiling inside me, and nobody understands that better than you.
“What does your gut tell you, Vincent? What would you do?”
J. Timothy Floyd is a freelance writer who draws on years of experience as a crisis counselor to imagine authentic characters with broken hearts. His first stories have been published or scheduled at the Mystery Tribune, East of the Web, and Close to the Bone (U.K.) He and his wife make their home on a small island off the Georgia Coast.