The Consequence Was...

The Consequence Was...


Vision blurring and stinging, James fled Dr Laurence's office, his sinking heart seeming to match the descent of the elevator until both reached ground level.

James stumbled outside of the pristine office suite and gazed blankly at the busy street. The building behind that had come to symbolise a concrete cocoon from which he had eventually hoped to emerge free and beautiful, seemed now as vacant and unfriendly as an abandoned cicada shell.

A lingering memory of his mother in her long pink skirt with the bells floated to the surface of James's consciousness. He had always loved that skirt. He knew if she emerged from her bedroom in the morning wearing it, that they would have a smiling day. She would sweep around the room with him in her arms, they would laugh and she would jingle like a kitten chasing a ball. As the years went by both his mother and the pink skirt appeared less and less often in the mornings and he got used to eating breakfasts by himself.

Although James had found himself alone many times in his life, both in his childhood and more recently in his search for someone able to unlock the safe of his subconscious, this time felt somehow different.

In the past, when his carefully balanced card tower world had been demolished, he had been distraught and numb of course, but with an unwaveringly constant buzz of desperation to repair or supersede. His eternal mantra "The next one will be better." had given him a degree of focus. That drive had been the one thing James felt separated him from the depressives these shrinks had insisted on lumping him in with. Each one seeming to conclude that exploring, rather than erasing, his inner thoughts and feelings was akin to unlocking the evil of the world.

Desperation was James's comforting friend, always there to pick him up in his darkest moments and keep him plodding forward in the quest for the proverbial Pandora to release all but Hope from the bone cage that was his skull, had given him purpose.

Immobile on the bustling street, James became aware that the need to replace what had been lost was now mysteriously and inexplicably absent. It suddenly appeared that desire itself had been the thing to grow its wings and ascend from Dr Laurence's pristine prison of tinted windows, leaving James himself, empty below.

The idea of seeking out another professional to help him access himself seemed ludicrous to James now, and he found himself laughing mockingly at the notion which had always been a source of comfort.

In his hand was the prescription Dr Laurence had printed for him. The latest unpronounceable poison designed to cloud and further suppress unfavourable thoughts and emotions.

In an unforeseen frenzy of rage which left as quickly as it came, James frantically tore at the script before opening his hands in submission, allowing the wind to carry the pieces and make beautiful patterns in the air from something so ugly.

His eyes followed the path of one of the tattered pieces of scrap still baring the smudge of Dr Laurence's signature stamp, as it moved along the footpath. Without thought, need or emotion to guide him, James found his feet tracing the rambling path of the tiny piece of paper.

Entirely focused on the trail he was pursuing, James was only vaguely aware of the background noise that was the horn and screeching brakes of a green Suburu, and was entirely surprised to find himself flying through the air, in a slow motion arc, watching the approach of the road below scattered with paper remains.