I remember that chair. He had a red leather wingback chair in his office. You know the scent
of old leather, that slightly sweet, half musky smell of it? It permeated the entire room in a
subtle perfume that lingered on my clothes after our sessions. I remember that chair all too
clearly. Somehow, I managed to forget the discussions but the chair… The chair was just burned
into my mind in every detail, right down to the way the padding beneath would feel like a coiled
animal with the springs as bones.
Three years ago, the sessions ended and I did my best to forget everything. I bared my soul
and told the company every possible thing about my past. And yet, here I am, seemingly
stepping back into that routine of walking into his office and sitting in that chair every Thursday.
Last week, I got a tape in the mail. At first, I didn’t know what it was. There was no return
address on the label and no manifest in with the package. But once I put that tape into the
player, I knew. I just don’t know why they sent it to me. Perhaps somebody is concerned about
me or concerned about him. I think I just want to forget, though. I’m sure I said too much.
He said his mother hated him when he was a boy. He said she wanted a daughter but she had
him, so she tried to make do with what she had. As a kid, he said that he had fantasies of
self-castration, where his mother came in and suddenly loved him as he lay dying. She’d cry and
plead that god doesn’t take her baby and then somehow, everything was right with the world.
Usually, however, he said that she just ignored him or treated him like crap. After all, what
mother could do anything with a son who didn’t love opera or want to have tea on Sunday
afternoon, right?
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