The scent of burnt lasagna hung in the warm air, stale and unmoving. The soft, mid-afternoon sun did nothing to alleviate the close feel of the room. Papers and folders filled every corner, each containing an individual’s emotional history. The cluttered room closed in around Riley and the man seated across from him.
“Do you remember what happened?” asked the man.

He traced Riley’s tortured appearance with his gaze. Sitting back in his chair, he crossed his legs and folded his hands on his lap, waiting. He had explained to Riley what had happened, but Riley’s personal memory failed.

A piece of paper in a plastic sleeve rested in Riley’s hands, perched between his thumbs and forefingers. Dried blood and raw streaks of ink decorated the once white sheet of paper. His gaze scraped at the surface, attempting to unearth a familiar detail, maybe a phrase or word that he would recall having written. But all that could be deciphered was the repeated word “worthless”.

Just as the stagnation of the air in the room seemed unbearable, Riley heard the loud rumbles caused by the air conditioner kicking in for the third time that day. Feeling the familiar chill, he glanced down at his bare arms which were covered in goose-bumps. His thin, scratchy, short-sleeved shirt did little to break the breeze. The little blue diamond shapes on the fabric reminded him of the others, wearing the same pattern, staring at him as he had wandered the white, sanitary halls earlier that day.
His attention was drawn to the pink ridges covering his left arm, gently tracing them with his finger-tips. Closer to his elbow, the marks were far less apparent, but as he approached the white gauze wrapped around his wrist, the ridges grew in intensity, size, and freshness. He continued to examine the scars as though he were reading braille.
His fingers reached the white bandage and he turned his arm over to reveal at least ten more decorations in the same pattern of old to new. A few of the scars had faded, yet many were still fresh, covered in week old scabs. He slipped his fingers under the fragile white material which still displayed a dark red stain, proof of the incident. His fingers grazed the crusty, raised stitches which desperately held his skin together.

The man nudged again, “Do you remember, Riley?”

His vision became fixed on the short man seated in the enormous leather chair across from him. Eyes filled with pretention glared back at him; it disguised the man’s overwhelming curiosity. He was not helpful, he was dangerously curious. His occupation consisted of unearthing memories: dark memories, scary memories, raw memories, memories often better forgotten. His techniques were unorthodox, yet few questioned his authority. In most cases, he proved successful, revealing the repressed.

The man raised his eyebrows at Riley as he slid a photograph in a plastic bag across the desk. Setting down the paper, Riley lifted the photograph to face. His parents smiled complacently at him through the expanse of space between the picture and his eyes. The area was traveling ground for the emotions Riley could not explain. In his mother’s arms rested a baby, his brother, no doubt, wrapped in a blue blanket, cherub-cheeked with a sparkle in his eyes.
The sight of his family brought Riley back to his kitchen. Freshly baked bread rested on racks on a teacup littered counter. He could hear the light tapping of a keyboard somewhere in the distance. Elsewhere in the house, Riley heard the faint echo of video games. A woman rested against the counter, reading the newspaper, her pants creased around her corpulent figure. He could grasp these creases and they served as his compass, physically and emotionally. He trusted the soft body underneath, yet he had been denied a piece of bread and had been pouting into her khaki slacks.

Riley rested in the quiet calm, the softest afternoon he could remember. His recollections carried him through his childhood, but he failed to retain any information about his teenage years. The only person who could inform him of his situation sat directly in front of him, and this man refused to enlighten him.
Small spectacles rested at the crux of the man’s nose, a false sign of intelligence. His two upper front teeth overlapped his bottom lip slightly, causing his appearance to resemble that of a rodent. The glasses reflected the light from the window, covering his eyes. Riley twisted, trying to catch a glimpse of this man’s pupils, his soul. Giving up, Riley leaned back in the chair, glancing at the plastic covered note on the desk. This reflected light into Riley’s eyes, temporarily blinding him. He did not move the paper.

“Riley?”

“What?”

“Do you remember?”

“I don’t know, do you?”

The small man squinted at Riley, beads of sweat forming on his wrinkled forehead. He sighed and leaned forward onto his pudgy elbows, attempting to convey the severity of the situation.

“You sit there and claim you don’t remember. Your parents claim you were like this,” the man says, gesturing to the stained paper, “for years. That kind of behavior does not just disappear. I’d appreciate it if you could help me out.”

Riley considered the offer, unsure whether or not to trust the man. As he pondered the consequences, he noticed the man pull a bagel and container of cream cheese out of his office fridge. He began to cut the bagel in half with a small, sharp knife adorned with a black handle.
The knife danced in front of him and all of the sudden, Riley found himself lost in a memory, on the floor of his bathroom. He tasted the searing, salty tears streaming down his cheeks, painting his clothes with dark droplets. He felt a hot liquid run down his arm, dripping onto the paper caught under his leg.
The sight of the thick, red substance stimulated Riley’s deepest senses. Mucus dripped from his nose and off of his lips as his body shook with tremors. He could not quite decipher his feelings. He heard the shower running next to him to drown out his sobs. Steam fogged the mirror in front of him, obstructing his view of his reflection.

Looking down, he recognized the knife, but it was no longer in the hands of the man, it was in his own. It was pulling and dragging violently across his skin, tearing the fibers. He’d never cut this close to the vein on his wrist before, but it was all or nothing tonight. Requiring the heat and release, Riley crawled into the shower, still clothed, blood pouring out of his arm. The water falling on him felt like a hot summer rain. He lay down in the bottom of the tub where an inch or so of dark red water surrounded him. Swirls of the color drifted in and out of his sight and he allowed his eyes to close as he slowly lost consciousness.

After: darkness, non-existence, empty, void.

Jerked back to the present, Riley saw that the man was eyeing him suspiciously.

“Do you remember now?”

Suddenly, the emotions made sense, but the abundance overwhelmed him. Riley was angry, upset, abused, annoyed, irritated, disappointed, pessimistic. What was feeding these rivers of resentment and distress? He was torn between allowing them to consume him and forgetting them altogether. There was no third option, no in-between. It was this or that, here or there, all or none.

Had he truly been that overfilled with anger and resentment? Had he truly been the catalyst of his parents’ fighting and the reason behind his brother’s escape to a university a continent away? Had he truly disappointed his parents from the beginning? How could he have done that to them?

It was now that his choice had to be made. Would he face what he had been, a lonely unloved kid, and risk falling to it all again? Or would he claim no memory of the emotions, hoping for release to the outside world?

“You remember, Riley, I know you do.”

“Do I?”

“I can see it in your eyes; I see the memories flooding back. I know you’re aware.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yes, yes you do.”

The man was staring directly into Riley’s eyes, seemingly poking and prodding his inner feelings with the knife still resting in his hands. The man’s eyes glinted dangerously as he dipped the knife into the brand new container of cream cheese.

“Your family never loved you, did they? Your brother though, they cherished him. They’re proud of him, but not you. They never appreciated your grades. They laughed at your attempts at sports. They’ve called you worthless, haven’t they?”

Riley’s eyes tightened around the edges, his inner volcano of emotions close to boiling over. Why was he pushing Riley so hard? The cool breeze ceased, silence ascending, and the heat immediately set in again. The corners of the room began to fold in on the confrontation taking place. The stacks surrounding the two humans fell slightly as the foundations of each column melted into the floor. The air of the room started buzzing and vibrating, casting a haze. The only thing that remained in focus for Riley was the animalistic man sitting across from him.

The man’s voice took on a booming nature, “You wanted to be just like him. You wanted their love and craved their attention, but they offered you neither.”

His technique may have worked on any other psychiatric patient, but not Riley. His vision became stained with red and he felt a tug, an urge. He fought this overwhelming sensation and planted his feet on the floor in front of his chair. His hands clawed at the fabric armrests on either side of him and his nails began to dig ridges in the flowered upholstery. The room was closing in on them and Riley felt intense claustrophobia. His panic nudged him further towards the precipice of insanity.

“What are you worth, Riley? Your parents think you’re,” he whispered the word, “worthless.”

The room shattered and Riley slipped into a world of white, eyes searing due to the brightness. His skin burned under the intense light, but he could find shelter nowhere. Falling to his knees, he blindly searched for an outlet, but there was nothing. Riley fell to his side and curled up into a ball, desperately wishing to rewind time.

Seconds later, he stumbled back into his previous position in the office. But now, a horrifying scene assaulted his view. The man lay splayed out in his chair, blood spurting and pouring out of his neck. His mouth made a sputtering sound, but the sounds quieted as he grew motionless.

Looking down, Riley noticed the fresh gash in the gauze which had once served as protection for his wound. He had made no mistakes this time as the thick blood ran out of his arm, staining the carpet underneath his feet. His eyes crossed and uncrossed, losing focus and control. His mind swam with thoughts, all meaningless yet poignant in their own way: his mother’s lullaby and his father’s disconnection from the family.
Riley’s head grew too heavy for his body as he sank to his knees, legs folded beneath him. In the struggle, the photograph had fallen to the floor and he dropped to his elbows, his nose almost touching the picture. Teardrops sprinkled the plastic bag as Riley gazed into the eyes of his parents.

His breathless whisper formed two words: “I’m sorry.”



“You do remember, don’t you? But we’re out of time for today, so we’ll continue this tomorrow,” said the man, seated just as before, across from Riley, in the still room, where the air conditioner groaned to life in the silence.