He was waiting for his brother with Van Damme on the box entertaining him and his bland dinner on the coffee table in front of him. He was a little excited and yet, apprehensive about the evening which he had "planned" for Frank and Mina. A huge part of him wanted them to enjoy everything. Another part of him wanted the date to stink.

Really stink.

And he did not know what was in his evil little heart that seemed to be wishing that desperately- in that dark little corner where his evil little secrets liked to play.

Or rather, he knew the reason once, but presently, it was almost incredulous that it would visit him again.

A reason that was not evil or wicked at all. A reason that was so sweet and precious- like the taste of water from a clear, sparkling stream after a long stumbling journey in the most arid desert.

A reason all pure.

But a reason that he could not name.

As time ticked past- slower and more trying with each stroke of the second hand- that wicked little corner desiring for the date to disappoint grew larger and gradually, he became almost insanely jealous. He could picture the long black hair which ushered the scent of spring with the air it stirred; those deep grey eyes that spoke many-a-wonderful things; the lips where comforting words would always form from for him and him alone.

The portrait that was painted morphed with the one eternally etched into his mind and reminded him of the aching in his heart.

The aching that he had felt on that fateful night when he almost bade the world farewell- just another tragic story to be forgotten as laughter drowned out the silent tears. A night that was deep, intense and black.

A night that he had escaped from with the hope that he could one day feel the warmth of the sun again.

His house was empty but the resident was not. His mind swirled with many beautiful images that he wanted to grab but once again, a monster was holding him back. Demons, snarling and hurtful, kept him rooted. He felt he could never deserve to feel that way. He would be betraying so many things. The memories, the aching, the pain.

Especially the memories.

He would be demeaning the love that he once had. He really thought it would.

The love that he still had.

Soon, it became so unbearable. Everything. Normalcy, sanity, the need to just run to the ending point where he could at long last go "Alright! There I am! All me! All whole!"

Was he rushing to his own doom again? What was he trying to do?

The phone rang. Lethargically, he picked it up. The news he heard made him sit up. The rock bottom was deeper down than he had imagined.

Expectations. So many expectations.

What if he could not go back to yesterday? What if he had really changed and no one could accept him for who he was to become? The jokes no longer came as easily; the laughter no longer seemed as genuine- as heartfelt.

What if they knew everything?

He entered his father’s study, knowing exactly where the stash was. It was locked- the glass cabinet that displayed bottle after bottle of spirits that he could not touch was locked. Knowing he was alone and yet still paranoid enough to give the room a once over, he set to work immediately on the simple lock with his father’s lock-picks found in the drawer under his desk.

The next thing he knew, the bottle of vodka was almost empty. He had not drunk much. The bottle was not full to begin with. No. He could still think; he was still conscious of himself. He still had enough brains to know that Frank would find out. Staggering to the bathroom, he rinsed his mouth with Listerine groggily. It did not work as well as he had hoped so he popped in plenty of mints.

Not wanting to sleep, he climbed down the stairs, almost falling twice before he slumped onto the sofa and stared at the screen; numbed to everything.

The door opened. His brother was back. Smiling. Tired but smiling.

His brother was smiling.

 

***

Joe woke up with a nasty headache. The moment his eyes opened slightly, his room revolved around him like a merry-go-round so he closed them again. His tongue was like paper and his throat was parched.

No dreams. No dreams tonight. Wake up stupid Hardy. Wake up and smell…

Oh.

Frank.

He got out of bed as hurriedly as he could, tripping slightly over his quilt which had fallen on the floor, heaped into a small hill. Cursing and swearing, he threw open the bathroom door and splashed ice-cold water onto his face, trying to splash away the sleep. Taking in several drinks of tap water, the parchedness of his throat was relieved and his lips no longer felt cracked. Staring at himself in the mirror, he saw a haggard face with dark-eye circles looking back at him- almost accusatory. Shaking his head, he opened the cupboard which was the mirror as well, took out his toothbrush and brushed his teeth, dissolving the stale taste that the vodka left behind.

Sweet alcohol only made things worse. Had he not learned? He had promised.

And he broke the promise.

Is this the way it is going to be? I’m healing, I am…

God, I’m so stressed up…so stressed up and I don’t know why… Yes. Joe did not used to be so stressed. He would smile and greet the day. He would hurry with his morning rituals so he could quickly get out into the sun.

He would smile.

He kept the toiletries that he had used and shut the cupboard. His reflection faced him again- listless and tired, like his mind. So weary of those funny feelings that invaded his guts.

Lifting up the corners of his lips, he tried to smile. And he succeeded, though he risked appearing faked. The smile remained on his lips even after he showered and changed. It managed to plaster on until he opened his room door and walked down the stairs to apologize to Frank.

Laughter traveled to his ears. His parents’ laughter. An unfamiliar female voice was regaling them with a story about some stupid event happening in some weird place. Joe cautiously approached the dining area and his mom spotted him immediately. A mother’s instinct. Whenever a child of hers was near, she would always know.

"Joey! Baby!" Laura rushed towards Joe and smothered him with an embrace that he forced himself to return. His gaze, though, was fixed on the unwelcome guest with much hostility, accompanied by that reborn, sick smile. The woman caught the look but beamed at him still- not in glee but with friendliness. Joe was taken aback slightly.

"I missed you so much… Frank told us that…" Laura pulled herself away and looked up into his face. He faced her then and saw that she had begun to tear. Feeling guilty, he willed his antagonism to just leave him alone and drew out whatever warmth he had inside of him that morning.

"Frank told us that you’re feeling much better. Are you?"

Joe shot Frank a fleeting fearful look to which Frank only smiled sadly- quietly- for a brief moment before resuming with whatever he was doing with his plate of ham and eggs. Fenton pulled out a seat beside him and gestured for Joe to join them. Joe extricated himself from Laura and testily sat upon the seat his Dad wanted him to while Laura stepped into the kitchen to bring out Joe’s breakfast.

"Where did she find the time to make these?" Joe asked without purpose.

"I made them." Frank replied before shoving eggs into his mouth without raising his head. Joe clamped his mouth shut when he suddenly wanted to jest about Frank’s cooking because he remembered the night before and he remembered the night two weeks ago.

Frank had such horrible secrets to keep for him. He suddenly pitied Frank for having him as a brother.

"Joe, this is my friend Emily Sterling. She’s going to stay with us for some time. She’s the therapist that your mom told you about… A good friend of mine, she thought she would come to Bayport to visit for a while…" Fenton told a half-truth. If he was trying to salvage whatever Laura had leaked to Joe the night before about Emily’s intentions, he would have failed miserably.

"Joey… Your dad and I, we found his good friend, Emily Sterling. She’s a fantastic psychiatrist and you’ll see. We’ll be back tomorrow morning from New Orleans… she’s staying with us… you’ll love her."

Yah. Sure, Mom. Sure, Dad. Right.

"Hello, Joe." Emily, a distinguished woman in her late-fifties with graying brown hair and a wise appearance reached over from opposite Joe to shake Joe’s hand. Joe presented her with a mocking, saccharine grin instead.

"My, what good manners you have, young man." Her green eyes flashed as she kidded. He was not only chastised by her jesting, but he sensed his father’s embarrassment as well.

So he gave her hand a brief shake. The scars did not faze her in the least bit.

"That’s not too bad, right? I know I’m not a young and pretty girl anymore but hey, can’t pass up a chance to shake the hand of a handsome young man, can I?" Her tone was almost flippant and Joe would find her mad if he had not seen that she was actually studying him very closely. He cringed in his seat.

Laura picked that fitting time to emerge from the kitchen. She placed a plate of ham and eggs onto Joe’s placemat. The delicious whiff wafted into his nose but he was not hungry. This "Meet-The-Psychiatrist" session was unnerving him.

"Your brother’s cooking has improved…the eggs aren’t burnt anymore…" Laura sat down next to Emily, smiling hopefully at everyone. Frank chuckled derisively and Fenton shot him a look of disapproval. Muttering an apology, Frank went back to attacking his breakfast mechanically, avoiding Joe the entire time.

Is he still angry? I shouldn’t have drunk…But I can’t help myself. I really…I’m so sorry…so damn sorry…

"So, what do you major in college, Joe? History?"

And I can’t fight this feeling…something twisting my stomach… just make it go away… I don’t like this…

Joe nodded, a wave of nausea hit him and for some strange reason, he just wanted to break down and cry then. He hated psychiatrists of any kind. Fantastic ones were the worst. He was sure that Emily had a secret horde of drugs she hid somewhere, ready to inject them into him.

What’s happening????????????????????????????????

The ham and eggs did not smell that nice anymore. In fact, breakfast became absolutely revolting- a mushy yellow mess next to a slice of pink, dead flesh; emitting a sickening, greasy stench. Joe smiled apologetically and pushed his chair back. Fenton halted him.

"Where are you going, son?"

"I just remembered. I’ve got to get something from my room." Joe replied lamely. What could he get from his room? There was nothing there.

"Eat first. Have a chat with us."

"I need…. I need to go to the toilet." Joe stood up and walked away quickly before anyone could stop him again. He thought he heard his mother speaking in hushed tones with Emily and just knew they were discussing about him. He was just thankful no one followed him. He needed liberty from the sudden, internal claustrophobia that assaulted him. He needed something.

Joe raced up the stairs and the slams of two doors- one echoing the other- were heard resonating throughout the house. A while later, he emerged from the joint bathroom and sat down deadened on his bed, feeling lighter and emptier. His eyes were red. He popped a mint into his mouth.

Mint. It was fast replacing caffeine pills.

And then he heard a knock on his door and the dear, fantastic psychiatrist asking to be let in.

***

"I don’t think I’m welcome." Emily Sterling made the most astute observation as Joe politely let her in after which he sat down on the edge of his bed while she took a seat on his study armchair. Joe looked at her intently with some hostility before averting his attention to his feet- the right leg was kicking at some imaginary target that obstinately refused to budge.

He refused to respond. Maybe if he kept silent the whole time while glaring at her, she would get the idea and just invite herself out of his room.

"I know your father very well. He saved my son from some drug lords once." She started a conversation, still looking at him with a kind, smiling face. "In fact, you had met me before but I don’t think you’ll remember. You were two-year old then, with chocolate smeared all over your face, determined to paint everybody’s cheeks with sticky, sweet brown streaks. You and your screaming little sister, who was only a baby but with such a huge pair of lungs, did cause your parents some helplessness."

Now Joe’s curiosity was a little piqued. She was right, he did not remember because he was too young then to perhaps have memories. Besides, he was not sure if he would like to remember. Thinking about his childhood was both joyful and painful. Painful because he would weep inside like a child for the past long gone- wishing desperately that time could just hit reverse so he could do everything differently.

"Hmm…" He was still staring at the floor, kicking away. Suddenly, a kick that was a little too forceful crashed against the support of his bed and he winced.

"Painful…" She commented. Yes. Painful. Not the physical pain. It was a wince in surprise and in embarrassment. He halted his kicking leg.

It still hurts. It still feels the same. I still can’t think about her without the anguish. I can’t look at my hands and not feel disgust. I can’t. I still can’t. And it’s already so long…it’s been so long…

Why can’t I laugh? Crack jokes?

Feel safe wearing my own skin?

Why? Where has the sun gone?

He heaved and swallowed his own bile.

He was wary of psychiatrists. Psychiatrists were like quack doctors to him. What do they know about the emotional turmoil if they thought pills and that something which was so horribly inhuman would solve everything? They grew complacent. They became so insistent on injections and medication.

But the depression would not end with mere swallows of pills. Depression would not be killed when the memories were forced to be fuzzy.

The sadness was intense. The sorrow was deep inside the soul. How could pills reach into the soul and heal it?

In addition, it was not like he did not try. He hated the way the pills made him feel. And when he read about the side-effects of Prozac on the Internet, he was freaked out. He did not want to become horrendously screwed mentally. His mind was already skewed enough.

"Why don’t I just sit here until I can get you to talk?" She leaned against the back of his armchair and crossed her legs. Joe had it. People should be made aware that sometimes, he, Joseph Elijah Hardy, needed some space away from everything and everyone.

"Why don’t you just bring in the electric thingy you have and zap my memories away? Or bring on a funnel and pour those nice, sweet colorful little tablets down my throat? Oh! Maybe even better! I think you can just save yourself the trouble and just use a feather to tickle my feet! I’m sure that will make me laugh. You will be successful and my parents will pay you tons of money through their noses." He rambled on, lacing his words with increasing dosages of acerbity.

Her smile faded as her lips stiffened into a tight line. She was still eying him, though with added pensiveness. Nodding her head slightly, she closed her eyes for a moment before fixing her gaze back on him.

The gaze was gentle; self-reproaching.

"I apologize deeply..." She replied. There was an uncanny remorse in her voice. However, Joe interrupted her in mid-sentence, feeling very snappish all of the sudden- his anger exploding as he did.

"What for exactly? All you guys know is how to take your damn pills and promise happiness inside. Haven’t you read that Prozac actually makes one more agitated and creates self-destructive side-effects? And EST! Take away my memories, yah…but you can’t take away…" He stopped his harangues abruptly before reverting back to looking down at the floor for the umpteenth time.

You can’t take away my heartbreak.

You can’t take away the shame, the guilt.

Can’t take away the night, the tree house.

You can’t bring her back to life.

You can’t take away the prison of my own-making. A prison that I am trying so hard to escape from and still, I’m trapped.

"Let me finish." She kindly chided him like how a loving nanny would, "Like I said- I apologize. Some of us in this profession want successful cases so much that we forget in order to treat the person- we have to help heal the heart. We have to help our patients face their problems bravely and not run away from them by hiding them, forcing our patients to feel happy with pills and steal those precious memories away along with the intention of destroying those we thought would bring grief. No. We should not do that. Happiness doesn’t come in bottles or from disoriented minds with so many gaps inside. So, I apologize." She clasped her hands in her lap and waited for him to digest everything she had said.

Joe sensed that she meant every single word; that the speech came straight from her heart. Maybe she was different. Maybe she knew how difficult it could be when one was being pulled into a whirlpool.

A whirlpool that sucked in all who fell through straight into hell.

"I don’t want to forget her. I want to forget a lot of things but I don’t want to forget her… do you understand? I don’t want to forget any part of my life. And it feels wrong to… to just be happy… so soon… I don’t know. I want to be happy but… hell, I really don’t know but this is how I feel." The hostility was gone from his voice. He gripped the ends of his quilt and scuffed his feet. But he was still not looking at her. Lost for words, he chewed his lower lip.

"I do. I understand perfectly. But Joe, happiness is a choice. You can work towards it, grieve properly. Will you let me help you along?" She asked for his permission. He was surprised at that. No previous psychiatrists ever asked for his permission. They just wanted to do things to his mind.

She leaned a little forward, smiling warmly at him- chancy old him. His blond head shook vehemently.

"I can’t talk about it now. But I’m trying. I’m trying to be happy."

"Why can’t you talk about it? And how are you trying?" she probed him gently.

"I don’t know you well enough so I’m not saying anything. Not now." He looked up finally and gave her a smile of sorts. "I don’t know if you’re lying to me just to get me to ‘open up.’"

She nodded her head. There was nothing she could say which could convince him. He knew all about those confidentiality agreements between patients and doctors but he did not trust it enough. Did not trust that they would take their Hippocratic Oath seriously. What if she went buzzing into Fenton’s ears about everything she had heard? Yes, he was paranoid. He probably did not need to be but he was paranoid.

"Alright. I can’t force you. But Joe, don’t heal too fast. And I’ll be here for a while. I promise you that everything you tell me will be confidential. Very confidential. I’m not someone who had been sleeping her whole life on a bed of roses before she decided to just enter this line and make tons of money. Don’t forget, I took the Oath of Hippocrates. ‘Whatever, in connection with my professional service, or not in connection with it, I see or hear, in the life of men, which ought not to be spoken of abroad, I will not divulge, as reckoning that all such should be kept secret.’ But there is something I should tell you. If you show intentions to hurt others or hurt yourself, I am compelled to divulge it to a suitable person."

Oh yes. Protect me from me. Protect others from me. Lest I take a gun and start spraying bullets right?

"Isn’t healing at any rate healing?" He answered irreverently, a little peeved by the ‘correct way’ he should be recovering. "Isn’t it better if I cross the finish line faster? Everyone will be happy. Things will go back to normal."

"No. It doesn’t work that way. I know you yearn for normalcy, to ease back into the flow of things once more. But I can assure you, it’s a long, hard and painful process. But you’ll thank yourself for it in the end. Because that’s proper healing. But running towards ‘normalcy’ when you know you’re just faking it, is wrong. It hurts you and after a while, everything just comes back and you’ll be even more crushed than before.

You’re like a pendulum now, swinging to-and-fro. You hate it, I know. Sometimes, you don’t why but you just want to purge; just want to cry. You wake up to a bright, happy day only to find it soon turning dark and grey. But trust me. If you’re willing to recover, the pendulum will stop swinging so erratically. In time, it will settle down. But you mustn’t rush yourself. You must be resolute about it but don’t rush. Because if you rush too quickly, you’ll trip and fall flat on your face yet again. Understand?"

Joe tried to take in her long speech. He was still digesting the part about ‘feeling normal’ before all the part about ‘pendulums’ distracted him. Yes, she was right. But he was not a pendulum. More like a person attached to the other end of the bungee rope, free falling before being unexpectedly yanked up with a tight jerk- a nauseous repetition that seemed to go on forever.

Pendulums and running shoes started performing the most nonsensical musical as they circulated around the psychiatrist’s head.

Shaking his head lightly at the absurdity of what he thought he had seen, Joe was almost convinced that he had lost it.

"Well, I think I shall be making my move. Your parents are really concerned about you. From what I have seen, so is your elder brother. I haven’t met Maggie but I’m sure she’s rooting for you too. There’s no reason why you should want to remain estranged." She stood up and he nodded lackadaisically. Feeling chivalrous and wanting some silence very soon, he stood up, walked towards the door and opened it for her. Before she left, he asked her quietly.

"There’s no such thing as ‘being normal,’ right? Just a word boring people coined to make everyone conform to them. I thought we’re all unique and we should accept everyone for who they are."

She paused and narrowed her eyes before smiling. "Yes. But there’s something called feeling truly happy and peaceful inside. And something called loving oneself and others. Embracing life; defeating all your monsters. These are the things that I’m talking about and I know you want to achieve them in time as well."

Do I? Yes. I didn’t jump, did I?

He made no response or comments. He closed the door behind her and heard her making her way downstairs.

***

"How is he, Emily? He’s always like that nowadays, just walking away…" Laura spoke to the psychiatrist from across the dining table. Frank was then sipping his coffee- his desperately needed daily caffeine fix. He was curious as to why this therapist would be different. And she had stayed pretty long in Joe’s room. Maybe there was some progress. Joe needed professional help, besides the love his family could give. Someone outside the picture could perhaps be more observant to any nuances that Joe might make which could be potentially spelling trouble.

Emily set her glass of water down on the table and gazed into Laura’s anxious eyes. Frank sensed his parents almost willing her to say something hopeful. At that moment, he sympathized so much with his parents- his mother most of all. She really did not know what to do. Fenton could at least still remain calm. He looked down because he could not suppress the cynical smile that had crept onto his lips. He wondered how his parents would respond if he told them about Joe’s suicide attempt.

They haven’t got a clue as to how close they had come to losing their second son to death again.

How close Joe had come to losing himself.

"It could go both ways. But I can sense that he’s trying. Just give him all the support he needs and…" She cleared her throat. Frank raised his head. Her pause gained his attention.

"Give him acceptance. No matter how much he seemed to have changed, he’s still your little boy. I know he wants to be. Don’t rush him. Be there for him. It’s a tight rope he’s walking on and he needs to hold on to you. All of you."

"We’ll hold on to him, make sure he doesn’t fall, won’t we darling?" Laura took her husband’s hand and Fenton patted hers reassuringly.

"There’s no question about that." He replied, as resolutely as his wife.

Frank frowned a little. He was not being pessimistic but he was certainly not in the mood for mirth. Ever since last night, he was no longer certain if he could fulfill his promise. He loved his brother dearly and at the same time, people who were being difficult could easily bring out the worst in others.

And the best. If we strive on, have faith and patience, it can bring out the best. That’s what he needs.

But what if our best is not enough? Not enough at all?

It could go both ways. But with so much love, Frank allowed himself to hope once again, despite the brief spiral of the night before.