by J. P. Barry
“Guess Jillian and my invitation got lost in the mail, again.” Two could play at the go-screw-yourself game.
“You’re always busy–touring, interviews, and she’s got that little show she hosts. We assumed you wouldn’t be available,” Tag replied, dismissively.
“You know what happens when you assume, right, Dad?” I paused. “And, for the record, Jillian’s show isn’t little. It’s actually the top watched and rated news program on the air currently.”
“What are you doing to promote Jackson?” The man was a master sidestepper. A true politician.
“I can’t do that. As a therapist, influencer, and someone who disagrees with Jackson’s platform, I cannot endorse him.”
“What’s to disagree with?” My father was dancing on the fine line between feigning cordialness and shouting.
“I don’t want to argue, Dad. Jackson lives in this warped little bubble where he believes the world should operate like its nineteen thirty again. Women should be barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen. A man’s only job should be to make a living, and everyone goes to church on Sunday. All homes should have an arsenal of weapons, and no woman’s voice needs to be heard. I don’t agree with that. I am a firm believer, as humans walking this Earth, we all have free will, and because of that, we are allowed to make choices we see fit. A man holds no more importance in this life than a woman. Regardless of gender, race, sexual orientation, religion, and so on, we are, and always will be, equals.”
“What about Jillian? Being on her show would give him more exposure. It will also show family solidarity. Set that up.” The man actively ignored everything I’d said.
“But only a few seconds ago she was, ‘that wife of yours,’ who hosted a ‘little’ show, and you were rooting for us to divorce. And, let’s not forget about the family vacation she and I were conveniently not asked to attend. No, Dad. First of all, much like myself, Jillian needs to remain neutral. Secondly, she doesn’t control, nor does she have a say in whom the station books as guests. If Jackson wants an interview, he needs to have his people contact the network. Jillian and I don’t play the nepotism game. If they want him on, they will place him on a show she is not the host of to keep it fair. Lastly, even if the station allowed her to host, there’s no way that segment would run smoothly. She and I share similar beliefs. If you ever had a conversation with her, or watched the program, you’d know she is a bar pusher who challenges all guests–even the ones she agrees with.” My head shook involuntarily. This was exactly how every single chat went down. He’d never change.
“Need I remind you family first, Nicholas. Jackson is blood. Jillian is nothing,” he snapped.
“I’m aware. However, we’re going to have to agree to disagree on this. I have to go. It was great speaking with you. Please send my warmest regards to everyone.” I had to hang up, and fast. Any longer and I’d lose my shit. I was a stone throw away as it stood.
By the time he said his longwinded, condescending goodbyes, I found my fingers wrapped so tightly around the steering wheel, my knuckles were white. Even steady breathing turned shallow and hard. Shoulders tensed to the point of burning neck pain.
“You fucking son of a bitch! Get off your damn phone, and pay attention to what you’re doing! The entire road isn’t yours!” I raged at a young male motorist in an electric blue Jeep Wrangler who’d cut me off. Anger so deep, anger I worked endlessly to control broke free. The tiny sliver of rational thinking left urged I pull off the street to regain composure. I was better than this, and could control inner rage. Glancing to the left, St. Luke’s Roman Catholic Church came into focus. Never much of a religious person, I did consider myself spiritual. Perhaps this was a sign of sorts. Turning into the nearly empty lot, I parked and entered the narthex. Something about the sanctuary caused instant relief. Aside from the fact the structure flourished with ornate architectural design, it offered something better than simple aesthetics - quiet, peace of mind–the warm incense laced air, soothing, relaxing. When the large wooden doors softly shut, the sounds of the outside world ceased to exist. One could truly be alone with their thoughts, safe and protected in this building. Walking through the nave, I noticed a handful of older women seated up front, praying the rosary. Selecting a pew close to the back, I sat, unsure of what to do. Should I pray? Talk to God? Kneel? Make the sign of the cross?
“I usually just sit and think,” a middle-aged, somewhat portly, nearly bald man spoke. His voice and presence initially startled, because I wasn’t expecting it. He must’ve snuck in behind me, being I hadn’t seen him upon arriving. Totally unthreatening in appearance, he wore tan slack, a green and white plaid long sleeve, button-down shirt, and brown leather boots. My composure returned to tranquil.
“Thanks. It’s been awhile since I’ve been to church,” I replied, smiling, grateful for the man’s input, secretly wishing he’d leave me alone. The point of this exercise was to restore proper balance–figure out what the true root of my sudden outburst was. With him around, potentially chewing my ear off, that wouldn’t happen.
“It’s the one place the phrase you can never go home doesn’t apply.”
“I suppose that’s true. I’m Nick,” I said, extending my hand. It became obvious this man wanted to speak, and not sit quietly. As a therapist on or off the clock, it was my job–however, right now it felt like more of an obligation, to help those in need.
“Warren,” he answered, accepting the gesture, smiling warmly. “So, Nick, what brings you back to church?”
“Truthfully? I was driving, speaking on the phone with someone who was pushing every button imaginable. I found myself in dire need of a break. St. Luke’s was right there, and here I am.” I had no idea why I admitted this to a stranger, but I did. People confessed various things to me all the time. Why couldn’t I be afforded the same right, especially when he was infringing on my private space?
“Sometimes we find ourselves confronted with others who are damaged souls. Because of that damage, they can’t help themselves, often not even realizing their own internal issues. They don’t understand the power of their words, actions, thoughts, and so on. Most time, they’re unaware of what they’re doing. For them, it’s just another status quo day. They truly, honestly believe they’re mentally stable, healthy–that you’re the one who needs counseling. No matter what you say or do, they won’t hear you, care about your needs. In these moments, Nick, we must have faith, and remind ourselves these people aren’t necessarily bad human beings, but ones who are acting from a place of wreckage and hurt. A wounded inner child is controlling them, not the adult exterior we’re looking at while conversing. We must be mindful to view all as a whole, not only a part. Once we understand them and their past, we can act accordingly, and be more understanding of their behaviors. Their power is then weakened, and the hurt they’re spewing doesn’t bother us as much, because we’re aware of the roots,” Warren explained. Quite honestly? His advice was exactly what I’d say to a patient in similar crisis. Add the uncertainty and anxiety over rebuilding with Jillian to the conversation from before with my father, and yeah there was my perfect storm’s explosion.
“Thank you, Warren. Even therapists need to be reminded of certain concepts every now and again. What you said helped,” I replied, looking him in the eyes.
“I apologize for asking this, but are you by chance Doctor Nicholas Winters? The famous psychotherapist who writes books, and has the radio show?”
“I am.” The volume of my voice lowered. At times, like now for example, I didn’t wish for public attention. You could say since I was a celebrity of sorts it was part of the package, and I’d agree, but everyone deserved a little privacy as well. Jillian and I endured more than our fair share of personal invasions. Hell, we were currently in the middle of one.
“Oh dear. I’ve made you uncomfortable. Here you are seeking comfort, and I’m outing you. It doesn’t matter who you are. I’d never wish to make anyone feel ill at ease. We’re all childre
n of God. That’s all we should place focus on.”
“It’s fine. No worries,” I assured.
“You’re too kind.”
“I don’t know if I’d go that far, but thank you. It was wonderful meeting you, Warren. The gentle reminder about human nature was needed and tremendously appreciated. I best be going. Have a wonderful evening,” I said, standing, shaking his hand, again.
“Should you require any future help, you more than likely can find me right here,” he answered. A warmness radiated throughout his entire being.
Exiting the doors, I made my way back to the SUV with a renewed sense of calm, faith, and balance. Running into Warren was a blessing of sorts. Grinning over how the Universe worked, an excitement I hadn’t experienced in a while danced inside my soul. Screw what Tag and Miranda Winters thought. Jillian and I were the only thing which rendered total energy and concentration.
“Hey, Nick,” I heard Warren say from behind.
Turning to face him, a sharp, bone rattling pain radiated throughout my core. Attempting to shake the discomfort away proved useless. I fell to my knees, hands holding my head.
“Easy does it. No need to panic. Just breathe,” Warren said as he placed a white handkerchief over my mouth and nose.
Within mere seconds, eyes felt heavy, brain grew fuzzy. Lids opened and closed slowly until only one option remained. Sleep.
Chapter Five
Nick
Like a light switch turning on, eyes flipped open. The world greeted with a throbbing head and foggy mind. I found myself lying under a gauzy beige blanket on a somewhat soft twin-sized spring mattress. Slowly sitting, I steadied myself by taking a series of several deep breaths. Slacks and sweater were replaced with thin cotton navy pajamas. Ivory slippers and a bathrobe were folded, placed neatly at the foot of the bed. Once faculties appeared in tack, focus shifted to the space. Six small basement style windows illuminated the room. I was definitely under the main space of a home. Dark wood panels covered walls. The floor was covered in a harvest gold shag carpet throughout. Brass headboard beds were broken up by simple oak nightstands with avocado green gooseneck desk lamps atop. The sleeping setup neatly flanked three of the four walls. The remaining partition was one long tan wardrobe. Turning to the right, I opened the bottom nightstand drawer. The contents were stark white, starched, plain boxer shorts, crew neck undershirts, and socks. The top drawer held a black leather-bound Bible, a blue composition notebook, tissues, hand lotion, and two black ball-point pens.
This wasn’t a hospital—that I was sure of, but exactly what it was, hadn’t a clue. What I did feel confident about was the man I’d met at the church–Warren, had something to do with this. Brief flashes of turning to face him in the parking lot came forward. He had to have struck me in the head because that’s where the pain stemmed from, and if I had to guess, I’d say he used chloroform on a rag to knock me out due to the current state of grogginess. But, why?
The whys don’t matter. Getting the hell out of here does. Get up, and get after it.
Shaking the haze and standing, three closed doors became the target. One of them had to lead to a staircase, or possibly to the outside world. Tossing the blanket aside, careful, steady steps lead to door number one–a closet housing a sea of heavily pressed ivory slacks, button down long and short sleeve shirts, knee-length skirts, and canvas slide on shoes. Glancing back, all the beds contained a pair of the same pajamas I wore. Turning attention back to the day wear, fingers inspected the material. Cotton, somewhat thin. The stitching clearly home sewn. Shutting the pristinely organized wardrobe, attention turned to door number two–a bathroom. The area, nothing special, rather typical in fact–twin sinks, a vanity with a long rectangular mirror, a toilet, and a tub with a shower. Just like everything else, the room, white, clean, tidy, and systematized. The final door, door number three, was locked from the other side. That had to be the primary way out, but not the only means of escape. The windows were another option. It’d be a tight fit, but I could squeeze through. Where there’s a will there’s a way, right? Once on the other side, I’d figure out the rest. Baptism by fire–easy enough, I hoped. Approaching the closest one, the damn frame appeared bolted shut with exterior nails. Even with the back of a hammer, they couldn’t be removed. There was a heavy layer of glue holding them in place.
“Son of a bitch!” I hissed, turning to strike the adjacent wall.
“That’s no way to behave, Brother Nicholas. We don’t act out of anger or frustration here. This is a home of healing and love, comfort, and peace. However, I forgive you. In time, I’m confident, you’ll learn our ways, see the light,” Warren said, standing to my right.
“What the hell is going on? Why did you attack, drug, and bring me here?” I shouted, fear and anger a lethal combination. It was fight or flight time, but my only option was fight, and damn it, I was ready for whatever this sick bastard had in mind.
“First, you must quiet yourself. Those in survival mode don’t think, process, or function on high levels. In order to comprehend your new life, you have to be in a place of balance from within. Primal rage has no place in anyone’s existence.”
“Listen, Warren, or whoever the hell you really are, I don’t want to be here, which means you’re holding me against my will. If you let me go right now, I won’t press charges,” I attempted to rationalize because it was as clear as the ruddy nose on his face—this man was a stark raving lunatic. If there’s one thing in this world everyone should be made aware of is, you cannot fight with crazy. You won’t win.
“My name is Warren. Warren Lessor to be precise, but here you will call me Brother Warren. We’re all brothers and sisters in this house. As for leaving, I’m sorry, but that’s not possible,” he replied, coolly sitting on the foot of one of the beds.
“You cannot hold me here, Warren. It’s illegal. The criminal justice system refers to this type of situation as abduction and assault,” I challenged, standing directly in front of him.
Taking a long, deep breath, he spoke again. “You asked why I brought you here. The answer is simple–to save you.”
“From what? My seven-figure salary? The mansion I live in? The admiring fans? My passion to help others? A career I adore? Yeah, my life is fucking terrible.” Keeping my temper in check was a feat. The fuse within had already been lit. I wasn’t sure how long the wick would fizz before the inevitable explosion.
“First, please refrain from cursing in this house. That kind of language will not be tolerated, and has no place in any of our lives. It’s vulgar, vile, and uncivilized. Secondly, I notice you mentioned material items and all of the riches one receives from fame. Not once did you mention your wife, or family. Why is that?” he mused, very matter-of-factly.
“Excuse me?”
“When we as humans sum up our lives, most mention spouses, children, and family first. You, on the other hand, did no such thing. Nicholas Winters went straight to what he’s perceives as his great fortune–wealth and all the trapping that go along with it. This tells me, you may be rich in money and social recognition, but not at home–where it counts most. So, to answer your question, I saved you from the things that hurt you most–your wife and family. Those ingrates do not love or care about you. Only themselves. It’s not your fault. Here you will receive all the affections and attention you’ve been missing. We, as a collective whole, will provide the safety, stability, and comfort of the family you’ve been lacking and crave.”
“Exactly what qualifies you to make that decision?” My eyes widened. Head tilted to the right. Rational thought knew this man was not well in the head, but wasn’t sure how sick he was. Irrational thought wanted to beat his ass to a pulp for taking liberties he has no right to.
“Oh, I didn’t. God did. He told me.”
And, there’s your answer. Whoa. This psycho is a dangerous, unbalanced, religious nut bag. Proceeding with an abundance of caution is the only answer, because who knows exactly what he’s capable of. Coun
tless case studies have been written about lunatics just like Warren.
All right. Use every ounce of knowledge inside to assess what’s happening.
One—This is more than likely a cult group–the basement setup, the closet filled with uniform clothing, the bolted windows. He’s obviously the leader, but how many others are there?
Two —Does he have a second in command? Usually they don’t, but sometimes they do. If yes, what’s his or her mental state and capacity?
Three—The only way you’re going to get out of here is to play into the game, gain his trust first, and the others will quickly follow suit. When he turns his back, strike.
Four—Jill was expecting you home when she got off work last night. Based off the sun exposure coming through the windows, it has to be late morning. She’ll realize something is wrong, and will come looking for you. At minimum, she’ll call the cops. Jill will do something, but until then you’ve got to remain level headed, and patiently wait this out.
“God speaks directly to you?” I asked, taking a seat on the bed across from him.
“Yes.”
“How long have you two been communicating?”
“About twenty or so years. We began conversing when I was in my early thirties.”
“And, He tells you to save people?” I leaned forward to show this psychopath I was hanging on his every word, marveling over his direct line to God.
“Yes.” He put his hand up to stop me from speaking. “You’re going to ask how. It’s simple. God sends me signs through various means. Sometimes it’s visually–in person. Other times, like in your case, it’s through the media. While in town picking up supplies, a magazine article about you caught my attention. That night I went home and God came to me. He instructed I find, and bring you home.” Warren leaned forward and removed a folded slice of paper from his back pocket. Handing it to me, he began speaking again. “I went to the library–there’s no internet here, and researched you. The results revealed a situation worse than imagined. I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt, you needed to be saved. Your family of origin—awful, but your wife is the worst. Godless, soulless, sinners of the worst kind. Ugly, evil human beings, if one could even consider them that. They’ve used you. Taken advantage of your warm, loving nature. Have led you astray. God guided me to you so I can shepherd you to salvation. I will follow His orders.”