Downfall And Rise

by Nathan Thompson

  “It's actually a crude description for a person that prevents another type of behavior,” I explained. “We do have chickens, but we also use the word to describe a lot of other things, most of which are really crude too.”

  “Well, okay,” Stell, said cautiously. She risked a smile. “At least it cheered you up. I don't think I need to pry into your past anymore, so in the future I'll try and respect when you don't want to talk about something. Next time, when you inexplicably break the rules again and arrive here on your own, we'll go over integrating you as a Challenger.”

  “Thanks,” I replied, smiling back at her. “I appreciate that. I'm going to go ahead and try to head back now. But I look forward to seeing you again.”

  “Anytime,” her smile got broader.

  As I walked up the stairs, I started to feel fuzzy. I thought it meant that I was about to shift out of this place. But before I could, I heard Stell mutter in a puzzled voice.

  “Maybe he crushed a rooster's head with a heavy block? That sort of makes sense...”

  Chapter 11: Heave

  “Well, Wes, why don't you tell me how you have been doing?” Dr. Dalfrey said as we both sat down. She crossed her legs, and I reflexively looked away. I saw her frown at me out of the corner of her eye, and then she started writing on her notepad. Even though I hadn't said anything yet.

  Dr. Dalfrey was an attractive woman in her mid-thirties, with short blonde hair that was longer on one side of her head than the other. In the beginning of our sessions, my father's training on respectful eye contact made me a bit uncomfortable with how she made a women's business skirt and blouse look so revealing. Over time that discomfort took a back seat to just how much I disliked the woman personally.

  I don't know how, or why, Dr. Dalfrey became my counselor. She was a different counselor than the one we had after my father's death. She became my psychologist after my disability, when the insurance insisted that I see a therapist as part of a way to measure my progress. None of the local counselors in my area were willing to be my counselor at the time. I never found out why, no matter how much we begged.

  But then, a miracle happened.

  An award-winning therapist from New York had heard about my condition and wanted to take me on as a patient. She was even willing to move down to Texas just for me.

  It had seemed unbelievable. Like some miracle from heaven.

  Not two months later, Dr. Dalfrey had seemed like a curse from hell.

  I don't want to pretend I have an excellent grasp of psychology or counseling another person. My basic understanding, though, is that you talk to a person, listen to them and observe them, then make a diagnosis based on what you see and hear.

  You also at least try to help the person, and make them feel at least somewhat listened to.

  Dr. Dalfrey, the award-winning professional, has never done any of that. I don't know why. She spent most of the first year pulling away at the details of my father’s death. During the first few sessions, she just listened with an unsatisfied expression. But then she started pulling for details about Dad that were never released to the public. She claimed she was helping me let go of secrets, but my answers only made her more and more upset. She seemed convinced that there was more my father was hiding, but she refused to elaborate about it other than to infer that it might be related to his work.

  Frankly, it was suspicious as hell. And when I confronted her about it, she just asked me if I had any other paranoid thoughts. I don't know how she got away with it, but our insurance kept insisting that I use her as my therapist and that they wouldn't cover my treatments anymore if I refused to see her.

  So I sucked up my frustration and answered her stupid 'hey you're in a conspiracy movie, Wes!' questions, often the same ones asked just different ways, over and over until she apparently became convinced that I wasn't hiding any secret details of either my dad's death or his work in software design. Considering that he stuck to coding and creating video games, I had no clue what she could have possibly been curious about.

  But at any rate, ever since then, she seemed to just try and aggravate me, then threaten to assign a condition to me if I reacted at all. So I was going to have to deal with her questions anyway, because she could only torture me for about thirty minutes.

  I sighed before answering her, inwardly glad that the action didn't cause me pain.

  “My month started out incredibly well,” I replied. I saw another frown flash across her face so quickly I thought I was imagining it. “And I wish it had stayed that way. My pain and dizziness had been decreasing to the point where I almost didn't need my cane to walk. My memory was getting excellent, and my grades were improving in all my classes.”

  “Is that what your teachers told you? Are you sure you were really progressing?” Dr. Dalfrey asked, not looking at me and still scribbling on her pad.

  “Yes,” I replied patiently. “All but one of my teachers noted I was improving and I was getting consistently higher grades on all of my assignments, in every class. That was a really encouraging thing to see for me.” And stop frowning every time I give you good news, witch. “I tried to build off of it, to keep doing what worked so that I could finally pass my scholarship exams. Everything seemed to be working until test day.”

  “And then you failed your tests again?” Dr. Dalfrey said without looking up. Her delivery while I was talking made me feel as if I had been slapped.

  “I don't know,” I replied, choosing to ignore her behavior for now. “Because my family is petitioning the conditions of the test, and the initial results they told me proved to be inaccurate.”

  “Do you feel the conditions truly made a difference this time?”

  “Yes,” I said, mentally counting to ten, reminding myself not to give her what she wanted with an outburst. “I really feel that getting hit in the back of the head with a heavy textbook is something that shouldn't happen during a test that concerns my future. That's something the school should prevent from happening, which is why my mother is currently suing the school.”

  “Hmph,” Dr. Dalfrey said with a frown, still not looking up and scribbling in her notepad. “I suppose that makes sense. How are you feeling now?”

  “Fighting discouragement,” I answered, moving past how peeved she got when I didn't rise to her antagonism. “I feel like ever since I got hit in the head, all of my progress has reset. My pain is back, as well as my dizziness and trouble thinking.”

  “So you feel like giving up?” Dr. Dalfrey said, finally making eye contact with me.

  “Well, yeah,” I said bluntly. “I feel incredibly discouraged. Every time I try and do something with my life, something, or someone- usually a different person- shows up out of nowhere to slam me back down. I'm tired of having to start over from scratch.”

  “I see,” Dr. Dalfrey said quietly, and sounding suspiciously attentive. Was she actually interested in my condition for once? “So what have you done since you felt this way?”

  I shrugged.

  “I've tried not to act on it,” I said. “If I give up, I really do lose everything. As hard as everything is for my mother and sister, I know that life will just get even worse for them if I stop trying. I mean I may be a drain to my family, but they still love me. I know they'd be hurt even more if I wasn't around.” I took a breath. I didn't trust this woman talking about this was still helpful to me. “So that means the best way to help my family is to still try and be less of a burden to them, but I have to do that by finding a way to move forward in life. I don't know what that looks like, especially if I failed my tests for good this time, but I know I have to find it, for the sake of the people I care about at the very least.”

  Dr. Dalfrey was staring at me curiously.

  “That's an extremely positive and... mature outlook to have, given your situation,” the counselor said carefully.

  “Thank you?” I said, and it really was a question.

  Dr. Dalfrey looked back down at her notepad. But
I noticed that, unlike before, she hadn't started writing yet.

  “What would you say is responsible for that outlook? Other than the reasons you gave?”

  “I'm honestly not sure,” I replied. “My friends and family are all I have left right now.”

  “And it's good that they're motivating you right now,” Dr. Dalfrey said. “I want to encourage you to keep grasping that motivation. Can you think of any thoughts or events that have encouraged those motivations?”

  “Not really,” I said with a shrug. “Well, I have been doing well on a video game. I even got an interview with a company for it last week. It's been encouraging me, a little bit, reminding me that I can still be good at something. That not everything can be taken away from me.”

  A long time ago, Dad had tried to drill me into a lesson about games, that even though they're fun, they ultimately serve to link us to real life. If you can have fun in a game, you can have fun in real life, because somebody real still made those games. And if you can win in those games, then you can win in real life too.

  I didn't share that with the counselor, but the thought crossed my mind again.

  “I see,” Dr. Dalfrey replied, writing into her notes, but more slowly than she usually did. “Is that the same game you've been playing for your treatment?” She flipped back several pages on her pad. “Heroes Unbound?”

  “Yes,” I replied. “That's the one.”

  She frowned again, flipping to the front of her pad again.

  “If people are interviewing you, then it sounds like you are managing to excel in that game. How frequently have you been playing it?” Her eyes were narrowed as if she was concentrating, and her body was leaning forward with one ear turned more toward me.

  “Just as much as the doctor recommended,” I replied, wondering what had sparked the sudden change in her behavior. Her previous, peevishly disinterested attitude was completely gone. “Up until recently, I've been having a strict routine for studying, and I've still been going through all the other treatments. I've just tried to make my time in the game count, to play with people in later time zones to try and make certain accomplishments.”

  “I see,” Dr. Dalfrey said again, looking down to write down on her notepad, then looking back up at me. She paused before asking me her next question:

  “What about your dreams? Have you had any unusual dreams?”

  Something about that question made me feel very, very cold. And I couldn't figure out why.

  “Unusual?” I asked. “Like in what way?”

  “Just any that you remember standing out,” Dr. Dalfrey said casually. “Sometimes our dreams either influence us or reveal what we are focusing on.”

  That answer made total sense. And if Dr. Dalfrey hadn't spent so much time hating these sessions as much as I did, I would have felt perfectly comfortable with telling her about my dreams of Avalon.

  But then I remembered that this was the first time Dr. Dalfrey had shown interest in our sessions since she stopped asking questions about my father. I also remembered that if she wanted to, she could decide that the dreams meant I was going crazy, and needed to go to a special facility.

  Was that me being paranoid? I then asked myself. Being suspicious about your counselor seemed like a bad argument for one's mental health. Even if I didn't like how my sessions were going, maybe there had been some purpose in antagonizing me. Or maybe I had been misreading her behavior all this time.

  Then I remembered all the other times it felt like people were out to get me, and then finding out from Davelon last week that they actually were.

  I was done taking stupid chances like that. Earn back my trust, I thought at this crappy world, before I give you a chance to hurt me again.

  “Not that I can think of,” I said, shaking my head just slowly enough to avoid more pain. But she was still watching me carefully.

  “Are you sure?” Dr. Dalfrey said slowly. “Think carefully. Any dreams that seemed particularly vivid? Or with recurring themes?”

  She didn't believe me. I had hesitated too long before answering her. But why would she care so much to begin with?

  What was she looking for?

  Could I find out, without giving it to her?

  “Well, I have been dreaming about the video game,” I said, pretending to be embarrassed. It wasn't hard, considering my dreams made me feel like I was in my own special eighties movie, or wish-fulfillment fantasy novel. “Like Heroes Unbound, where I can move around without being in pain.”

  “I see,” Dr. Dalfrey was writing faster now, furiously even, but she was still pausing and waiting for me to talk afterwards. “How many dreams like this do you remember?”

  “One, maybe two?” I said carefully. “They don't stand out that much.”

  “The fact that you remember them at all is good,” Dr. Dalfrey said in a helpful voice. “It's a hopeful sign that your memory may be gradually improving. What else can you tell me about your dreams?”

  “It goes much like Heroes Unbound. People ask me to slay evil monsters or recover some treasure they need.”

  “Who asks you?” She said, still scribbling furiously.

  “The people that live there, that see me when I arrive.”

  “Do you remember their names? What they look like?”

  “It varies,” I lied, shaking my head slowly. “The names don't stick with me.”

  “What about their appearance? How much does it vary? Are they always beautiful women?”

  I looked up at her.

  “I didn't say anything about beautiful woman,” I said, somewhat defensively.

  “No, you didn't,” the doctor agreed. “But are there women who ask you for help? And are they beautiful?”

  “Well,” I hedged.

  “It's fine if they are. It doesn't make you crazy, nor is it a sign of any sexual deviance. In fact it's a known type of dream for boys your age.” Dr. Dalfrey said in a helpful voice. If I had this side of her more I would've started trusting her a long time ago.

  Right now, though, I felt like I dodged a bullet.

  “There are occasionally beautiful women who are grateful to have me there, but the dream always ends before they do anything more than express their gratitude verbally.”

  “I see,” Dr. Dalfrey's pen blurred in her hands, then stopped as she looked up at me. “What are their names?”

  You already asked me that.

  “I don't remember,” I repeated. “I vaguely recognize them as non-player-characters, or NPCs, from the game sometimes, but I don't feel sure about that.”

  “That's fine,” Dr. Dalfrey answered hurriedly. “What about the place you go to? Are you absolutely sure you can't remember its name? Try very hard to remember.”

  Was that urgency in her voice?

  I looked up at her again. She seemed perfectly relaxed as she waited for me to answer her. She wasn't even looking at me, just down at her notepad. I thought I must have imagined it.

  Then I realized she was holding her breath.

  “I think I went to the village outside the Navrahai Crevice, where I killed that canyon dragon. The other time it was in Gladeshadow, outside the elven forests in the early levels.”

  “I see,” Dr. Dalfrey said in a neutral voice as she kept writing. “Well, thank you for sharing this with me, Wes. I think this has been a productive session. Keep looking for things that motivate you, and tell me about them in our next meeting. Especially your dreams.”

  “Thanks,” I said, rising from my seat to leave our meeting.

  I thought about that session for the rest of the day. Why had my counselor been so apathetic toward me in all of our meetings but this one? And why had she suddenly been interested in my dreams?

  Why now, when I had just started whatever dream, or insane trip, or whatever it was, about Avalon?

  And why did it scare me so much when she asked about it?

  Maybe I really was going crazy. Whatever Avalon and Guineve and Stell and that little fairy w
ere, it wasn’t like telling anyone about them would change anything. True, they could possibly use it as a reason to put me in the happy farm, but they could make up any reason they wanted to for that at this point. They could have used my last hospitalization if they were just going to do that.

  What did I have to lose if they found out about Avalon?

  I thought again about my last visit, how Stell was insisting that I actually was some kind of special uber-hero already on Earth, and that I had helped so many people. She told me I could still do great things, that my real potential hadn't even been touched. I wanted to believe all of that, and it had felt painfully good to hear her angry on my behalf, to hear her say that I had been wronged, and that I deserved to be treated better than this town was treating me. I hadn't been able to bear it.