Chapter One: Clank, Clank

Chapter 1
Clank, Clank

I wish you would step back from that ledge my friend,
You could cut ties for all the lies
That you’ve been living in,
And if you do not want to see me again,
I would understand.
-Third Eye Blind

His mind alleged he was ready. His body language, however, suggested otherwise. His inflexible movements couldn’t veil his apprehension, and even as he advanced through the doors he felt as though his feet were laden by two iron weights affixed to shackles. His mind had made a psychological association between the shackles he had envisioned and the universal sound linked to them: clank clank.
How he found himself in the office of some illustrious therapist on this May afternoon he could not recall. What he could recall was the feeling of hope he had received several days prior when he was informed to address this specific councilor from multiple reliable sources. It has been a prolonged concern of his to seek guidance from a name which bore some significance in this particular field since the divorce. So it was here that he anticipated to be sublimed with confidence and buoyancy.
Behind a beautifully crafted, cherry wood desk sat a middle-aged woman, furiously jotting something into the browning, dry pages of what appeared to be an aged journal. Her appearance was all too breathtaking. Like some cherub her smooth, pastel skin glowed through the dimness of the room. Her lustrous brown hair vanished behind her head into a bun, with only a thin lock of hair left to be tucked behind her ear.
As he approached her desk (clank, clank) she made no sign to acknowledge his presence, but rather continued to plunge into the depths of her paperwork. Behind the square frames of her glasses her dark brown eyes skimmed over her work. He gave it a minute or two before he said anything.
“Hi, I-” he started.
Her hand shot up and presented only an index finger.
Puzzled, he recognized the signal and took this time to observe the room. How queer it seemed to him that despite the fact that it was in the heart of New York, he felt so isolated from society and how quaint it appeared. The room was decorated with antique paintings and various furniture. From somewhere out of sight came the sound of a soothing waterfall where it infinitely continued to play.
A wide window which extended from one side of the room to the other was concealed behind her by a long, brown curtain which corresponded brilliantly with the russet walls. Curious, he made his way over (clank, clank) to the window, where there was just enough room for him to fit comfortably behind her.
As he drew back the curtains a ray of blinding light seeped into the room, illuminating a small sector. Twenty stories below, swarms of New York’s inhabitants walked to and fro amongst their various concerns, unconscious of his scrutiny. Like ants they roamed from building to building, too fruitfully determined to tend to their own affairs and motivated by self-indulgence to allot their time to facilitate those “ants” which lie feebly on the streets, amongst the scraps of the upper castes. This was New York.
“I apologize,” crooned a restful, young voice. These soft-spoken words had come from the therapist. “Please, do have a seat.” She made a gesture towards a recliner located in front of her desk.
He walked submissively to the recliner (clank, clank), positioned himself comfortably, and waited unwearyingly to be subjected to a fury of inspiration, to surrender his low self-confidence to her prolific astuteness and –
“Sit up.” Her voice sang like a choir of angels and yet gave a hint of annoyance. The sudden wrath she exhibited made him a little uneasy, but he slowly brought himself to eye level (oh, how easily he found himself lost in those brown eyes!)
A minute elapsed of awkward silence before he made an attempt to begin the session. “Well, I started having these thoughts when –”
“For God’s sake, you haven’t even introduced yourself and you’re already discussing suicide?”
He questioned her seriousness before starting fresh. “My name is Vincent Simmons, and I work as a columnist for New York Times?” It was more of a question than a statement.
“Go on, Vince,” her voice chimed.
“Oh, I prefer Simmons, if you don’t mind.”
“Go on, Vince,” repeated that tranquil voice.
Tentative, and a little irritated, he endeavored once more to convey his emotions and seek her guidance to renovate his esteem. “Well, I started having these thoughts whenever I got a divorce with my wife.”
“Ex-wife,” She corrected.
Her dry sarcasm was grave inflammatory which incessantly bred disdain, and these petty mockeries had Vince seething. After a recollection of his thoughts, he continued to bitterly vent his feelings.
“She’s the only thing true to me, and I’ve never realized how alone I was until she left. I’ve abandoned my friends, my hobbies and my life in exchange for her, and I’m not so sure I was ready to give up what I had left. In the midst of all of this I’ve come to loathe her. And yet, something inside of me longs for her. I cannot help but feel that I cannot live without her,” he looked at the counselor who showed no sign of assurance or feeling of pity. “I feel death is the only option I can turn to.”
“That is utterly the most dim-witted, irrational load of nonsense I believe I’ve heard in a long time. Not to mention you have managed to win an award for the utmost unoriginality, kudos to you, Vince,” the woman appraised scathingly. She took note of his flabbergasted expression, and addressed it immediately. “You mean to tell me you’ve never heard of Shakespeare’s ‘Romeo and Juliet?’”
He was on his feet (clank clank). “I’m not giving this look because I don’t know what you’re talking about! I don’t understand what the hell you’re getting at!”
“Vince, I’m appalled!” She was on her feet too. “You may find dying for one’s absence is ‘hopelessly romantic,’ but I assure you it’s disgusting and inconceivably unappealing. I, myself, have gone through a long, agonizing divorce, but I’ve never considered suicide. You need to get over it and toughen up. She’s out there getting stuffed like a turkey and you’re here in a tiz!”
“Listen you second-rate shrink –” his belligerence bestowed him an unbounded sum of strength, and he lunged forward towards the window, heaving his now insubstantial weights behind him (clank, clank!).”I swear to you I will jump right now!”
She appeared undisturbed. “Be my guest, Vince.”
He mentally contemplated and considered each of his options swiftly. As psychologically offensive as her words may be, something about her made him unexpectedly unperturbed. His emotions seemed to abruptly evaporate into thin air and his muscles slowly relaxed. Her attractive features seemed to paralyze his movements, and a sluggish smile crept upon her thin face. “New York city has 191 buildings that exceed 500 feet. If you were going to kill yourself, you would have done it already. Now please, take a seat.”
With white flags waving in his head, Vince collapsed onto the recliner to go over the meeting and finish the basics of their sessions.
At the conclusion of the first sitting, she made one thing clear. “Please understand, Vince, these meetings won’t compare to the typical therapy sessions. This may perhaps be our last time having a meeting in my office. I will make arrangements for our next meeting and have them contacted to you by tomorrow.”
Eager to depart and get out of her office, he nodded his head, not fully understanding what she meant. He did, however, still retain the feeling of hope that she could perhaps heal is internal infirmity, and still bore a minimal amount of enthusiasm. Upon leaving, he said, “For what it is worth, I’m glad I didn’t jump out.”
“All of the windows in this building are sealed and locked, Vince.”
Vince turned on his heel, and left the room.
Clank, clank…