Every Sunday at 10AM,
I go to my therapist Samantha Pipes.
I don't need therapy though. No soul means no emotional problems.
As always, I just lay down on the sofa and tell her about my dreams and memories.
"What's on your mind today?"
"Um... I got a cat, I had a the dream again, and met somebody."
She raised an eyebrow.
Ugh, more body language.
"What's the cats name?"
"Tigger."
"Aw. Was that your childhood favorite?"
"I heard it on tv."
"Oh. Erm.. Who did you meet? How did that go?"
I had to think back. I don't like memories. They always mesh.
I always think of something and it takes over everything else.
"Well, his names August. He was kind of weird, but then we ate together and talked. I don't really want to meet him again."
She looked confused. I was kind of all over the place with my description.
Oh well. She can figure it out.
I pay her for that.
"And the dream?"
"You remember. Blood. The pentagram on my chest. Running. I've told it to you before."
"This dream has a pattern, you know?"
"Like what?"
"Every time you have it, something good comes along and you stop having the dream; like when you got a promotion, and when you met edbo."
I guess that's a pattern, but what's the good thing going to be this time?
"I don't care. The dream doesn't bother me anyway." That was a lie. I don't like waking up feeling, and only feeling pain.
Last night was better though.
Tigger saw me jolt awake from the dream, and crawled up to my neck and snuggled against me like a neck pillow.
Kittens make more progress than
drugs and therapists.
YOU ARE READING
The dead are rich but the living are poor
General FictionBasically a fiction about self discovery. (So original right) but listen, There's a lot more things being discovered than you'd think. The gist: The main character has no soul. Loves coffee. Hates people. Have fun.
