A forgotten prince seeks to get his throne back, but he has no idea who his enemy is. An enemy unknown is an enemy to fear. Who can he trust? Can he even trust himself?
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The quiet room of Dr. Tyla Burns was loud with the creaking of the night insects, and awkwardness took the liberty to flow through the air. The story that the therapist had just heard dumbfounded her and forced her mind to wrap itself around the brilliance of confusion, but her thoughts remained still in her ability to carry out her job as a therapist, but not for long.
With her eyes wide open, sleep was far gone, but with a little stretch, it remained in arms reach.
On the other side where Edward Richards sat, he watched her closely, waiting to see if his words would trigger her usual response of unbelief.
It was 4:45 am and they both stared at each other through their laptops. Her body wanted nothing more but to crawl back to bed like it was supposed to, however, her duties would suggest something else.
Although one would argue or question, was it really her obligation as a therapist to sit at the very peak of the morning sun to listen to the story of a delusional man or was it her curiosities, bathe in the prolonging thoughts of a distant past, when and where they both rested in each other's company as lovers, first love's, or prophesied husband and wife?
With all her academic achievements and wisdom in the natural world, even she could not diffuse her own dilemma that swam through her mind and convicted her body to a single post. Like a goldfish in a bag of water, gazing at its own reflection of an acute doubt, in regards to the question of its own dreams. Would it have been better to swim in the open sea with terrors in the deep dark blue sea, lurking around with black hollow eyes and sharpened teeth like Jaws? Or revel in the quiet and very brief moments of little passions? or intensified heartbeat that spoke of dreams and love to come? Would it be better to swim in its own solitude not forged by its choices but by another that tendered promises of a secluded dream in a glass cage?
Tyla could not answer the confusion that dwelt within her. Without her consent, the confusion ravaged her mind slowly like a shark preying on the goldfish with sharpened teeth for the hunger of survival and fins with promises of private dreams.
"So, the young boy was raped you say, " the therapist asked while she knocked her tired fingers
against her table repeatedly but tiresomely.
Usually, she'd begin writing down details of her conversations with her clients with the heavy pen that dangled next to the laptop, and the hard paperback book that also sat alongside. However, the pages meant for Mr. Richards remained blank.
"Yes, he was," Richards replied.
"And...He suffered from multiple personalities?" Burns questioned routinely to understand the psyche of her client she once shared a bed with in her youth. A beautiful regret. A tortured cry of ecstatic memories.
