bluntdoctor (bluntdoctor) wrote in synapsesynopsis,

This was written a month or so later:

Chase is back in her office. “I’m not fucking crazy, jesusfuckingchrist.” Chase is making sure to enunciate the letter ‘g’, to sound authoritative and intimidating. “I am not saying you are, sweetie,” is the response he gets. “But you’re thinking it. And stop fucking calling me that. It’s fucking patronizing. And sick. God damn it,” Chase complains, a couple steps short of whining.
“Well, you have to admit, you are consistantly describing hallucinations,” the psychologist answers. “One!!” he rails back at her.

The piece of paper. What was on the paper.

“And I wasn’t hallucinating. I fucking saw it." If he were crazy, he'd be hearing things before seeing them.  They had had this argument meny times. "Don’t spit shit at me.” She smiles at him, almost sadly. “And the panhandler? You did hear that. Your mother didn’t.”

The beggar smiling, lying on some newspaper, back propped up against a wall. “Hey Chizzay. Chiz man, chacha, yo. Are you an airplane, or an angel? Ask yo’self, man. Ask that. But check this, my man. Watch the stars hide for you. Check. Watch.” His dirty, dry, thick, calloused and real hand held up the real piece of paper.

“I can’t explain that,” Chase replies, defeated. “But she’s fucking deaf anyways.” She nods at him, writing something on that notepad of hers. He glares at her downcast eyes, hating them. “Time’s up, Chase,” she says softly. Chase stands up. “Fuck you. Sweetie.” She nods at the twelve year old. “Goodbye, Chase.” He gets up.

Chase gets in his mother’s car, and crosses his arms. He watches the windshield wipers glean the raindrops away, watches the arcs form and fade, form and fade. That spot on the bottom, in the center, that always was dotted with raindrops. She starts interrogating him with questions about his day. He starts answering her with one word replies.

Chase is back in her office. He is sitting on the brown and yellow ugly ass sofa. She is sitting in her leather chair. A couple weeks before he had sat down in her chair, and she sat down on the sofa. “That vomit couch brings out the color in your eyes,” he had told her. Ever since she had mad sure to be the first in the room. “Let’s talk about the art teacher,” she says. “She had it coming,” he replies. “You drank a cup of brown paint and spat it back at her,” she insists. “How did she earn that?”

Chase was at school, frantically mixing paints. He had wasted an inordinate amount of paper, and gone through a couple bottles of the primary colors. Ms. Kay tried to stop him, when he opened his mouth, poured in a paper cup of non-toxic brown, aimed his lips at her face, and fired. After words he called her “shit face.” Because of the brown. He was witty when he played with paint.

“I was trying to make the color. And she had been no help. None at all. And she was so fucking condescending about it. Hippy slut. That’s another thing, she completely denied having ever heard of acid. Bullshit. You’ve seen her. Tie dye tee shirt old stoner tramp, ‘Acid? What kind of acid, muffin?’ “, he imitates. “Jesus. Not every day has to be Fuck Chase Over Day, or Isn’t That Chase Kid A Moron Week. Skank,” he grumbles. “Why did you harass her about that, Chase?” she asks sweetly. “I figured, you know. Trippy art teacher. I just asked her about the color, and she blinked at me like it was impossible.” She writes something down. “God dammit, you’ve heard this before! What do you need to write down?” She looks up. “That’s all for today.” “Ohhh, really?” he whines, giving her a somehow sarcastic hurt look. Chase is good at putting sarcasm where others cannot, she has realized. “Gee fucking willickers, that’s too bad.” He gets up.

Chase is back in her office. “Let’s talk about the color again,” she says, picking up her thin blue pen, bitting off the cap as her other hand gets her notepad.

The paper was small, the size of a cd case or a chimpanzee’s face. But it’s size was far from important. It was its color. It was somewhere between blue and red and yellow and white, but it might as well have been somewhere between green and black. It was none of these, it was nothing remotely resembling anything previously in his mind. It was a color not on any spectrum of visible light, not on any art classroom wall, not in any rainbow, not in any dream. It was indescribably beautiful, unimaginably damning.

Chase sighs painfully. “God fuckin dammit. Why again. It never changes. You never understand.” She nods at him. “Try.” “Look, it was just.. this fucking color, that no one has any idea how it could exist, I mean, I’ve tried everybody, tried everything. And it’s a fucking color, you know! I mean, you try describing a color. Explain fucking green to me! You can’t! Imagine I’ve never seen red before, try to explain that to me. Now fucking imagine you can’t just pull out a red shirt, or point at the blue sky and say that’s blue. And now picture it that no one anywhere, anywhen except one fucking magic homeless motherfucker has seen that blue, it’s only you. Fuck you. Try. Try thinking before you fucking talk to me.” She nods. “Ok, Chase. Until next time.” He glares. He gets up.

Chase is back in her office. “Let’s talk about Mr. Frank.” He shifted nervously on the sofa. “There’s nothing to talk about.” “Sweetie, you threw molecules at his face and then hit him in his ear with a prism.”

Mr. Frank was in his class room, fiddling with those red and blue and green and black spheres, using the little wooden sticks to connect them. Chase knocked on the door and walked in. “Mr. Frank?” “Yes, Chase,” the science teacher responded, turning to look at him. “I want to talk to you about color. And light.” “Well, okay. That test was more than a month ago. I thought you did well.” Chase nodded. “Yeah, I know. But..” Chase explained what happened. He asked if he had somehow seen a microwave, or some wave, or some strange neurological phenomenon in with his eye chemicals. Mr. Frank looked at him like he was stoned. Chase got mad. Mr. Frank was confused, pitying, asking him stupid questions, not understanding the answers. Chase picked up the water, three spheres and two sticks. He watched the triangular piece spin end over end, the hydrogen hitting Mr. Frank between the eyes. He grabbed the clear prism off the table right infront of him, pulled his hand back, looked at Mr. Frank’s ear. Watched it instantly turn red, start to bleed a little at the top, near one of the folds of cartilege.

He looks away at the clock, watching the thin brass second hand tick, tick, tick between the 5 and the 6 on her office wall. “See? We’ve talked about it already. And stop calling me that, you sick bitch.” She nods at him. “Chase, hon, you’ll eventually see how impossible all this is. You really should drop this fantasy. Look what it’s done to you. It’s okay, let it go. You don’t have to be trapped in this lie.” His face burns, turning red. “Fantasy?! Im-fucking-possible?? I can still see it, don’t you understand? I fucking saw it, god damn you!!” She relents, for a moment. “Chase, I thi-” Chase interrupts with an outburst. “Shut the FUCK up!” he bellows, his fist slamming down on the table infron of him, in time with the ‘fuck’. She jerks back in her seat, caught off guard. He stares at her, fist still pressed down on the smooth, brown, polished wood hard enough to wrinkle his bottom knuckle, pressure making the skin contrast between white and pale white. Chase maintains eye contact for half a breath, then gives him the charming, half smirk grin that gets him out of so many jams, and laughs at her. She regains her composure, and continues. “I think this is connected to your sister’s.. death.” Now he is truly angry, all of his blood rushing from his suddenly sinking stomach to his furiously flushing face. “Ohmyfuckinggod. Can’t you leave her out of anything..” Chase sighs, looking away. “Can’t you do anything with her memory other than explaining away my.. ‘disruptive, inappropriate, potentially dangerous behaivior’,” Chase growls.  He was quoting from his file now, she realizes. He must’ve snuck in. But she lets it go for the moment. “Chase, if you’re feeling ignored, or neglected... This just isn’t a healthy way to go about things.” He looks into her eyes. “Don’t talk to me about healthy. The next time you’re having sex with your husband, try not to think of my sister dying there on her hospital bed. Hollow, empty eyes fixed on the ceiling. Equipment ushering her end.. beep.. beep.. tick.. tick.. tick-tocking away, counting down her last moments.  The sneer on her lips that broke the trails of her tears, and shaped her last breath.  Try not think about that when he's fucking you. Try.” She’s horrified. “Young man, I’ve never done that.” He nods. “But we both know you will now, won’t you?” Chase says, voice betraying his sense of triumph as he stands to leave. “Have fun faking it. Sweetie.”

Chase gets in his mother car, and starts answering her with a smile.

  • Post a new comment


    default userpic

    Your IP address will be recorded 

    When you submit the form an invisible reCAPTCHA check will be performed.
    You must follow the Privacy Policy and Google Terms of use.