Editor’s Note: This is Part III of an original piece of creative writing from Weedsport’s Shanna Densley. You can find the first two parts of the story in our Arts and Entertainment section.
Part Three
As the shrink wrote, Oliver grew curious. He usually could mask it, but he was starting to feel insecure, as silly as it sounds.
“What do you keep writing?”
“Pardon?”
“After I speak, you occasionally write on that notepad.”
There was a pause.
“About me?” Oliver finally spoke up again, his tone accusing.
“Of course. Explaining it is my issue.”
Oliver sat quietly, his eyes full of distrust. The shrink took a mental note of that.
“Would you prefer to see? I’m not trying to seem secretive.” The shrink offered, tone gentle. Oliver hesitated, but nodded after a second to consider.
The shrink gave a small smile and leaned closer, holding out the little spiral notepad for Oliver.
Oliver took the papers and skimmed through the neat handwriting, the shrink patiently waiting so Oliver wouldn’t feel anything less than trust.
“Compunction? Reprimid? I don’t exactly understand…” Oliver admitted slowly, trying to reread, looking for context clues; to no avail.
“Guilt and suppress.”
Oliver’s tone quickly shifted. “You think I feel guilty? That I’m suppressing– what? Feelings?” He accused again.
“You show guilt,” the shrink corrected, “and I think you suppress memories.”
Oliver froze up. What was he supposed to say? He handed the notepad back.
“Talk to me,” the shrink got ready to write again.
Fourteen Years Ago
“Why would you hide this from me?!”
Chester clutched the little book tighter, eyes watering.
“I thought you trusted me! But this?” Oliver continued, a fit of rage encasing his usually smart and quiet self.
“I– I do trust you!” Chester cried out.
“Then why would you keep this from me?!”
“I didn’t want to hurt you!”
“So you hid this from me?!”
“Yes!”
“And thought it was a good idea?”
“No!” Chester confessed, leaving Oliver in silence. It took a good ten seconds for Oliver to even breathe.
“Then… why?” Oliver finally stopped yelling, but held onto a hostile tone.
“I– I wasn’t going to act on it — I was going to–” Chester stayed quiet for a second, thinking before choosing the wrong words. The impatient Oliver glared dangerously.
Chester took a deep breath, honesty was the best policy. “I was going to call a meeting–”
“Without me?”
Chester chewed on his cheek for a moment. His demeanor shifted with his own impatience.
“Yes. Without you.” He wiped his tears with his sleeve, “To try and change their minds.”
Oliver was dumbfounded.
“But it– it’s hard not to side with them when you only prove them right. I–I can only protect you so much before they force you to leave.”
Oliver fumbled over syllables for a hot second, what should he even say? What could he say?
“They… They really think those things about me?”
“It’s what they wrote, isn’t it?” Chester retorted.
Silence.
“They wrote some pretty mean things.” Oliver admitted, looking down in shame.
“You do some pretty mean things.” Chester reminded bitterly. Oliver found himself wincing at the statement.
“Do I?” Oliver tried to reason. Chester looked at him, eyes red and puffy from crying at Oliver’s previous yells.
Oliver quickly looked away, “O– Okay, okay… it was a joke, alright?” Chester looked to the small box TV instead of responding. Oliver eventually did the same. It was off.
There was another silence, this one lasted longer, though at least felt less awkward than the other.
“You’ve changed, Ollie.” Chester stood up, checking the analog clock that hung above the front door. He began walking towards it, holding the papers still, the complaints about Oliver from the rest of the Syndicate. “If you’ll excuse me, I have a Midnight gathering to get to,” Chester glared with pain, “And you aren’t invited.”
