alex, plural. (jewplicate) wrote in invol_rpg, @ 2012-08-29 20:59:00 |
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Entry tags: | ! log, ! narrative, alex katz |
WHO: Alex Katz [USA].
WHAT: Counseling.
WHEN: Wednesday afternoon, after his fight with Karim.
WHERE: Counselor's office.
WARNINGS: Language.
"How are you feeling, Alex?" She is in her late thirties, he thinks. She has told him she is from Connecticut. Despite his disdain, he recognizes that her demeanor is on the whole professional and friendly, even when he is being difficult. He is able to acknowledge, to himself, that he is usually being difficult. "Shitty." He sees her expression change, just barely. Not from the profanity; she is used to that. His usual answer is "not great." "Well, are you going to be talkative today?" The hint of a smile pulls her lips upward - by now she is all too familiar with his reticence - but her tone is patient and supportive. "Maybe we can get to the root of what's bothering you." "Only one way to find out." He slouches in his chair, like usual, and he speaks irreverently, like usual. He gestures absently for her to proceed. "Well, let's start simple." She leans forward, recrossed her legs. "Do you want to tell me what's bothering you?" He gives her what he considers a wry look, one that says, "come on, really?" The counselor does not repress a small sigh as she settles back in the chair. "Okay then. You didn't go to class yesterday. You didn't go to training. You skipped again today. You never have before. Can I assume that the reason you're not in the best of moods is the reason for that too?" "Congratulations." Flat. "And I don't think it's a stretch to say that your altercation with Karim Bissoondath this afternoon is perhaps an outgrowth of the same situation." He is sullen, staring at his shoes. He is somewhat surprised that she knows about that already; it happened only a few hours ago. Her words are innocuous enough, but he hears the hint of accusation in them. "He deserved it." "Are you going to tell me why?" He looks up. He speaks in a rush, counting off reasons on his fingers with violent motions. "He's arrogant, he's annoying, he doesn't care about anyone but himself, he can't take responsibility for his actions, he doesn't have any respect for people's privacy, all he's interested in his own entertainment, he doesn't know how to keep his fucking mouth shut. Is that a good enough fucking reason?" His face is red. The counselor looks at him, placid. She scribbles a brief note on her clipboard. "So this was building up for a while?" "Yeah. I guess." "It was simply a matter of time before you assaulted Karim." "I didn't assault him, he fucking--" "Yes?" There is a hint of triumph. "Nothing." He shuts down immediately, leans back in his chair (he had not realized he was leaning forward) and crosses his arms over his chest, jaw set, looking at the floor again. The picture of an intractable young man. "Alex, you were going to tell me anyway. You might as well." She is not insistent; she gives him a gentle prod, that's all. He sighs and relents. "He came to my room just to shit on me. What did he expect?" "Is that what you mean? He doesn't take responsibility?" "Yeah." "Could you elaborate?" "I mean--" He rubs his arm, up, down, repeat, over and over. At least his foot isn't tapping. "His mouth writes checks his ass can't cash, you know? He does what he wants and whines when there's consequences." "And what about you, Alex? Do you take responsibility for your actions?" "I--" He looks up, sharply. "I don't know." "I've got a hypothesis for you, Alex." She straightens, tapping her pen against her clipboard a few times. "Many times when we feel 'shitty'," she half-smiles around the expletive, "it's not because of what happens, what other people say or do, but because these things cause us to recognize some failure or flaw we perceive in ourselves. Like not taking responsibility." "Karim doesn't feel shitty when--" She interrupts him. Her tone isn't harsh, but she is forceful. "We aren't talking about Karim, Alex, we're talking about you. You don't have to tell me what's bothering you, if you don't want. But maybe you could think about it, and tell me if whatever it is that's got you upset is because of what happened, or because what happened made you realize something about yourself." He opens his mouth to protest. The words die on his tongue. He unfolds his arms, puts his hand to his mouth, chews at a hangnail on his middle finger. He feels too hot, then cold. He starts to talk. "I-- me and Marine have this thing. Had this thing." The counselor does not interrupt; she simply nods. He's talked about Marine before, though never gone into detail. "I don't know, I really like her, and I guess I don't really want to because, because, you know, this place is so fucked up, right? But I don't know, I think she just-- she just got me, somehow. And then she got to me." He shakes his head, chuckling, barely. The counselor is silent, waiting for him to continue. "So it just took off and I got really into her and I guess I was more into her than she was to me. I mean, we were hanging out all the time, we have class together, we have training together, it's like she was the only person I was with more often than the others." The counselor nods, again. She is used to this phrase, now, though in earlier sessions Alex would have to explain that he meant his clones, his duplicates. The other Alexes. "I felt like I could be myself with her. I felt better when I was with her. And any time I told her, you know, she never really felt the same way, she always said she didn't want things to be complicated. What the fuck does that even mean?" He shakes his head again, worrying the hangnail between his teeth. It won't budge. He has stopped talking, so the counselor gives him another gentle push. "So what happened between you? Can I assume that's why you're upset?" He doesn't speak for a while. When he does his words are hesitant at first, but they build steam until they are practically a torrent. "I mean, it's not like we were a thing. I mean, I guess we kind of were, but she kept saying she didn't want to be. She would tell me she really liked me and I made her heart feel tight and all this bullshit and then she says, oh, hey, I slept with this guy, like it fucking, like it doesn't fucking matter. And yeah, I didn't take it well, I mean, of course I didn't, because even though we weren't a thing I wanted to be and I thought she did too but she just kept giving all these reasons not to be and then she tells me this, you know?" His words are becoming thick. "So I got really drunk and I ended up sleeping with this girl and even though we're not a thing I knew it was something I shouldn't have done so I told her." He has finally worn the hangnail down; it comes loose, rips from the space between his skin and cuticle. He is bleeding now. "She said-- she said I didn't mean anything, that no one ever liked me, that they were all just fucking with me." He looks up, finally. His face is lined, worn, and there is pleading in his eyes. "So yeah, that's what I realized about myself. Can we stop, please?" The counselor nods and stands. "I think that's enough for today." He rises quickly, moves to go without speaking. As he moves past her, she places a hand on his shoulder. He stops cold. "But Alex, you have to know that you know that that isn't true, even if you pretend to believe it. And I doubt very much that Marine--" He jerks away from her touch. He yanks open the door and is out of the office before she can continue. The counselor sighs, sticks her head through the door frame. "Next, please." |