A piece of free writing I have just completed. A snip of an idea running around in my head…this is what just tumbled out. Any thoughts?
The pain was almost physical. It was as if she had punched into his stomach, the interior part, twisted her fist and left a ghost print of it there. Knotted, entangled, emotive stew. Just below boiling point, not enough to erupt, but enough to send streams of acid into the higher reaches of his oesophagus, where they had lain in wait for him…until now…now they bubbled like a witches cauldron and carried with them the pain of the truth that she had imparted.
She was leaving him.
At first the words had sounded like an echo, somehow unreal and he had laughed. Wrong response, although hindsight would eventually show him that no response would have made any difference. Her choice. Her moment of pure power. His moment of unreality. Total and utter shock.
He had left her before on a number of occasions. That was the dynamic. He was always in control. Not today though. Not anymore. She was gone.
That was where the acid streams in his throat had their root. In a sense of anger, a sense of injustice. He couldn’t see the irony or the fear for that matter. He was too wrapped up in himself for that.Too wrapped up in the pain body, the whirlwind of emotion that had coiled itself about his intestines and was squeezing.
“How could she leave him? How fucking dare she?”
This was going to be a tough assignment. I’d only been a Witness for a day. It had taken me a year to get to the point where the boss felt sufficiently comfortable with me to assign me a client.What a client! Of course I had been given this job because he was a reflection of my former self. I too had fought with an inner anger that threatened to destroy not only myself but those around me. I had won my personal battle and found inner peace. Then I died. Life huh? It had been a bit of a surprise after the event to find I still inhabited the same consciousness. The same awareness but a different form. No one talked about Heaven or Hell around here. There were just departments and a whole lot of choice about what you could do. Think a thought and you found yourself in the right department. Being a witness was a way of giving something back. A bit like a therapist or counselor, except the client couldn’t see you. If they were in tune they might ‘feel’ you and we had, in the course of our training, begun to learn a few tricks like knocking books from shelves, blowing stuff into the path of the client and making the hairs stand up on the backs of their necks. Small stuff but powerful in the right moment and when it worked. I was still perfecting some of it and I was also currently working on changing TV channels by thinking about it. Crossing dimensions was tricky though.
All the work we did with the client themselves, had to be via the unconscious. A bloody minefield. So much already going on in there, it was very hard to try and direct awareness to a particular area. Even with dreaming time. Somehow I had to get Mr Angry here to stop and listen to himself, locate the fear, feel it and hopefully release it. Then, and only then, might there be a chance of recovery.
Mr Angry thought all therapists were morons and that feelings and expression of emotions were for wimps. A few shots of Whiskey here and a night out there with the lads, was all he needed to feel better about things. That’d always worked. Until now. Mr Angry swilled the last of the coffee around in his cup and swallowed it. The acid in his stomach growled in anticipation. More fuel for the fire. He stood up and walked to the counter, paid the bill cursing her for not having done so, and turned to leave the cafe.
This was my chance. The cafe had been one of her favourites because of the book exchange. People brought in finished books and took away others to read. There was always a good selection and a healthy rotation and most of the tables had a selection of books on or by them. She had loved books about personal development and change. He hadn’t. Time to change his mind.
I focused on a book by Thomas J Harbin called ‘Beyond Anger: A Guide for Men: How to Free Yourself from the Grip of Anger and Get More Out of Life’
I focused hard and to my delight the book began to move slowly at first but then suddenly. Unfortunately, my utter and total focus on book poltergeistian motion prevented me from observing the possible path of the book. The book hit the coffee cup and it, not the book, flew into my client. It was fresh and hot and hit him just above the knee.
‘Arrrggghhh….For fuck’s sake’ he shouted and looked accusingly at the man sitting at the table.
‘I never touched it’ said the man. ‘The book just moved’
‘The book just moved’ mimicked my client in a weasely kind of voice that suggested he had already decided here was a fitting target for his anger. Probably one of those Philosophising types SHE had liked. Full of opinions about life the universe and everything. Soft bastards. Hittable. He grabbed the man by his lapels and hoicked him out of the chair.
‘You’re going to regret that sunshine’ he sneered.
This was not how today was supposed to be going.
My client punched the man. Hard.
This was going to be much tougher than I thought.