Tainted Dreams

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Coldness. I feel nothing but cold. Even though I am sitting in a temperature filled room, my body acts as if it was a fridge.

I'm not sick. I don't have a fever nor a cold. How ironic is that? I've felt this way ever since I probably came out of my mother's womb. The act of feeling cold. I hate the world. I hate people. No, I extremely dislike people. 

They are annoying homo sapiens that try their hardest to get inside your head. They want to know how you feel, how you act, how you understand the world and every little aspect around it. Although, some homo sapiens aren't at all that bad. 

However, you would have to get on my good side for me to call you an "alright" type of homo sapien. Such as my mother. She's an alright type of lady I guess. She birthed me, fed me, gave me life advice, but let's not forget that my poor mum went through a lot of crap raising me. I'll admit it, I wasn't an easy kid to raise. Yet was it my fault that I was born?


I sure as hell didn't think I was going to be this vexatious, raging person growing up. I never knew I would have a hatred for many homo sapiens, be this cold person, and really despise the taste of milk. I honestly cannot stand it. Yet most importantly, the one homo sapien that I truly, utterly, cannot stand in my existence of seventeen years of living are therapists.

My therapist. 


"Let's start off with your feelings."

"Feelings?" I snicker, leaning back into the chair.

"Of course," he nods, interlocking his fingers. 

"Feelings are shitty," I tell him, earning a disappointing look right away. 

"I'm trying aren't I?" I ask with a smirk.

"You are," he smiles, "But that's not the answer I was looking for."

"Tough luck," I reply.

"Please Oliver," he sighs, running his fingers through his hair. "We can't keep doing this."

"Keep doing what?" I question.

"This," he motions between us. "I'm asking you a simple question, yet you ignore the answer and respond very.."

"Very what?" I cut him off.

He smiles embarrassingly, moving back into his chair. "Ignorant." 

"You have got to be kidding me," I muttered.

"Now, we can change that if you simply answer my question, Oliver," he smiles. 

A smile that makes me sick just by looking at him.

"What was it?" I murmur, yawning a bit too loudly for his taste. 

"Your feelings." 

Ah yes. Feelings. What a wonderful word that must be for a therapist.

"An emotional state or reaction, if I am correct," I smirk, crossing my arms.

"Yes." A pause. "You are."

"And you," I point to him. "Want to know what my feelings are?"

"Oliver," he sighs once more.

"You amaze me, Dr. Smith. Truly, you amaze." I laugh, a bit on the evil side but he gets the point.

"So, we're back to square one once again, aren't we?"

"No," I sternly say, shaking my head. "Grab your little notepad and I'll tell you all about my feelings," I spit out the last word as if I was disgusted. Which, to be fair, I am. 

I watch as Dr. Smith rapidly grabs his brown, thick notepad from the desk, rushing to open it up, he leans against his chair and opens it, taking his black inked pen behind his ear, he takes the cap off and looks straight at me. 

"You look like you were in a hurry," I snicker, crossing my legs. 

"This is the first time you actually want to talk," he chuckles, wiping away the droplets of sweat on his forehead. "I'm astounded." 

"So am I," I say. 

"So," he clears his throat, proceeding to ask me the exact same question once more. "Your feelings."

"My feelings," I nod. "Well Dr. Smith, I don't know what to tell you," I shrug, blowing out a breath of air. 

"I beg your pardon?"

"Well, you certainly can't seem to think that a person like me, has feelings." The expression on his face is truly the icing on the cake. He looks beat, exhausted with my words, and of course, probably regretting to be my therapist in the first place. 

My poor mum is wasting her money on me while I waste this man's time and life. 

"I mean come on Dr. Smith," I laugh. "You've been my therapist for what, at least two years now?" 


"And you still think that your little 'how do you feel question' is going to be answered? By me?" I tittered, like the joker itself. 

"Oliver-" he tries to talk, yet I continue to cut him off. 

"You have got to be out of your mind if you think that I will be explaining to you about my goddamn feelings," I mock, standing up a bit too fastly as I seemed to have surprised Dr. Smith and also my headrush. 

"I hear you, Oliver. I really do," he says sadly, closing his book and throwing it onto the right side of his brown monstrous desk. I watch as he rubs his eyes in distraught, running his fingers through his black thin hair. 

Such a shame. Only in his mid-fifties, and I'm making the man lose his hair. 

"My time is done Dr. Smith," I state, waiting for him to respond with at least a 'goodbye' yet I never get to hear it. 

Amy Sparks

#503 in Romance
#165 in Mystery

Story about: romance, teen fiction, romance and mystery

Edited: 01.08.2019

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