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Harper Lee knew what she was writing about. She knew just what a great book looked like, and lo and behold, she wrote one.
To kill a Mockingbird was one of the greatest books I have ever read when I was in my freshman year. Filled with a class full of idiotic students, I remember the day my teacher handed me the book, my sudden excitement surged through my head, as I only wanted to read the book, not interfere with my classmates.
As much as they tried, my poor classmates thought that the book's main theme implied to kill a Mockingbird, which made me choke on my own oxygen hearing that.
Harper Lee was clever. She knew many readers would not understand her novel just by looking at the title, but some would.
It is a sin to kill a Mockingbird, people say.
A Mockingbird is a simply helpless person that does not do any harm. As much as a Mockingbird seems to be this weak, innocent person, isn't everyone on this planet a Mockingbird?
It may seem to others that not everyone is shown to be or act as a Mockingbird, but if we all look closely.
Everyone is at least weak and helpless at times. Therefore, we are all Mockingbirds.
Although I do prefer myself to be a caterpillar than a Mockingbird.
I always have known that I would get eaten and captured by innocence itself.
"What are you thinking about?"
I look up from my lap, seeing as Dr. Smith stares at me with caution, but also uncertainty.
"You never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view. Until you climb inside of his skin and walk around in it."
"I beg your pardon?" Dr. Smith questions, arching his head at the side.
I chuckle with amusement. "To Kill a Mockingbird," I smile, crossing my arms. "Have you read the book?" I ask, which he nods.
"The great Harper Lee if I do say so," he laughs, closing his horrid coffee-coloured therapy notepad. "I'm amazed you remember such an important quote from the book."
I shrug. "I've read the book a million times. Nothing I've read before," I say as I pick at my cuticles.
"I see," he nods with a hum, still closely staring at my actions as he sits behind his rust-coloured desk.
"May I give my opinion about something?" I change the topic with a question, a strange one as I repeat it over my head. Although Dr. Smith doesn't seem to mind at all.
"Of course Oliver. This here is a room where you can share all of your thoughts and emotions if you'd like," he smiles.
"I was talking about my opinion, not my feelings," I sternly point out.
"Sorry, sorry," he puts up his hands in defence as if I was going to shoot the man. "Ahem, you were saying?"
"Ah yes," I nod, sitting up in my seat. "You're notepad and table," I point, making feel perplexed by my words.
"Is there a problem with those two objects?"
I ridiculed "How could there not?"
With a grin, Dr. Smith says, "let's hear your opinion then." And crosses his arms.
"Well first off, that notepad looks repulsive and worn out," I stick my tongue out in shame. Ashamed that my therapist, can't even go out and buy himself a new notepad.
"Well you're brutally honest," he says with shock as if he did not know that about me.
"I'm harsh," I shrug. "You should have been used to it now old man."
"Excuse me?" he coughs, with widened eyes. "I am not old! I'm only forty-seven!" he exclaims, although I ignore.
"Your desk looks hideous as well," I add, which he then gasps in much more shock. "Jesus, calm down before you have a heart attack," I warn, not at all wanting to call the ambulance and tell them that I gave my own therapist a heart attack.
"What's wrong with my desk?"
"What's not wrong with it," I mutter. "It's a mess," I casually say.
"Well, this is how I work." He tries to save himself, but it doesn't work.
"It's how pigs work," I ridicule. "You need to clean up that mess and also get yourself a new notepad."
"And what would that do? Would it satisfy me, or you?" he questions, making me raise an eyebrow in humour.
"I suppose it would only satisfy me," I sigh. "But truthfully, it would help you as well."
Dr. Smith rolls his eyes in a taunting way, probably thinking that I'm only fooling and playing a joke with him for fun.
"Do you know the saying 'life is a beautiful mess?'"
"I've heard it, but I don't believe it," I grumble, flicking off a tiny feather that was on my coat.
"Well, life is truly a beautiful mess," he resumes. "And my desk is an example of it."
I stare at him with disbelief.
"Now Oliver, don't look at me like I'm some absurd person," he chortles as he leans back into his chair.
"How can I, if I already have been for the past two years?" I simper.
"You just enjoy getting on people's nerves, don't you Oliver?" I stare at Dr. Smith with annoyment, but as I see him with a smile on his face, I cool down and let the old man have his fun.