Don’t Disappoint Me
The powerfully built, white-coated male nurse led me down the drab hospital corridor to the room. It was a plain wooden door with a small numbered plate on it: 101. The nurse opened it and steered me in, following immediately behind me, and directed me across to a large desk with a chair in front of it; he pushed me down into it. On the other side of the desk sat a man in a neat grey suit, presumably one of the psychiatrists. He was a kindly-looking type in his early fifties; he raised his face from his paperwork and smiled at me.
‘Ah, Simon,’ he said, leaning back in his chair, making it creak slightly. ‘you may be wondering why you’re here. You’ve been referred to me because you’ve been failing to make progress. In fact you’ve… relapsed. It’s my job to straighten matters out for you.’
He put his hand up to his face and rubbed his forehead thoughtfully with one finger, as if wondering what to say next. Then he continued.
‘You’ve disappointed us, Simon,’ he said, his kindly face becoming slightly reproachful. ‘We thought you were making good progress, but now you’ve done this. You know what I’m talking about, don’t you?’
I shifted uneasily in my chair, finding myself gripping the arms in unconscious tension. ‘I… I think so, yes,’ I admitted. ‘You mean Journalspace.’
‘Quite,’ the kindly doctor beamed. ‘I knew you were intelligent. His expression then changed again, to one of tiredness. ‘That’s what makes your failing so much more saddening to me.’
He reached out to the surface of the desk and picked up a sheet of paper which he studied briefly. Then he looked up again. ‘I’m not going to tell you my name; I want you to just think of me as… Dr O’Brien. Do you understand the significance of that?’
I found myself going cold. ‘Yes,’ I croaked. ‘I think so.’ I knew what he was talking about all right – I had quoted the passage from the book 1984 about the ruthless yet reasonable-seeming interrogator O’Brien in one of my own comments boxes.
‘Quite. I’m sure you do. Now then, look at this.’ So saying he held out the piece of paper so I could see what was on it. It was a photograph of the naked torso of a man, with some text beneath:
From Simon on 09/16/04
Ah! Now I find him attractive too! Thank heavens – I must be normal. I’m not a lesbian after all!
‘Do you remember writing that, Simon?’ the doctor said, looking at me directly. I was suddenly aware of how pale blue his eyes were. They were absolutely cold and steady. I swallowed.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I wrote them in the comments section of… of one of the Journalspace members. A woman.’
‘And why did you write it, Simon?’ the doctor asked, leaning forward on his desk now.
‘Well,’ I began, my nervousness increasing. ‘It was a joke. Haha! Erm…’
He continued looking at me for several seconds. ‘A joke. I see.’ He didn’t move an inch. His eyes continued to bore into me. ‘Do you remember the agreement you made about making comments of a sexual nature in other people’s journals, Simon?’
‘Well… I… I thought she’d be old enough to find it funny it without being offended,’ I answered. Far from feeling cold now, I was beginning to sweat.
‘Old enough. I see.’ he said, considering.
‘Yes! She’s in her thirt—’ I barely had time to see the doctor reach for a button on the surface of his desk before I felt the jolt of electricity through the arms of the chair, through my body, making me arch with terrifying, excruciating pain. I found myself gasping, twitching uncontrollably.
‘Don’t interrupt me again, Simon,’ the doctor said mildly. ‘It’s very discourteous. Now, where was I?’
I remained silent. Was this a trap? Did he mean me to answer, or was it a rhetorical question?
‘Very good, Simon,’ he smiled. ‘You’re able to learn. I like patients who learn quickly. Now, you were saying that your ‘joke’ was acceptable because of the woman’s age…’ he looked down at another sheet of paper. ‘This female Journalspace member had written an entry in which she mentioned making love to her boyfriend and subsequently making breakfast.’ He held up the sheet for me to read.
From Simon on 09/12/04
That could make a good T shirt slogan. ‘Make Love Not War’ is a bit clichéd; ‘Make Love and Breakfast’ has a nice ring to it. Go for it. Market it.
‘Ah,’ I said. ‘Yes. I thought…’
The doctor didn’t wait for me to stammer out another excuse this time, but broke in with ‘How old is the person whose journal you made that comment in, Simon?’
‘Er… twenty-one,’ I said, hanging my head in shame.
‘And what of the matter of lengthy comments?’ he pressed. ‘No more comments longer than the original entry? No more comments longer than a couple of dozen words?’ He looked at yet another sheet of paper – there seemed to be dozens of them in the pile. ‘So this one of nearly seven hundred and fifty words was a temporary aberration, was it?’
‘Yes,’ I said eagerly, before noticing his expression. ‘Well, there may have been a couple of others… I… I may have…’
‘I believe I’ve made my point, Simon,’ he said, leaning back in his chair again. ‘It’s time for a little more therapy.’
At those all too familiar words I sprang to my feet almost involuntarily, and was just opening my mouth to plead with him when the male nurse’s brass-knuckled fist made contact with my cheekbone, spinning me round towards him. Then he brought his heavily booted foot up into my groin.
When I had recovered enough for my vision to clear I became aware of the doctor’s concerned face peering into mine from close to. I was sitting back in the chair again, and he was touching my cheek; he brought away a bloodstained finger. He straightened and looked at the male nurse with a look of severe reproof.
‘Vincent,’ he said. ‘I thought I’d warned you about that.’ The nurse looked down, ashamed. ‘I told you: leave no marks.’ He brought his finger up to his mouth and licked the blood from it, a brief look of intense, almost orgasmic pleasure passing across his face. Then he returned to his chair behind the desk, and Vincent took up his station behind me again.
‘Very well,’ the doctor said, his kindly look restored. ‘I’m a reasonable man. I’ll consider that as part of your therapy. Now, what are you going to do when you next go to Journalspace, Simon?’
I was unable to meet his eyes. ‘No comments pertaining in any way to sex in the journals of a girl young enough to be my daughter,’ I mumbled. ‘No lengthy comments in anyone’s journal.’
‘Very good!’ the doctor said, the smile back on his face. ‘Now, don’t disappoint me, Simon. Off you go.’
§
I realise I have not been entirely adhering to my pledge. Old habits die hard. I’d promised to behave more my age, to respect the gap between generations. I tried! I have been restraining myself! I’ve been cutting down the number of comments, cutting down the sexual innuendo, cutting down on the number of diatribes… but I must do more. I will do more. I will keep the length of my comments down. I will reduce the number of comments in the journals of those under the age of eighteen. I will reduce the amount of sexual innuendo in the journals of those under the age of twenty-five.
I know I can do it. It may take a little time, but I will do it. I can keep it under control. To quote from the comments box of one Journalspace user:
From Simon on 09/12/04
I'm not going to make a comment here – I realise how annoying it is when I keep leaving long, rambling comments. Self discipline – that's all it takes!
From BeltaneLamb on 09/12/04
i thought you said 'I'm not going to make a comment here'
From Simon on 09/12/04
You're right! Delete it! *covers face with shame*
I may not be able to kick the habit of making completely frivolous comments however. I’m working on the others though. Honest.
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