1. Care of Cell 44 - by The Zombies

Care of Cell 44 by Zombies

Welcome home, she says as I take my seat across from her, noting the lines of her forehead and cheeks as she smiles. She has a good smile. A smile that one likes instantly and then forgets once disarmed. These lines suit her though and don’t necessarily age her; they’re just the oil stains, dings and dents of a well and much used tool.

 

Thanks, I respond.

 

Thank you for keeping the appointment.

 

Yeah, well, you did insist didn’t you? You also called my mother when I tried to cancel, so here I am.

 

Why did you want to cancel? She asks me, smirking. More lines.

 

I feel good, why would I need to come if I feel good?

 

That depends.

 

Silence. Should I say something? I heard no question. Why is she looking at me expectantly?

 

What do you mean when you say that you “feel good”? She says at last.

 

I mean what I say, mostly. To go deeper, or use different words I could say that I feel closure and peace and even joy at times.

 

Joy?

 

Yeah, joy.

 

Joy in memories?

 

Yeah, in memories, and in something more—something a bit more substantial—than memories.

 

Interesting. So You’re trip went well?

 

In a way.

 

Could you expand on that? She asks.

 

I could try, but I wont.

 

Why not?

 

I don’t think you could understand. I don’t completely understand but it’s true and it’s enough for me.

 

Interesting, she says. Let’s come back to that later.

 

I tell her, okay, and cross my legs.

 

Last time we met together you didn’t want to talk much about Chelsea. Are you comfortable talking about her now?

 

No, but I don’t mind so much.

 

No pressure at all, she tells me. Just talk as much as you feel comfortable.

 

Well, I think I kind of dreamt…—you know, it—before it happened.

 

Dreamt it? She asks, without shock or judgment. She writes something down in a notebook, then licks her finger and turns a page. I squirm uncomfortably as I watch. I’ve always found that practice disgusting.

 

Yes, I tell her.

 

All of it?

 

No—not exactly—just elements of the day I saw her for the last time. Or maybe the day just feels like a dream. I

don’t know.

 

Do you want to tell me what you remember about that day?

 

Not really, but I suppose that’s why I’m here isn’t it?

 

If you think so.

 

Okay.