Kaleidoscope


By Tracy Campbell

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ON-DEMAND PUBLISHING, LLC
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner.

KALEIDOSCOPE Copyright © 2015 by Tracy Campbell

Cover and Typography Design © 2015 by Tracy Campbell

and Atomik Cupcake Designs.


All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher
except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Printed in the United States of America

First Printing, 2015

ISBN 978-1506169712

On-Demand Publishing, LLC

100 Enterprise Way

Suite A200

Scotts Valley, CA 95066

“
I've always thought that we are what we remember,

and the less we remember, the less we are.
”

                            -CARLOS RUIZ ZAFON

CHAPTER ONE

When I was told to close my eyes and take a deep breath, I imagined the world in a snowy haze, crystals of ice dancing quietly in the air as if the sky was their ballroom and the wind was their orchestra. As I submerged my mind deeper into the illusion, I could almost feel the cold nipping at my fingertips, radiating into my hands and arms, and swelling into my nose and ears. I could see my breath!

And yet, despite all of it, I wasn't cold. Instead it felt invigorating. I looked to my right, and I saw dying, yellowed grass shoot out of the blowing snow like skyscrapers until they were seven, eight, and nine feet tall. They surrounded a curious wooden billboard that appeared in much the same manner; I tried to read the bold letters printed onto it, but the wind had picked up and shrouded the air in a cloak of white.

I frowned, slightly frustrated at my inability to see something in front of me that should have been so simple—so easy to see.
Story of my life
, I thought briefly.

I then turned my attention to the left, where I saw a beautiful, elegant white tiger laying amidst the snow. Its clear blue eyes locked with my own, but instead of feeling afraid of this great beast that could make anyone's blood run cold even on the warmest summer day—I felt calm. I felt calmer than I had in my entire life. I breathed a sigh of relief, and a small smile floated to my lips.

Suddenly, the tiger slowly began to turn orange, beginning in its middle and radiating out like a brilliant flame. I tried to focus on the brilliant color against its stripes as it changed again to white and then back to orange. The colors alternated faster and faster until I couldn't focus on them anymore. The tiger turned its head away from me...and then the entire scene began to crumble and melt around me in a swirling mess of snow. I turned again to the sign, hoping that it would now be visible, but it disappeared back into the cold ground as I came to my senses and returned to the real, waking world.

All I could see was darkness as I laid there, eyes closed for a moment, knowing that if I could delay opening them, I would also be delaying the barrage of questions that would soon follow. I didn't want that yet. I wanted to relish in the false memory of the dream world I had created, hoping I could visualize it well enough to eventually return there again.

The real world was so unappealing, after all—real snow was cold and unwelcoming, and almost as bleak as our short, yet pretentious existence on the planet. The dissociation that I felt towards it and other humans in general was comforting in this way, because I could easily convince myself I wasn't any part of the grandiose magic show that many hoped to experience of their lives. But, it was also abnormal. It's the reason I was lying down, eyes closed, waiting to give answers to someone who believed they could help me be “normal.”

              My therapist's voice broke my reverie, and my eyelids twitched open, void of emotion and understanding.

              “And go ahead and exhale, then open your eyes. That'll conclude our meditation session for today. Did you experience anything interesting?”

              I gave a sidelong glance to the middle-aged woman as the pitch of her voice grated on the inside of my brain. Obnoxious, naturally curled red locks framed a small-featured, mousey face that wore the largest pair of black, circular bifocals I've ever seen in my life. They were thick enough to magnify her dark eyes to an unnatural size, adding to her rodent-like appearance. They also gave me the feeling she could see into my very soul with them. I bet that's the exact look she was going for, because it was certainly her goal.

              I sighed; there was no point in putting her off. Ms. Orowitz was pushy and persistent as part of her job, but she was so nice about it that it was much more irritating than when other therapists I'd had would push. And yet, even I had to admit she seemed to have a real desire to understand me, to “fix” me. I suppose that's why my mother had stuck with her for the past three months.

              “I saw snow...and a tiger.”

              Ms. Orowitz tapped the uncovered tip of a ballpoint pen to her  glossed lips. Repeatedly. Each time she did, I became more and more annoyed by her existence.

              “Hmm, a tiger? That has some interesting symbolism behind it. Many believe that tigers represent leadership skills, power, and aggression. Was the tiger doing anything, specifically?” She tapped the pen loudly onto her clipboard, almost like a nervous tick, preparing to write down anything that might unlock the door to my sanity.

              “Not really, it was just kind of hanging out there in the snow, and we looked at each other.” I paused. “Then it changed color, from white to orange, right before I lost my concentration.”

              “Changing colors? Interesting. Were you afraid or upset looking at the tiger?” Ms. Orowitz pursed her lips, folded her hands under her chin, and peered forward at me. Her eyes, which seemed to amplify even more in size, bubbled with determination as if we were onto something; mine were filled with extreme agitation.

              “Actually, I felt very, very calm. Calmer than I've ever felt, especially calmer than I feel now.”

              The woman smirked, ignoring my sarcasm. “Calm...I'm not all that surprised. You have always seemed to be a brave soul, facing things head-on--including all my questions, of course!”

              Then she laughed. Normally, I'm not one to judge the sound people make when they're very happy, but this woman had a shrill, grating laugh that trickled into a nasal series of trills like a drowning bird. It was enough to prompt me to sit up, glancing with agitation around for a clock that would present to me how much longer I would be subjected to being in a room with my therapist. It was very much like I imagined the white tiger would feel, should it ever be placed in a cage. I could almost even feel the roar quelling itself in my chest...

              “Jade? Jade, can you hear me? Helllooooooo...”

              The real world compressed around me again, bringing me back to attention.

              “I said, I think these strong-natured visions of yours are a good sign.” Ms. Orowitz smiled. “But on a more professional note, I've noticed some confidence grow in you, and some other progress, since you started coming to me. I'll bet that you have enough ambition to cope with your illness, and you might be ready to try some memory exercises to help us get a little further.”

              A good sign? I'd almost forgotten about the unreadable sign that jutted from the ground in my mind. While it hadn't bothered me before, it suddenly taunted me with its simplicity. I frowned again.

“What kind of memory exercises?”

It was deeply unnerving how she and everyone else in the health profession referred to my apathy and temper as an “illness.” It wasn't just a painful reminder that something was wrong with me and that my day-to-day way of living wasn't what the majority of the population experienced. The term also implied it was something I would either die from, like ebola or something—or that I could be “cured” of. It implied that over time, I would eventually just wake up with my symptoms subsiding, feeling a bit more normal every day, until one morning they would magically disappear, and I would be happy like everyone else. Therapy and various medications were the cough syrup to this particular flu of the psyche, but the recovery time was unknown, and the solution was just a science experiment.

Once again, my preoccupation with my own thoughts had drowned out Ms. Orowitz's squeaky little voice, but I'd processed enough to gather she believed I was blocking out part of my life for whatever reason. Maybe I'd had a traumatic past, or maybe I was super depressed. Perhaps I lived in what she called a “toxic environment”-- whatever the case, the key to “fixing” me was to unlock these memories, like a key of revelation sliding into a padlocked book of my past.

According to Ms. Orowitz, at least. I didn't remember anything upsetting that could make me take her even a little seriously, but I guess that was the entire point. Or perhaps her using the excuse that I couldn't remember my life was simply a way for her to perform more experiments on my mental state.

“I want you to start keeping a journal,” Ms. Orowitz said, peering over her thick frames.

At once I started to protest, but she interrupted me and waved her hands in front of her as a calming gesture. “It doesn't have to be anything detailed,” she went on, “But I want you to write in it any time you have any kind of memory. Good or bad, no matter how small or large, just briefly describe that memory. I also want you to describe what were doing when the memory came up—it's an association exercise, you see? Anything you smelled, heard, saw...the senses are powerful transmitters of memory, so it's important that we look at the connection so we can see, you know, more potential connections along the way!”

Me, writing down the thoughts of my aggravated, wandering mind? “I don't think that's going to work,” I said flatly. Reading my thoughts out loud would be about as appealing and comprehensive as having a blind person try to navigate a maze.

“I know that with your...” she struggled for the words, “Unique thought process, this might seem counterintuitive, but I've had very impressive results from these exercises in the past.” Then she paused. “Plus, maybe it'll help you keep more organized!”

Ms. Orowitz glanced at the clock, which ticked ever so slowly, bit by bit, closer to 1pm. Only ten minutes of this mental torture, and I could get on with my life--what little of it I had, of course.

“Well!” The woman clapped her small, somewhat wrinkled hands and rubbed them together, then made a motion to stand from her red suede armrest, which matched the couch I sat on, and wobbled towards her desk.

For having such a petite build, this therapist certainly had an ample bottom. I guessed she just didn't move around much doing what she does for a living—she'd made, after all, a permanent imprint on her chair that was impressive to say the least. It's also possible that she comfort eats to deal with all of the crazies she probably encounters on a daily basis. Or maybe both?

              She sidled past her rarely used desk chair and reached beneath it, producing a shiny, red-brown leather book. It wasn't very large, probably about six inches in height and not more than a quarter inch thick, and could easily fit into my back pocket. On its front was a small loop, which held a red pen that matched the book in stature. It was red, just like the ones Ms. Orowitz used. She stood in front of me and extended the journal to me. When I didn't immediately take, she waved it in front of me like how one would wave a cookie in front of a dog. I grimaced, then took it in my hands, shoving it quickly into my back pocket as I stood to leave.

“Er...thanks. Am I dismissed now?”

Ms. Orowitz beamed a smile, her eyes squinting together in the process, and her hands clasped in front of her. It was clear she was pleased at our progress for the day and at my willingness to take her stupid journal. “Why sure Jade, we only have a few minutes left anyway.” Her annoying laugh made another appearance. “I'll see you next Tuesday, same--”

“--time, same place. Sure. Have a good one.” She insisted on saying the same phrase every single time I left her office. I realize that I have memory problems, but I'm pretty sure I could remember when my therapy appointments are without her excessively cheerful reminder. I gave a small wave and then exited into the building's main hall, shutting the door behind me.

As I emerged, I looked around, sighing with relief as the weight of being painfully self-aware was left behind with my therapist. I made my way down the cool, well-decorated hallway of the office building towards the main exit, rummaging in my pockets for my cell phone so I could check for...text messages and missed calls, I suppose. No one ever called or texted me, but it was a habit. I guess I hoped that if I checked often enough, I would somehow have friends to contact me out of the blue.

Instead of finding my phone first, however, I'd reached into the opposite pocket, where my fingers lightly brushed against the smooth surface of the journal lodged there.

I paused for a moment. Keeping a journal as a memory exercise...how cliché. I found myself still pulling the journal out for a closer examination, despite the absurdity of its purpose.

I leaned against the wall, then drew the small book closer to my face. This thing was incredibly tiny; how was I supposed to keep anything in here? And this taunting red ink pen would just have to go. The journal didn't have any bindings to keep its secrets locked away, easily flipping open to reveal yellow-hued pages, covered in light, widely spaced lines. Were these meant to accommodate hasty writing, or the scribbles of an eight year-old?

For some reason, I began to feel offended by this journal. I'm not an idiot. I don't need wide-spaced guidelines for how and where to write. Was it so tiny because Ms. Orowitz expected I would have nothing to write? She set me up for failure by providing such a small piece of writing material for her own memory exercises before I could even begin trying.

And yet...it was compelling. Now that I had a personal agenda to fill the entire book up as quickly as I could, just to show my therapist I wasn't nearly as broken as she'd perceived me to be, me to be, there was nothing I wanted to do more than use that stupid red pen to unleash a flurry of beautifully crafted words into those pages. I would shape my world into a bittersweet poetry.