This choice: Perhaps therapy can help • Go Back...Chapter #4Perhaps therapy can help by: Unknown You trudge into tall skyscraper with the words 'ENZYME GENETICS' emblemed on the top in neon letters. A quick biometric scan of your retina, as well as a neural scan of your brain, quickly prompts a 'Welcome back, Mr. Anderson' to resound from the voice-box on the left. The doors slide open, and your firm steps take you to your office, a stack of white sheets lying on your desk.
"Paperwork again, huh?" You sigh as you tread to the office chair, swinging it around as you grab the paper on top of the sheets and begin filling it out. This was another result of your older age. As you progressed forward up the corporate ladder, you were forced to take upon more managerial positions, responsible for leading teams of people in order to accomplish set projects and coordinating between different departments.
Unfortunately, this isn't what you wanted. You recall back to your days of youth as, after graduation, you excitedly chattered your goals and ambitions to your hiring manager, who was almost taken aback by your enthusiasm. You were quickly hired for the entry-level position and sent frolicking about the laboratories. Sure, it might have been considering menial work and the pay was significantly less, but... you actually felt alive when you spliced genomes and performed HPLCs.
Nowadays, you barely even set foot to the lab, relegating the tasks to members of your team. Your prime was passed onto the youth of today. Oh how you want to wear a lab coat just one more time.
You grumble, glancing at the clock as you finish the last of the forms. Noon already? You think in disbelief, looking pointedly at the two hands that have perfectly lined upwards. It seems that even time these days goes by quicker. What used to feel like days now feel like hours, and months like weeks. Another sign of your older age breezing past the years.
You walk into the cafeteria, the flashing lights of menus on billboard signs blinding your eyes. The food is good, of course, but quite monotonous after having eaten here for many years. Shoveling a slice of pizza onto your plate, you're surprised as a hand slams onto your back, causing you to jump. You quickly swivel and find out his identity.
"Hey there, boss!" A tall, blond man exclaims, patting your shoulder in a brisk motion. This was one of your subordinates, Nathan. A recent graduate, you have just hired him a couple of months ago, and he has been making quite a bit of progress. His explosive personality reminds you of yours back in the day, part of the reason why you have really taken a liking to him.
"Hey there, Nate. How's work going? Have you finished inserting the artificial carbon fibers into the muscle cells?" You ask, walking over to the table and sitting down. He follows suit.
"Yeah. Problem is that they keep rejecting them. The white blood cells kill themselves trying to eradicate the invading material. And well... the rest of the cell follows."
"Don't worry. Keep at it. The funding's not a problem, and if we get this to work, we can deliver muscle strengthening at low costs and edge out the competition."
He nods, poking his fork around in his quesadilla. The two of you sit there silently, munching your food before he addresses you.
"Hey, boss."
"Mmhm? What is it?"
"I've been wanting to ask you something... Why do you seem so down? Every time I see you, it's as if though you're missing something. Like you've lost something valuable to you. Do you need a therapist? I can recommend one."
Your eyes widen as you hear his proclamation. What a cheeky brat! Maybe he resembles you a bit too much. You feel like he's been reading you like an open book! Still, therapy? You remember despising such tripe in your youth, thinking of it as something only senile old men would attend. Yet now that you are in the same position as those "old fogeys", you can see the attraction of it. Venting could be comforting, and maybe you could actually receive beneficial advice.
"You said a therapist?" You repeat, leaning in with a whisper, glancing around. You didn't want to be known as the type to need a therapist.
"Yeah. Dr. Maria Kloppmann. She's pretty famous too. Has a 95 percent rate of solving your problems. The other 5 come from men disappearing on her all of a sudden. There are all sorts of rumors and conspiracies about her too. Unsolved murders, vanishing politicians, things of that nature. It's all bogus, of course, but they just keep coming. Luckily, I know a friend who knows a friend who knows her. I can get you in today. What do you say?"
-|-|-|-|-|-|-
Your car rolls along the highway as you travel to your destination, address scrawled on a sticky note. You've already called your wife, informing her that you'll be home late because of a get-together party of your co-workers. Not that the lie mattered, you're pretty sure your wife would have let you go in any case, but you'd rather not let her know. The last thing you need is to get babied.
"So this is the place?" You look forward at a dark manor, enclosed with a tall, barbed fence, with twisted, gnarly oaks surrounding the twisting path to the house. "Is this supposed to be a therapist's house or a vampire's? I guess we'll just have to find out. And knock down that success rate."
You ring the button next to the gate, connected to a voice receiver, as you clear your throat.
"'Ello? Who is this?"
"Hi. Is this Dr. Kloppmann speaking? I'm Mr. Anderson, here on an appointment."
"Ah, Mr. Anderson! I've been waiting for you. Come on over."
The gates open with a bang and you scurry inside with a quick pace. The door of the manor is huge, over double your height, and groans as you forcefully open it inward like 'the Hulk'. Thank god for your workout.
"Welcome, Mr. Anderson." You are greeted at the front door by a woman. Surprisingly enough, she's quite young - way younger than you had imagined her to be. You couldn't believe that she was a therapist. She couldn't have been older than 25, tops! And quite beautiful to boot.
Long, wavy brown hair flowing past her shoulders, tied in a ponytail, gave her a very 'home-girl' appearance, while the round-spectacle glasses induced the aura of an intellectual within her. Her bountiful breasts were covered by a ribbed sweater. A mole was present on her face, giving her a subliminal mysterious look. You could definitely say she was your type.
"Take a seat, take a seat!" She says, pushing two chairs with her, gesturing you to one of them. You comply, plopping down on the cushion. What a soft cushion it was. "So what is the problem?"
"Ah..." You hesitate, not knowing how to begin. "Well, as you can see... Dr. Klopp-"
"Call me Maria."
"M-Maria. Anyway, I'm kind of having troubles with my wife at the moment."
"Go on."
"Well, recently, we haven't been doing as frequently as we were before. By that, I mean sex, of course. She just doesn't put out-"
"Are you saying that you expect her to have sex with you?" You are cut off by the sound of Maria's voice, who is currently scribbling furiously on a notepad with a pencil, the scribbling sounds hanging loud in the air.
"Well... yes, I guess. I mean, you can't just expect to leave me like that! I dedicate my heart to her and miss out on other women, yet-..."
A clicking of the tongue interrupts your rambling. You look up at her and pale. She does not look amused. "As I thought. You men are all so selfish. What, do you think that women are your toys or something, you sexist freak? Luckily you came to me before you did anything grave. I will fix you."
Your jaw gapes. "Ex-... excuse me, ma'am?"
She jumps to her feet, accusingly pointing her finger at you. "See? You did it again! I'm a doctor, not 'ma'am'! You chauvinist pigs really do need to be taught a lesson. You'll be spending the next month contemplating your decision at home."
What the fuck!? Then it hits you. Oh god, she's a feminist bitch. You think, palming your face in an exasperated motion. You've heard rumors of such relics left over from the previous century, but you didn't think they actually still existed.
"Uh... sorry. I think I gotta go." You turn around to head outside, but are only greeted by two very large, very muscular men standing behind you. They're huge! "Uh, can you let me through?"
"Sorry, pal," One gestures, cracking his knuckles. The sound makes you flinch. "The boss gotta take you to you to the TF clinic. Nights out, boy!" You slip in unconsciousness as a loud crack is delivered upon your head, rattling your brain in the inside...  indicates the next chapter needs to be written. |
| Members who added to this interactive story also contributed to these: |
View Portfolio
Visit Notebook
Send Gift Points
Awards
Badges
Send Email
Community Newsfeed
General Discussion
Sponsored Items
Book of Trinkets
Static Items
Books
Groups
Interactive Stories
Audio
Campfire Creatives
Community Notes
Crossword Puzzles
Documents
Folders
Images
In & Outs
Madlibs
Photo Albums
Polls
Product Reviews
Quizzes
Survey Forms
Web Pages
Word Searches
