Burning Red Oven

Psychiatrist and Patient

D: Ah *Checks chart* Lillian, have a seat.

P: You don’t have a couch?

D: Pardon?

p: *Looks around* A couch, you know, like the ones you see on TV, big, made of leather, generally black although sometimes they’re red *smile* that beautiful color. *Pause* All you have are these hard metal chairs. Not at all comfortable. *Sits down*

D: Err… I’m sorry about that. Now, can you tell me about you favorite color?

P: Why?

D: Color is a form of expression. Different shades mean different things depending on how dark or light they are.

P: What’s your favorite color Doctor?

D: Green. What’s yours?

P: Red.

D: *Scribbles something down* Why is that?

P: Because it’s beautiful. I like it when it dyes the fabric. People look good with it wrapped around them, especially the neck. It’s so pretty. *Sighs*

D: What about roses?

P: Roses?

D: Red roses, what do they mean to you? *Furiously writing*

P: Do you like them Doctor?

D: Roses, ah not really. I’m not that fond of flowers.

P: How come?

D: They remind me of my mother because she’d always place them in vases around the house. The smell was overwhelming when they started rotting.

P: My mother used to bake a lot.

D: Really. *Jots something down*

P: Yes, she’d forget about the cakes sometimes and would take them out of the oven hours later after the smoke alarm had gone off. Every now and then when I was bored, I’d dig my hands into what was left of the cake and tried to pull out the charred heart inside. It looked… wrong though.

D: How did it look wrong?

P: *Frowns* It was black, all crumbly as it came apart in my hands.

D: What did you think it should have looked like?

P: It should have been red and pulsing. It should have been alive, not dying.

D: * Writes something down* Tell me about your father.

P: He was big like a giant. Mother used to worship him whenever he came home from wherever he’d been.

D: What’s your impression of him?

P: He was grey because he was sad and didn’t know any better. He wasn’t red and that upset me.

D: Was your mother red?

P: No, she was black just like the cakes she made. I liked to watch her fall apart when the oven timer never went off. That’s when she started crying and the layers would cave in on top of each other.

D: Why did you want them to be red?

P: *Looks at him strangely* Because then I could give them my love. They didn’t deserve it when they were gray and black. That’s boring. What color were your parents Doctor?

D: Hmmm. I probably wanted them to be pink so I knew that they loved me and sometimes they were. More often they were grey though.

P: Why pink?

D: Because that’s the color that represents love for me. Why did you choose red?

P: *Frowns* I didn’t choose red, red chose me.

D: Can you elaborate? *Checks something off*

P: They weren’t red Doctor. They weren’t vibrant and I couldn’t see it on them.

D: Couldn’t see what?

P: They didn’t look beautiful when that color touched them. I used to have a pair of sunglasses with red lenses and when I looked though them, they would look dirty and twisted. They deserved their end, all broken and falling apart as the black began to fade with time.

D: Was there anyone who looked beautiful in red to you? *Writing madly*

P: Sean was beautiful in red.

D: Beautiful, not handsome you say?

P: Yes, beautiful.

D: Why did you think he looked beautiful in red?

P: It suited him. He looked alive.

D: Do you think he deserved his end?

P: What end?

D: His death. Do you think he deserved to die like that?

P: He’s not dead Doctor.

D: What makes you say that?

P: Because I can feel him inside me. *Places her hand on her stomach* I can feel his heart beating and hear the movement of the blood.

D: Lillian lets imagine. How would you feel if Sean was dead?

P: That’s not true though Doctor. I can see him you know and hear his voice. He says he loves me. I love him Doctor, I love him.

D: Let’s just imagine. Can you tell me why you love him Lillian?

P: *Yelling* Because he was red and deserved my love, not like my parents. The only time they ever looked beautiful was when they died. Red was all around them then and that was the first time I ever liked them.

D: And Sean was beautiful in red?

P: Yes, he was beautiful in red. He was beautiful Doctor. *gasping*

D: How was he beautiful? Can you explain some more?

P: When I watched him I could see that he was alive, not like my parents who were crumbling apart. I could see the blood beneath his skin, pulsing, moving. He was vibrant Doctor. I loved him and he loved me.

D: When was the first time he ever said he loved you?

P: *Smiles* It was behind the bleachers after school. Then he kissed me and when he moved his mouth away he had my lipstick on him. It looked cute on him.

D: What color was the lipstick?

P: It was red. I don’t wear any other color. That way when I kissed him he became mine.

D: What do you mean he became yours? *Writing madly*

P: Sean’s beautiful Doctor. I wanted to see him all in red. Every now and then we’d sneak into the art room and fool around with the paints.

D: *Frowns* Have you ever used any illegal substances?

P: Drugs? Doctor I don’t do drugs. I tried once and it messed up my ability to see the colors. So I stopped.

D: What’s your favorite taste Lillian?

P: Taste, not food?

D: Taste.

P: Red.

D: Red as in what? Juice, tomatoes, pasta sauce, raw meat, seafood?

P: Just red Doctor. *Shakes her head* It’s brilliant almost like drinking blood; you can taste life in it.

D: Have you ever drunk blood? Cut yourself on purpose?

P: Haven’t you ever licked a paper cut Doctor, to stop the bleeding?

D: Yes, do you get cut often?

P: Every now and then like everybody else. *smile*

D: Do you have any hobbies Lillian?

P: I like to paint.

D: What do you paint?

P: Whatever I feel like. *Shrugs*

D: You mentioned that Sean became yours. Can we go back to that?

P: Sure.

D: What did you mean by that? *Jots something down*

P: He became mine Doctor. Haven’t you ever wanted to own somebody, have them only watch you? Sean was like that. I could honestly taste some inner part of him from deep within me.

D: Could you feel that connection with your parents?

P: No, they weren’t red Doctor. I’ve said it before; they weren’t beautiful until they died.

D: If Sean died do you think he would be beautiful?

P: *Closes her eyes* Yes. I can see it. He’d be beautiful.

D: Can you describe it to me, how he’d die?

P: Gently. I wouldn’t want to hurt him because he doesn’t deserve that. Have you ever tried to break something open without ruining it, like wrapping paper?

D: Yes, I used to do that with all my presents at birthdays and Christmas.

P: Me too.

D: Sean would look like that then?

P: Yes. There’d be red all around him on the ground, running through his hair and clothes. Beautiful, it’s absolutely beautiful.

D: Would you be happy if Sean died Lillian?

P: Maybe. I don’t know.

D: Why is that?

P: Because then he’d be totally mine. I would be the only person to love him, to hold him, to kiss him. He’d be mine and mine alone. I might be lonely though, I might get lonely.

D: Why do you feel that he needs to be yours?

P: He’s red Doctor. He’s the only one who deserves my love.

D: Do you think you’d have the strength to kill him?

P: Yes.

D: Where would it be?

P: In the art room. We used to open up the paints and color each other. He’d paint me green and I’d use up all the shades of red. He looked really good like that.

D: What would you use?

P: *Slowly* One of the knives for sharpening pencils. A quick cut to the wrist and then the red would begin to flow. From there I’d be able to paint him into my own image of desire. He’s beautiful in red Doctor.

D: I know. *Stands up* Thank you for talking to me today Lillian.

P: *Smiles* You know Doctor; you might look good in red as well. Sean looked beautiful the last time I saw him. I can imagine you looking just like that. Vibrant and completely mine.

The Doctor

Every Tuesday morning he sits down in the second and final chair in the room and asks my husband what he’d like to talk about today. He always opens the door 30 seconds before 11 o’clock and then smiles when he sees my husband sitting there, as if he’s forgotten there’s no choice for either of them in the matter. He shuts the door quietly, without the general clack and bang of metal and wood attempting to fuse together in a way that should have never been made possible, and I find myself standing on the other side of the door in contemplation about the situation, just like every other Tuesday morning.

            

The dusty, gray blinds smoothed up against the window that make no noise as they swing back and forth, the sterilized silver of the door handle covered in the gentle grip of fingerprints and the little metal plaque below the window with the letters ‘Dr. Allaway, Psychiatrist’ engraved upon it.

           

I enter the room at 20 after and as usual, only the doctor notices, his eyes flickering to me before going back to the papers on his lap. He’s finally lost that scared, nervous look of uncertainty he thought he’d been hiding every time he laid eyes on me. My husband’s eyes remain fixed to whatever spot on the floor he’s focusing on, attempting to remain within the silence.

            

I probably should be calling him my ex-husband though, yet I can’t manage to staple the words down onto my tongue and force them to stay. It’s strange how we find it fit to label those moments that once consumed our lives, it’s almost like I’m admitting a mistake. And yet here we all are, the man I decided to marry one day, seven years ago, the doctor in the opposite chair and me, a shadow against the wall.

           

And then the conversation starts, or rather, it attempts to. Perhaps this will be the day there is crying, the big, gushing tears that roll down my ex-husbands cheeks, filling his lips with a saltiness that drowns out his apologetic pleas, that he didn’t mean to do it.

            

Or the rage that has nowhere to be directed. The chairs are bolted to the floor and there is nothing else within the confines of the room. No little paintings of general scenery, puppies and children running through a sunny field. No shelving units, no tables or throw rugs. Even the blinds are behind a second sheet of glass.

            

But someway or another, the confession will break, my ex-husband on the floor or huddled in his chair, the doctor thanking him for his time and the guards’ soft knock at the door. They’ll carry him out; whispering soft reassurances, promises of applesauce for desert, medication, a rest and finally the door snicks shut once more, leaving the two of us alone.

            

He’s still sitting down, the papers abandoned on the floor beneath his chair, his hair going slightly gray at the roots in a way that’s starting to bother him, a few days growth outlining his face and the same tired resolution in his eyes as he finally looks up and meets mine.

            

I smile. He smiles, though not a strongly as I do. Tracing his face, I let my fingers walk under his chin and brush my lips against his, hoping this time he’ll be able to feel my skin against his.

            

Nothing.

            

He kisses me back, his hands tracing where my face would be if I were physical. “I’ll see you next week,” he whispers.