Bad Luck: Catachresis {Sean}

[Erik Stewart]

Erik wasn’t unreasonable. He didn’t expect anything out of birthdays but to pass by without incident. That was all he’d ever wanted and all he’d ever asked of them, to come and go in exaggerated silence. But he still left his phone on the edge of the desk. He still made sure it was charged up the night before. There’d been a time when he did get calls, and he didn’t think it was wrong to hope, as long as he kept it to himself.

"Hello? Hello? This is the Stewart boy?”
It was a woman’s voice, an older woman’s voice, but it was not his mother’s. He stumbled once, then let out a bewildered “Yeah.”
“You ain’t at no private school. You’re at that mutant school up north, ain’t you? All this time!”
It had never occurred to Erik before that his parents might keep that hidden.
“We are a blessed community and for shame – for shame! – that you were born among so much love, and chose the Devil. Your kind’s nothin’ but his offspring. Sinners and whores, all a’you, but I’d a’never thought that Lynn’s son…”
“Who th’ fuck?” Erik said.
The woman raised her voice. He imagined her flaring her nostrils, straightening her glasses. “Father Mallory says it’s a blessin’ an’ proof that He’s watchin’, that He sees you fer what y’are an’ makes ya grow scales, so’s the rest of us know…”
His fingers pressed against the phone. He was still, shell-shocked, even, and it wasn’t until she’d uttered a final “Your soul’s condemned!” that he managed to shut her off, and the line went dead.


That had been Saturday. It was Monday now. Erik hadn’t gone to class, and luckily, the powers that be usually let that slide – they didn’t have the resources to track down every kid that skipped class, he supposed. But his sessions with Sean were different. An unannounced absence from therapy could be a symptom of some sort of psychological emergency, or the ever-present threat of rebellion. He could be in the hospital dying and they’d still want him to go and talk about his feelings. And he had a lot of those. In between his hissy fits and his general nastiness, people tended to think he’d a lack of emotion, but really he simply had too much to deal with.

He was quiet today, and he’d brought Dead John along with him. The black snake curled up placidly around his shoulders, where it’d stay for hours if need be – one of the many perks of communication. “Don’t worry, he’s already took ‘is shit for th’ week,” he muttered, in case Sean was concerned.

[Dr. Sean Neville]

Sean was not Indiana Jones. He was not particularly adventurous, he had never encountered Nazis or Soviet operatives, and he was not afraid of snakes.

He didn’t particularly care for snakes, but that was the result of his general disinterest in animals, not the result of any form (mild or severe) of ophidiophobia.

Dead John wasn’t even the first snake to be in his office, nor would he be the last (Sean’s personal feelings aside). Two years later, and the psychiatrist still remembered the care package that Mia Keystone’s family had sent to her, containing one of the few pets that passed muster with the Hammel campus pet policy.

“Thank you for informing me,” Sean replied. If Erik miscalculated that, then the boy would have to clean up after his snake, which was the psychiatrist’s rule about comfort animals in his office. With a bit of fortune, it would not be an issue.

Sean had more pressing concerns than the quasi-unknown state of the snake’s bowels.

Focusing his attention on the boy, he remarked, “I’ve been informed that you missed roll call for your classes today.” It wasn’t an accusation, but it was intended as bait so that the boy would open up about his reasons for skipping his academic lessons for the day.

[Erik Stewart]

Erik thought he could tell the difference between an accusation and a nudge. Besides, Sean ought to have known that it was easy for the kid to shut down. A lot of things could set his defensive nature off, but accusations were ideal if you were looking to set a record, and then there’d be little hope of reconciliation for as long as the session lasted; his contrary nature assured that he’d resist even the best of intentions.

“That’s ‘cause I didn’t show up,” he responded.

He was frowning. He thought he ought to have the right to miss class without the whole faculty knowing about it like the rest of the student body. He could’ve gone with the usual excuses, the ‘I didn’t feel well’ being the main one, and certainly he was half ready to mumble it out – but Erik was not a very good liar. He faltered. His fingers came up to half-cover his lips. They bent to support his chin instead.

“Had a shit weekend,” he said, “so I didn’t want t’deal with that.”

He supposed Sean’s next question would concern his weekend. Clearly reluctant, he lowered his arm to wrap it around his stomach, his knees and shoulders tight. Something in him, some innate instinct, told him that this was a bad idea. “

I got a call from back home,” he conceded.

[Dr. Sean Neville]

There were a number of difficulties when dealing with Erik, not the least of which were his aggressive attitude and his impulsive violence. However, one aspect of dealing with the boy that Sean valued was his bluntness. Erik had taken the bait and run with it, admitting right off that he had chosen to skip classes today. That saved them many minutes of beating around the bush.

As a result of this bluntness and their previous interactions, the psychiatrist had an expectation that Erik would eventually divulge why he had neglected to attend class. First came the vague explanation, one that could refer to anything, given that the shapeshifter was under restrictions for his past behavior.

Then came the more specific reason, and Sean nodded in sympathy.

Erik didn’t say, precisely, what he had been told over the phone, or even who had called him. His home town was so small that he could count easily the number of people it could have been, although the lack of specific title or name made it less likely that it was a family member. Likewise because of everything that the psychiatrist knew about Erik’s family.

One question came to mind, which was more a matter of security than anything else. “Do you know how they got your number?”

Sean assumed the call had been unwelcome. This was a given.

[Erik Stewart]

He grit his teeth, briefly, underneath his lips, so Sean would only see a slight clench of his jaw if he were observant. “Guess it came from my parents. I don’t know. It wasn’t a prank; she was old.”

Maybe she had been about Sean’s age, though her voice had that crotchety cobweb sound that he always imagined came from a sagging throat, wrinkled eyes and gray hair. Though Erik knew that, provided he survived long enough, he might one day be the same, he always carried with him a certain ill will towards anyone above the age of thirty. Children were cruel, yes, but their cruelty was taught. The brand of disapproval he experienced from the adults in his life seemed much more deliberate. Erik had always suffered from a complete lack of positive role models, and even here at Hammel he knew them as enforcers who had taken him away from his woods: jailors, disciplinarians, adversaries.

Still, it wasn’t as if there was no progress at all. Thanks in some small part to Sean and Mike, Erik was at least forced to realize that rules weren’t there solely to antagonize him, and maybe even that not all authority wished him harm; though he was still quite temperamental, he was not so immoveable as he was when he first arrived.

There was a lapse as Erik seemed to consider. There was something wrong with his thinking and he was beginning to understand why. “But they don’t let anyone come into th’ house,” he mentioned. He put a finger to his lip and scratched it lightly, as if in idle thought. “’Least, they didn’t use to.”

Richard and Lynn Stewart had demons of their own, and they too were a reclusive lot. Though that might have changed. He had not been home in some time and neither had they spoken for at least a year… but there was something else, too.

“Ma n’ pa didn’t tell ‘er where I was,” he said.

He could still remember the discovery in her voice, when she realized that all she’d suspected had come true; he wondered for the first time if this meant worse for his parents than it did him.

[Dr. Sean Neville]

Given the size of Erik’s hometown, it was to be expected that the boy would be able to identify precisely which person called him, given enough time. Even if he didn’t recognize the voice at first, logic and probability both dictated that Erik personally knew the person who had called. And, since he assessed that the person was an old woman, Sean agreed that it was unlikely that the call had been a practical joke.

This was cause for some concern, since the people in Erik’s town were not tolerant, and the boy had some violent incidents in his past. Hammel was concerned with the safety of the students, even those who had found themselves under administrative lockdown after biting other students and causing them to be admitted to the hospital immediately before a school inspection. Erik had issues, but Sean certainly wished no harm or ills upon him; neither did the rest of the administration.

Which meant that they had a mystery on their hands.

He nodded his understanding as Erik explained that he didn’t think that his parents had disclosed his location to the mystery caller. His thoughts provided the reasoning, which was sound. That she had been surprised would indicate that she didn’t know, at least hadn’t known at the time of placing the call, where he was.

What she knew now was another matter entirely.

“What else did she say?” He had to ask, so that they could get to the bottom of this, and, if necessary, plan a course of action. If that proved unnecessary, then he and Erik could focus entirely on the emotional impact of the call and discovery.

[Erik Stewart]

If Erik took everything everyone had ever said to him to heart – especially where he’d come from – he would’ve been in worse shape that he was now. He knew only that it was inherently negative and, like most things of that nature, he’d swept it under the metaphorical rug…and he didn’t particularly care for poking and prodding at the lump. It felt bulging and swollen, like an un-popped zit, ugly and painful to touch, to look at.

And he was, at his core, a naturally sensitive boy.

Part of him wanted to share it, because he had kept it inside, and it would surely fester there if he left it, like so many other things. He was a little tired of hiding behind drawn-down blinds anyways. But he was secretive, and guarded, and the obligation he felt in disclosing whatever the old woman had said to him was asking a monumental amount of trust he didn’t think he had. It wasn’t as if Sean had done anything to make him doubt him. Or that he would do anything in particular with the knowledge. Actually, there wasn’t much reason for it at all: it was more of an instinct for Erik.

So he shuffled a little and looked at him from the corner of his eye, thinking how dare he ask him that? He didn’t come here on his own free will. Not to this office and not to this entire school. They should have left him in his swamp where he’d never have to tell anyone anything about how he was feeling.

“She said she knew where I was. She said I was goin’ t’hell fer it,” he said, general statements that started off slow and quiet, and were likely not news to Sean; he had imparted those kinds of statements to him before.

But as soon as he popped that bubble it all seemed to stream out, and his voice rose, seething and frustrated. “She said I chose the devil. She said I was raised with God an’ I turned away from it, like I’m some kinda ingrate,” he said. “As if I could fuckin’ feel God’s love in ‘uh piss poor house like that, rotten n’fallin’ into the water, an’ my ma fuckin’ howlin’ in ‘er room r’ some shit. It was a fuckin’ wonder I felt anythin’ at all. But it sure as hell weren’t gratitude. I’ll give ‘em that.”

He settled back in his seat. “They all gave me shit ‘bout myself an’ then they told me I ain’t deserve that shit an’ it’s my fault they gave me shit in th’ first place.”

A less than articulate expression, to be sure.

[Dr. Sean Neville]

Sean would give a check in with the security team after this session. While it was most likely a remark that she knew that Erik was meta-human and that he was far away from home, in a liberal accepting place, at a school for people like him, one always had to take precautions. Should anyone arrive looking for Erik, it was best for security to know not to let them past the front desk; the psychiatrist would handle the situation personally, if possible.

From there, Sean settled in, waiting for the boy to say whatever was on his mind, combined with the details of the phone call.

Hell was a frequent enough topic in this office between the psychiatrist and Erik. Sean had a number of opinions on the subject, and since this wasn’t a public school, he didn’t hold his tongue as he otherwise might. While he respected the rights of religious people, he didn’t believe that religious belief could excuse abuse, and the toxic, horrifying atmosphere for Erik’s upbringing better befit an Ira Levin book than it did a real person’s childhood.

Yet, Erik spared him the need to go down that road, because the boy lashed out about it first. While his phrasing was hardly the most eloquent way to communicate his feelings, the psychiatrist offered no corrections, not even for his use of profane language. The boy was completely correct about what his family and his town had done to him, and their victim-blaming mentalities.

“They did,” he agreed. “It certainly isn’t your fault. Unfortunately, people have a terrible tendency to project everything wrong with them onto other, more vulnerable people.”

[Erik Stewart]

Erik went quiet. His brows were slightly drawn in. He sat rigidly in his seat, his angular shoulders set and his collarbone rising in his skin, up and down underneath the silver chain he wore around his neck.

He thought he’d like to hear he was right.

But he did not. Maybe he would have liked to hear that he was wrong, and that his fears were misplaced. That way, he thought, he might have been able to forgive them. They’d made him into an object to blame for all their shitty lives and their mortal sins and he’d suffered for it, and he still suffered today. Now what was he supposed to do? ‘Moving on’ seemed impossible. No; his thoughts still lingered in that old house in that old town, and like so much stagnant swamp water, it had trapped all his fear and hate in it.

“I think I’d like t’kill them,” he admitted.

He was instantly reminded of the hunting rifle he’d once carried. They’d shot a deer together. Erik could recall putting 6mm metal bullet into the cartridge and snapping it shut. He was small and naïve then; the recoil had dug into his shoulder and made it ache for days.

[Dr. Sean Neville]

Sean was a generally forgiving person. On more than one occasion, his friends, Josh, or family members had accused him of being too forgiving. Some thought that he took the directive to turn the other cheek from his childhood faith to heart, and that resulted in his philosophy.

In truth, he had a more complicated relationship with forgiveness than many thought. The psychiatrist believed that there was value in forgiveness in many situations, which was why he didn’t sweat the small stuff. However, he didn’t believe that a person was entitled to forgiveness wholesale. Particularly not when that person (or people) demanded forgiveness from the victim of their abuse, and that person (or people) had engaged in no acts of contrition or attempts to improve themselves.

Such was the case with Erik’s family and the people from his town. Sean would not tell Erik that he should forgive them.

Working through what they had done to him was a different matter. For Erik’s own sake, he needed to come to terms with it, in order to process it and move forward with his life. As the adage went, living well was the best revenge.

The boy’s confession was not entirely surprising, although it remained concerning regardless. He focused his gaze on Erik, as he asked, “As a fleeting whim? As an abstract notion of justice and revenge? Or as something more concrete?”

[Erik Stewart]

He kept his head down as he examined his fingers. He hooked them over each other, kneaded them; DJ slithered about his neck and his shoulders, roused from his sleep, and slithered about his skin in lazy circles.

“I don’t know,” he responded, at length. “It’d make me feel better.”

Everything was easier to understand when he faced it with anger. This had held true for many, many years. Maybe he should have been reserved and timid, but it had all made him grow up twisted and fuming instead, his presence more conspicuous, if only to stick it to ‘em. Sometimes it was hard carrying on through pure spite, but he managed.

[Dr. Sean Neville]

While Sean understood the inclination, he also knew that matters were always more complicated. However, since Erik spoke of it as a hypothetical, a violent fantasy but a fantasy nonetheless, the psychiatrist believed that he didn’t need to engage in a more acute intervention. Instead, he could talk the boy through this, and, with perseverance, Erik could be in a better mental state when he left the office, better than when he had arrived earlier.

Resting his hands on the arms of his chair, Sean replied, “Everything is always easier in fantasy. We never have to worry about consequences.” Neither legal consequences nor the emotional fallout that results from whatever the fantasized actions were. It was why so many people found it easier to plot revenge or elaborate illegal and unethical schemes: none of it was real, and thus it didn’t impact their lives in any way.

It also allowed a person to mentally blow off steam with minimal harm to themselves or others. That way, they could acclimate themselves to whatever else happened to them, and they could go about their lives afterward.

With his full attention on Erik, the psychiatrist then asked, “Have you ever heard the saying that living well is the best revenge?”

[Erik Stewart]

He’d been pretty attentive for a while there; contemplative, docile, even. It was all a fantasy, of course. He wasn’t about to run down there and blow shotgun holes in anybody, and not only because the institute wouldn’t let him leave.

But then it all stopped. Erik sobered up and dug in his proverbial heels. The age-old adage made him bristle, like the trite ‘it gets better’, and what have you; nobody ever told him what living well meant or how to achieve it. Were they stupid? Did they know anything about him? How was he to live well – he had an extensive failing academic track record, no support system, virtually no money to his name…the list went on and on and he didn’t even know where to start digging himself out of this hole. Have you tried living well? Have you tried not being a pissy little asshole?

“Is that what I’m here for?” he asked, sharply. “To listen t’this again? Yeah, I’ve heard of it.”

He was agitated. Erik put the back of his head against the chair. “I wanna go,” he said.

[Dr. Sean Neville]

“Living well isn’t about external validation or monetary success.” Sean wanted to make that plain, because he and Erik had ongoing discussions about the boy’s future. The psychiatrist wasn’t naïve, and he was well-aware of the many challenges that Erik faced after graduation, given his grades, his disciplinary record, and other impediments. However, Sean also would not categorize the boy as a hopeless case, and he beat that drum whenever Erik was willing to give up on himself.

“Living well is about what you think and how you feel,” the psychiatrist continued. He kept his gaze focused on Erik, because he wanted to make this point as firmly and clearly as possible. These were not platitudes. They were also not intended to place blame for poverty and an abusive upbringing on Erik’s shoulders. “If you get bogged down in their expectations, you can’t rise above them, and that’s how they win.”

Sean spoke from experience here, although he didn’t discuss his personal life. His only sister considered him a sinner and a deviant, and she would never change her mind. He disagreed, and he didn’t let her define how he viewed himself. One way or another, the psychiatrist wanted Erik to reach that same plateau of self-acceptance.

Sean held back a sigh at Erik’s request, and he glanced down at his watch to gauge the time. “If you go now, we’re going to continue this the first thing at our next session.” That was a promise, not a threat.

[Erik Stewart]

Erik turned his head, his arms firmly crossed over his chest. He could not be reasoned with now. Sean, his trainer, his teachers, and anyone he’d ever interacted with, really, had to have known that there was no force on earth that would budge him once he decided to dig in his heels. Once one crossed a perceived “line” they could only expect him to shut down; even if Sean had him stay he would only get a whole lot of fuming, silent anger in his direction and answers like ‘yes’, ‘no’, or ‘I don’t know’.

The problem with Erik was that he had a lot of these “lines” and they could be stepped on at any time. Doing so resulted in immoveable attitudes like this one or straight up yelling. Thankfully it was the former.

The words might have reached him but it was clear Erik was not subscribing to them. “Okay,” he replied, throwing up a hand. “Fine.”

He stood up, the rat snake around his neck shifting. It was mumbling about the warm tank in his dorm. Erik himself was thinking about returning home; he could use a good angry nap, a smoke, a shower, something to get all that snaggy, tangled frustration off his chest.