Healer (Fiction)

The human mind is a piece of artwork: an intricately designed system allowing us to evolve into the most intelligent beings on the planet. We continue to grow, to learn, to pass on knowledge generation after generation, advancing through this fluid process.

Yet in all its complexity, the mind is such a simple thing. It is trapped in a different epoch whereby the owner may be living in the present, but the brain is ultimately activated to fight or flight. Although there are no pre-historic creatures to flee from nor are there any sabre-tooth tigers to fight, there are problematic situations which arise in the current day, automatically flicking the switch to flight or fight mode.

These situations could involve battling through those stacks of extra reading into the early hours of the morning, in hopes of earning a decent grade on your coursework: fighting. Or having the resolve that a deadline is seemingly impossible and that visions of the future now involve slouching behind a cash register until you become old and wrinkly: fleeing.

But the mind, that clever thing, can set up defense mechanisms to help individuals cope with unbearably uncomfortable situations. It would allow a person to disappear when stress levels become too high, escaping the torture of the real world. Instead, a stronger self is revealed, one to take on the pain and stress the former version could not deal with.

After the shift happens once, it becomes easier for the mind to create more personas, each crafted from characteristics of scattered memories locked deep within the subconscious. Then what happens to the former self whilst the others take its place? The original person has become a dependent, relying on the personas to take their place in times of distress although they are ready to face their fears alone now. Now the alters have evolved into their own person with their own secrets to hide. They will come out without warning, not at the most convenient times. However, there can be a balance, a compromise created within the mind to overcome the difficulties of dissociative identity disorder.

The usually tidy room now lay in a state of chaos as though a natural disaster had unleashed all its fury there and, in some sense, it had. Winds of anger had whipped up stacks of paperwork whilst pens and highlighters bounced off the floor, leaving trails of ink in their disturbance. At some point a chair had been flung across the room and punctured a hole in the white plaster. The two glasses atop a coffee table received no lighter treatment as they came crashing down and shattered upon impact with the wooden floor, their tiny shards glistening under the evening sun.

The only object to escape any form of damage was that wretched painting which still hung tidily above the oak desk. It was nothing offensive, quite the opposite in fact. It depicted two siblings, a young boy and girl, walking hand in hand down a path carved from a forest of bluebells, the sun seeping through the high trees and pooling beneath them. Generally, it brought calming qualities and fond memories to those who viewed the painting. However, to the man currently seething in front of the masterpiece, it reminded him only of betrayal, failure, and a world he had lost.

“Christian?” a voice called out tentatively. “It’s okay, you’re okay. Let’s sit down again, yes?” The man’s eyes tore away from the painting and into the woman who was standing across from him. Considering the situation, she managed to stand unflinching, gesturing towards a plush chair which had also stood its ground during the storm. She only looked to be in her late twenties with a smooth complexion that hadn’t witnessed the hidden corruptions of the world outside these white walls. She smiled welcomingly, eyes creasing at the corners as the man continued to glare in her direction, trying to decipher where he had seen her before.

Glancing away from the woman and quickly sweeping his eyes over what was left of the room, the tall man analysed his surroundings: the spacious, brightly lit area, empty enough to create a faint echo but with a sufficient amount of objects to satisfy a wandering mind; a floor-to-ceiling bookcase much too large for this person's use as fine layers coated a number of unused shelves; a stainless steel Fortuna pen laying on the floor and bleeding ink into documents, documents bearing the name ‘Christian Rhodes.’

“Ah,” the man breathed out as everything slowly began to fit together, “you must be Miss Cabbot. Yes, Christian has thought much about you these past few months. It’s quite annoying really since things get to be a little loud up here,” the man declared whilst pointing a finger to his head. The look of confusion on the woman’s face was enough to set that man off in deep growls of laughter, his lips pulling upwards to mimic that of a wolf baring its teeth. There was something off about this man, Miss Cabbot thought. Just a few minutes ago they were sat discussing how Christian had been feeling in himself; how work was going; what plant pots he had bought for his garden the previous day; their thoughts on the newest drama taking up the 9 PM slot on a Tuesday. Then Christian had ceased conversation completely, something catching his eye and causing them to glaze over. The man noticeably stiffened for a minute before a roar had erupted from the back of his throat, followed by what could best be described as a rabid, starved animal destroying anything in its path having picked up a scent of fresh meat.

As Miss Cabbot was taken by surprise, it soon dawned on her that this man standing in front of her wasn’t entirely Christian. She had been warned that this may happen and although she was expecting it at some point, the sudden change in Christian’s personality made it difficult to view him in the same way.

“Oh he has?” Miss Cabbot began carefully, “Sorry but I don’t believe we have met personally yet?” she questioned, aware that her best approach was to treat this man as an entirely different person.

“Ha!” the man flicked his head back in mock laughter, “I’m sure Christian has told you everything about me. How I’m here to torture him, to cause trouble and act like the devil’s counterpart? What else is there to know?” Having only known him for less than a minute, Rose could already see she was losing his favour quickly for just being acquainted with Christian. She needed to be gentle with her approach in order to assure the man he had no reason to be hostile with her. Although she was having trouble not being hostile herself, seeing as she didn’t like this man as much as the one she was talking to earlier, she forced a sweet smile onto her face.

“Well, we could start with your name?” She had already decided to call him Mr. Rhodes the Second to differentiate him from Christian. “Mine is Rose, please call me that instead of Miss Cabbot. I prefer not to use the formalities.” Rose smiled slightly, willing the man to tell her more about himself.

“Okay Rose. Tell me why I should bother humouring you with such trivial details. Both you and Christian want to get rid of me anyway.” The man had inched closer, leaning in to where Rose stood so she could see the menacing look in his dark pupils. She would not back down though, she needed more information.

“Now that’s slightly unfair,” Rose dared to laugh, “I’ve never heard Christian state such a thing. Besides, I’m not one to form a biased opinion of someone based on the information of another person.” She added the last bit hurriedly, denying the man the chance to accuse her of lying. The man stepped back onto his heels at this, sliding his hands into his trouser pockets and letting out a breath of air in a whistle.

“Quite the peacemaker, aren’t you Rose?”

“Non-judgmental,” Rose chipped in.

“Non-judgmental,” the man repeated slowly, one eyebrow raised skeptically. Rose nodded her head twice in affirmation, earning a smirk from the man.

“I suppose you have to be really, considering your line of work,” Mr. Rhodes the Second hummed, speaking his thoughts aloud. Rose did like to think she was level-headed with her easy-going nature: the kind of person who could see both perspectives from different sides of the same story. Of course it helped that she was a psychic, enabling her the ability to see auras and therefore take guesses as to where arguments stemmed from emotionally.

She’d also listen to what people had to say first, analysing their tone of voice, the speed at which they spoke and those tell-tale signs of white lies. From those she could simply make suggestions to the person, weighing up the possibilities of different scenarios and hopefully ending the matter peacefully. Of course it wasn’t always that simple. Take the time her previous boss had announced that the magazine company was to be handed down directly to his nephew at only twenty-one years of age. The idea of someone so young and inexperienced coming in and treating the office as his playground had caused outrage among the editing staff. Aware that their boss-to-be was lurking in the corridor at this time of outrage (Rose could have sworn he was emitting the largest, darkest aura she had ever seen in her limited experience as a medium), but unbeknownst to her colleagues, she had attempted to lighten the mood by saying it might be a good idea to bring in somebody young to give their magazine a fresh and stylish new feel. That, she learned soon after, was probably the worst thing you could say to one of the most prestigious and highly qualified magazine editorial teams. It almost made winning the boss’s favour not worth it as she spent the next eight months on some sort of P.A. role for her colleagues who probably held the world record for holding grudges.

Thinking through her options carefully, Rose began, “We still have about twenty minutes left so is there anything you’d like to talk about?” When the man returned her question with a completely blank look, she continued to talk over the silence. “This painting here,” Rose pointed to the only decoration that remained intact on the wall. “You were looking at it earlier; I was wondering if you have seen it anywhere else before?”

“Christian always takes us to art viewings,” Mr. Rhodes number two replied whilst avoiding the painting of question, “I’ve probably seen every piece available to buy in the whole of Europe.” Rose knew this was a lie from the way his eyes darted across the room. Rose was also certain that Christian had not been alive at the time her grandfather had bid for the piece, but before she could question it further, the man decided to ask her a question.

“You don’t seem like the typical therapist. I can't smell any bleach or disinfectant,” Mr. Rhodes took in a lungful of air and exhaled slowly whilst shrugging. “And these colourful stones; I’ve never seen those before. Are you part of a cult or just a collector?”

“I’m a medium, a psychic or whatever you want to call it. And those stones are in fact crystals, I use them for their healing properties. We, us mediums that is, have a highly attuned sixth sense that allows us to communicate with people’s energy flows and often tap into that with the consent of the other individual. Personally, I work with auras. To keep it simple, I have the ability to see coloured light around a person’s physical form and depending on the colour, I can deduce someone’s past and present state of mind or a specific personality trait, for example.”

“Okay, so tell me what you see,” Mr. Rhodes the Second challenged. Rose stalled for a second. What did she see? Nothing. Nothing at all and that worried her. She recalled Mr. Rhodes coming into her office just over an hour ago and had performed a reading on him. His aura then was the usual bright pink dominating most of the field around him, with the exception of a lemon-yellow light pulsing next to the pink. It was the latter that concerned Rose since the colour represented a strong fear of losing control. The man in the same room as her had just confirmed all her qualms for this was what it meant for Mr. Rhodes to lose his hold over his own personality.

Rose focused all her energy towards her third eye, allowing it to open and expose the hidden natures humankind could mask through their fictional character. However, when scanning over the man’s body, there was not a single trace of any aura. Not even a glow of angry red, as she had expected. Doubting her physic abilities were functioning properly, Rose turned around to find her reflection in the mirror. As usual, she saw a vivid green emanate around the top half of her body and to her elbows where the mirror cut off the rest of her person. Right in the centre of her forehead sat an orb of intense purple, giving the affirmation that there was nothing wrong with her reading.

“I see nothing,” Rose whispered, confusion setting itself in lines across her forehead. It was strange as this had never happened to her before. She continued to whip her head back and forth from her reflection to the second Mr. Rhodes, the aura failing to reveal itself. The man almost looked disappointed for a moment before tutting and shaking his head at the psychic.

“Then I believe we are done here,” Mr. Rhodes the Second sighed, picking up his coat and briefcase before sauntering over to the door.

“Wait,” Rose called out involuntarily. There was so much she wanted to ask, so much unsolved and this man was currently number one on her problems-to-solve list. What could she possibly say to him now? He clearly found this whole situation amusing and was anything but impressed by his new doctor. Rose knew he was unlikely to believe anything she said now, but there was a tugging feeling at the back of her mind, alerting the medium that it was unwise to leave the man in his current condition.

Even though she knew it was probably futile, she warned him, “You have passed over. You have no aura because the bitterness, regret, anger or whatever it is you’re holding has consumed you.” Mr. Rhodes arched an eyebrow at her, taking in the information as though he was already aware of his own feelings.

“If you give me more time I can help you,” Rose wasn’t sure how she was going to go about that but she could worry about that later. “We can figure out what’s been haunting you for so long so that we can begin the healing process. I’m sure Christian would also like that.” Before Rose could offer an encouraging smile, the man’s features darkened whilst he glared at Rose, an icy wall growing around his exterior.

“The only thing that’s passed over anything is all the emotions Christian pushes back into his mind where I am,” Mr. Rhodes snarled. “He’s too weak to deal with the reality, so instead I’m here to take away all his burdens. There is no healing resolution, it’s a part of who we are.” With that the man took one last look at the painting hung on the wall before he swung open the door and slammed it shut, whilst Rose was left to let his comments burn into her skin.

Although she wasn’t sure precisely what had just happened, Rose was certain that this man knew a whole lot more than what he was letting her in on. His behavioural patterns were sporadic and unpredictable: unexplainable anger dissipating into a façade of sarcasm and then to a calculating calmness, presumably to weigh up his options. Rose was going to need some external help on this matter and whilst she couldn’t disclose personal client information, there was one person who could help her.

Treading carefully around the shards of glass and ink-stained carpet, Rose made her way around to the back of her desk and opened the top drawer to retrieve her phone. She quickly found the name she was searching for, having saved it to her favourites, and held the phone to her ear whilst she impatiently waited for the sound of fumbling on the other end of the receiver.

“Rose darling, I wasn’t expecting to hear from you for at least another nine minutes!” The silvery voice exclaimed, clearly short of breath.

“You should get back into the business, early retirement is making you negligent,” Rose replied dryly.

“Good heavens no, retirement is absolutely marvellous!” The lady erupted into a high-pitched verse of laughter. “However, I do get the feeling that my experience may be of some use to you Rosemary dear?” Rose crinkled her face at the mention of her full name. Only her godmother called her by that, explained to her once that it was not proper to hide her name when she could literally read a person’s life through their line of work. Regardless, every time the lady addressed her, Rose was reminded that her mother had indeed named her after a herb.

“This particular client,” Rose began slowly, refraining from disclosing any personal information about her client, “is like one of those puzzles you find in the attic-”

“Good heavens, whatever compelled you to venture up there?” Rose heard her godmother gasp down the phone before ignoring her and proceeding to talk over her.

“Except half the pieces are missing so it’s impossible to complete, let alone try to decipher the actual image it should produce,” then, after sigh, “I can’t read him.” Her godmother seemed to be processing the information given to her, for there was a pause as a light hum filled the other end of the receiver.

“This gentleman,” the godmother began, quickly picking up on the use of ‘him’ to deduce that the client of interest was a man, “did he resist your reading?”

“No—well, he resisted the session entirely, but he wanted to know what I saw,” Rose responded, recalling the events of the past twenty minutes.

“And you didn't see anything I presume.”

“Not at all,” Rose confirmed.

“How were his eyes?” the godmother tried instead.

“There was a burning inferno behind his irises. He looked as though he were about to murder me,” Rose deadpanned.

“No no,” her godmother scolded, not wanting to hear her goddaughter’s overdramatic version of the man. “What are his eyes usually like?”

“I don’t know, dark brown? Calm, but there’s this faraway look whenever he comes for his session.”

“Ah like Jekyll and Hyde,” the lady mused to herself. “Any others yet?” Oh. Somehow her godmother had caught on to the kind of person they were dealing with. As much as she respected her godmother, the great psychic’s abilities were beyond human and sometimes a bit terrifying.

“I have only met the two,” there was no use in trying to hide the facts from her godmother because, whether they liked it or not, people were open books, their pages lay open for her to read at her own will.

“My dear, you have a storm coming up ahead,” the experienced psychic provided not-so usefully.

“Just what we need. You know, I thought the weather seemed quite heavy recently,” Rose quipped back sarcastically, not prepared to sit through another philosophical call she would best describe as complete garbage.

“Will you care to listen to my advice or not?” her godmother puffed out irritably.

“Apologies, do go on.”

“If you’re willing to help the gentleman all the way, then you must have patience and endurance. He will build walls up around you so it will take a great deal of trust for him to open up to you,” the lady spoke sincerely, adopting the tone of a mentor rather than godmother.

“However, when his counterparts do make an appearance, you’ll be back to square one with them, for the majority will not know who you are. Think of it as making new friends,” the older woman advised.

“How many are we talking?” as much as Rose had patience, she strongly disliked having to repeat herself, especially when this would require weeks of practise.

“I couldn’t possibly say,” her godmother said wearily before adding, “If you require some help in future sessions, I’d be more than happy to sit in on one to strengthen your psychic abilities.” This is what Rose loved about her godmother. She was always willing to help people from the goodness of her heart. Although she could be very forward and blunt in her ways, often wanting to take the reins rather than sitting quietly in the corner as she had previously promised. This time around, Rose was thankful for it.

“I have an inkling that Mr. Rhodes will be feeling better within the hour, so be sure to ask him how many personas he is aware of.”

“Wait,” it took Rose a moment to digest what her godmother just said, but she could not miss the fact that she had just spoken her client’s name.

“How did you know his name?” It wasn’t uncommon for the psychic to be pulling names from thin air, but it was still surprising nonetheless.

“Oh my, I must dash to beat the peak time human traffic in Booths! You know what it’s like during lunch,” her godmother laughed airily, completely avoiding the question.

“Do tell your mother to pop over for tea sometime, cheerio Rosemary!”

“Wait, Audrey-" but before she could even think of cursing at her godmother, the woman had hung up on her. Releasing a groan of frustration, Rose flung her phone across the desk and slumped back into the comforting embrace of her leather chair.

Eyeing up the documents still strewn across the floor, ink now seeping into the light oak panels, Rose could only wonder what kind of broken being the universe had thrust open her to fix. Like her godmother Audrey had forewarned, helping Christian and his counterparts were going to require much patience and a great deal of understanding. She wasn’t about to let her gift of a medium go to waste when there was a fragmented person seeking her help.

Silently, Rose made a promise to herself that she would never give up on this man. She would see it through until a remedy was found, however long and arduous the task may be.