Catharsis Part 3

[curvestone]

Catharsis Part 3: The Initiation


“This is no way to tell a story,” said Jane. “You shouldn't be rushing through every detail.”

At this I cackled. It must have frightened Jane for she showed it in her face. “I don't need to spend a lot of time on details. This is a rather long tale, and I'd rather not spend a whole lot of time talking about the introduction. Be aware, the introduction is now over, and things will no longer be as quick cut. I have started the story, and I'll tell it the way I know I should. As for the things I might have left out, I'll review them in this next part. Don't bother with how I should tell the story; that's my job. You pay attention to the road and getting through Alabama as fast as you can without risking arrest or unnecessary stops.”

“I like you, Sebastian, but I this is confusing. I'm going from liking you, to pitying you, to hating you, to not known what I should think.”

“I'm not the man I was then. I started as a boy to be pitied. Soon, I grew to a young boy who was very confused, a boy that's hard to like or dislike. It's confusing, but next, I'll become someone entirely different. Things will be explained in a minute, just as I said. Now, as for whether you should like me, I have changed. You don't know what it is that I changed from, but I changed, and that's the point. Dislike me for what I'm telling you, or like me for all the reasons you already have and will soon have. I have never harmed you. So, give me the benefit of the doubt. Okay?”

She nodded. I do believe I didn't need to say as much as I did, but it's not like it hurt. After what I considered clearing the air, I proceeded.


My initial reaction upon waking up in Reese's car was to try to get out. Unfortunately, I couldn't move. You see, I was tied up in front of the back seat of his car, unable to see above the seat. My wrists were tied behind my back, and I honestly hadn't the foggiest clue where I was. Outside, there was no end to the noises in the air. By their magnitude and large quantity, I made a reasonable guess that I was in the heart of a rather large city. Surprisingly, there were even more sounds than I had ever heard at once in Philadelphia. This was definitely saying something.

Being at a disadvantage in the vision department, I used these sounds to decide where I was and how best to handle the situation. First, I distinguished car horns. Then I heard sirens followed by the faint sound of a guitar. Still I listened, nowhere could I find what I needed. Suddenly, there came a sound more welcome than any sound had ever been in my life.

“Hey buddy, I'm walking here!” shouted a man in a voice that could only be matched to New York. How I love the sound of good Bronx accent, especially when it puts me one step closer to figuring out where I am.

Soon, voice after voice could be heard. They were like symphony playing a the best feel-good song I'd heard to that point. With the knowledge they gave me and the fact that I had asked Reese to take me to see the boss, I made a very reasonable conclusion: Reese had taken me to see the boss and the boss lives in New York.

It took me a few minutes, but I eventually realized that this helped me none, and if I actually wanted to meet the boss, there wasn't even anything I needed help for. The only problem I had was with trying to shimmy my hands out out of the ropes that kept me tied.

For some reason, being unconscious for however long I was gave me a lot of energy and got me very excited. I struggled and struggled, kicked and kicked some more. It was useless. No matter what I did, I couldn't get out of the ropes. What was I doing wrong? I was more clever than this. I took a moment to examine the area I had been given to work with. On the seat there I noticed several small tools that I should have taken the time to notice a long time ago: a ballpoint pen, a magazine, and a bottle filled with grease.

I managed to get hold of the magazine, which was dangling off the seat, with my mouth. After much work, I managed to use the magazine to knock the grease and pen onto the floor. Rolling onto by back, I picked up the two items. As I sat up, I clicked the pen open and popped up the lid of the grease. I stuck the pen under the rope around my wrists. Through the gap this created between my wrists and the rope, I squirted some grease. I repeated this process all the way around both wrists until they were entirely covered in grease. Next, I bent and shimmied my arms and hands until the ropes slid right off.

Obviously, it wouldn't be entirely smart to repeat this process on my legs, and the knots were too tight to attempt to untie. Pulling myself onto the seat, I got on m back, and with all the force I could muster, I kicked out the window. As I had hoped, one shards of glass remained attached to the sides of the window. I turned around and pulled out the piece. With it, I cut the bonds on my legs.

I was free, but by this time, I had utterly forgotten why I wanted to get out of that car in the first place. As I climbed over the middle seats to get out, I finally understood a little. Through the front window I saw Reese and several young men standing beside him, one of whom held a video camera. They wanted to see if I could handle getting out, and somehow while I was in the back of that car, I had gotten an urge to show them exactly what they needed to know. I honestly didn't quite get the whole process at the time, but I was impressed.

As I got out of the SUV, I felt a small stabbing sensation in the back of my neck. damn, I hate being drugged.

I woke up to an entirely new definition of night. Rain beat savagely at the windows. Thunder screamed at the Earth as lightening shredded the sky.

I wasn't tied up. On the contrary, I was lying on a very comfortable leather couch. Now, I'm no big fan of resting my head on leather, but there were pillows. So, all in all, I had no complaints. I was lying in what seemed to be a very well kept office. The lights were out. Books lined two of the walls. The room temperature was somewhere in the seventies, the room smelled like vanilla and honey, and Bob Dylan was playing on a CD player in the background. Over all, I really liked this set up.

Like the still before a still, I felt a strange sensation in my skin. Goosebumps ran across my arms and legs. The air froze as if to signify not to move. From the behind me, I heard footsteps. Soon, a voice like rain and ocean spoke to me, “You are not welcome here, not in this room, not in this building, town, country, planet. You are not welcome. A man so void of feeling is barely welcome in Hell, let alone among sane men.” The voice was directly behind me, but I dared not move.

“Then why I am I here?” I pressed, my diction venomous and demanding.

“Because my colleagues believe that you are
utterly incapable of the deeper emotions: love, guilt, hate, and all that they carry with them.”

“It's a reasonable assumption.”

“Indeed. But I must say that I disagree. Though reasonable, I strongly believe otherwise. I believe that, no matter how... perverse one becomes, they are still capable of these emotions, but that doesn't mean you don't need help/”

“What do you mean?”

“I believe that you are not incapable of hate or guilt. You just choose to let one cloud the other or just ignore both entirely. Love, on the other hand, true love, “he paused for a moment in apparent awe of the word, “is beyond you. I believe, personally, that you are sinking steadily into a life without feeling where you will become not but a cold, cold soul with a passion only for murder.”

“Well, you certainly dig deep,” I said, scoffing at his claims, but they had a truth to them. “I'm not sure I'd go so far as to say all that. Who are you? On second thought, what are you? Only a special kind of person could make these assumptions and yet still believe he's coloring inside the lines. So what kind of conceited man are you?”

The man laughed and, as the thunder tore through my thoughts and the lightening raced into the sky, I saw him standing in front of me in the darkness. I must say, it seemed to suite him. He was dressed all in black. The material made it seem velvety in the lightening, but there was no mistaking its true form. Personally, I would have killed to look how he did. The jacket was darker than the night itself, and his slacks were as hot as they come. All his clothes were pressed so tight, you'd they were accidentally run through a printing press. On his head he wore a black hat with the rim leaning over his forehead. His shoes were like Irish leather. No doubt about it, he looked nice. “My name is Jessi Dempsey. I'm the boss. If you like, that's what you can call me, but I think you might be one of the exceptional few that can call me by my more affectionate nickname.”

“What would that be?”

“The Anti-Clause,” he chuckled merrily to himself. “It's not that I'm against Christmas; I'm just not the same as you'd expect in anyway. I'm on the opposite side of the spectrum as a regular mob boss, and I'm definitely not as kind as some people would think, either.”

“Once again, what do you mean?”

“You might hear me called Dr. Dempsey. That's 'cause I'm a psychologist.”

Well that makes sense... I guess, I thought to myself. It explained the other question he never directly answered.

“So why is a psychiatrist heading a mob? Do tell. You've made me curious.” I must admit that though the environment was strangely intimidating, I felt relaxed a somewhat intrigued.

“Me and a few friends of mine got really bored in the late eighties. All the heads of this mob are ex-FBI profilers, psychiatrists, philosophers, poets, surgeons, and CIA operatives. We thought it would be fun to own a mob, and we knew we'd be good at it.”

I stared at him with growing suspicion, which was definitely reasonable. “That's got to be one of the silliest things I've ever heard.”

“damn straight it is,” his voice still cool and frightening, “but that's the way it goes when a bunch of clever guys get a hold of some guns and an idea. You see, we didn't start a mob because we wanted to commit crimes. Actually, it's mainly cause we're bored and we're old, and frankly, this is really very fun.”

Mr. Dempsey paused. The lightening flashed again, and I saw he was staring at me sternly. I sat, knowing it was a time for him to get down to business. Getting right up in my face, his expression went like stone and he said with a voice that was like something out of a dream, “Are you paying attention?”

I was startled, and for some reason, afraid of what would follow. The intent of his words was obvious, and the reaction followed that intent perfectly. Afraid, I sat back and shut up, which was what he wanted.

“I want to help you,” he said. “Sense your aunt is now dead, you can come work for us. I doubt you'll have a problem with that. You're going to be traveling around the country with me and Reese. Trust me, after spending a year with Reese, you will be incurably good.

“I assume you've realized by now that you are not good?”

I nodded my head.

“And I know you understand why we believe you're incapable of certain feelings.”

“I'm not incapable of feeling,” I whispered, breaking the spell that his words had put me under. “I know that I have feelings. I feel joy, and if one feels joy, one can love. I feel hate. I know that I feel hate, for I hated my aunt. I've never been sure why.”

“I believe you can hate and I believe you can feel guilt, but when it comes to love, strength, altruism, and other higher feelings, I'm afraid you're going to have to prove yourself, much like you proved yourself in the cafe and by the river.”

Suddenly, I was hit by a thought that seemed to make a lot of sense. “It was cathartic,” I said, “and in knowing a feeling of catharsis, it shows I have bottled up feelings. I think that shows why I hate. I think that that feeling of catharsis was like a feeling of passion, and I think that passion is the cornerstone for love.”

Mr. Dempsey scoffed. “But then again,” he said, “how would you know?” He glided to the corner of the room where he flicked on a lamp. He was indeed old, but not too old. He seemed to be in is mid-forties. I don't consider that old...


Jane could see that I was fading. She took my hand as I stared out the window. Turning to her, I saw something that made me feel good: a smile behind which were no lies, there were no angles, and there were no expectations. It was such a beautiful smile, for it was honest, trusting, and friendly, much like that of that of a childhood friend, not like I ever had much experience with those.

“It was that look in your eyes just a moment ago,” she said, “that reminded me why I trust you. I cannot believe that this is you that you're telling me about, and yet it seems to make sense. I don't suppose you made friends to easily back then?”

“On the contrary,” I laughed, “I just never told anyone what I was like. People liked me back then because always use to know the right thing to say to make myself seem... different. I was curiously charming.”

“Still are, apparently. I mean, if you weren't, would I still trust you?”

“It's funny. Most people I tell don't.”

“How did it feel,” she said, “for him to say that to you?”

“Say what?”

“How did it feel for him to tell you you couldn't yet understand love. That is what he was telling you, right?”

I shrugged and nodded my head. Sighing I said, “He was skeptical of that one claim. I think he wanted me to be balancing on the edge of a knife. I doubt he could have ever accepted that I understood love. I'm not really sure if it's possible for a person to not feel love, but that's not the point. I was bad person, and it was because of him that I found a way to be redeemed.”


I was ashamed. I could not look at him. He was cocky, yet somehow his presence demanded respect, and unwillingly I gave it to him. Turning my face from him, I realized nothing would be the same. I was scared. For a moment there, I was scared.

You know, it's funny what a person can remember when they're force to retell a story (not that you're forcing me), but I only just remembered that I was scared, and I was scared again. I can't remember the incidents themselves, but I remember there must have been times, small times, minuscule times, times so small that I assumed they could never matter, but they did. They all mattered.

Behind me I heard the easily distinguishable sound of moving hinges. “Am I wrong, or was that the right signal?” came Reese's voice, annoyed and impatient.

“That's the one,” replied Dempsey.

“It's hard to tell, you know? Some days you stop the music; on other days turn on the lamp. It's well near impossible to figure it out.”

“Well, you did,” said Dempsey, beaming.

Groaning, Reese walked up behind me and promptly flipped over the leather couch on which I was resting, flinging it backwards onto the floor. I rolled off and ended at his feet.

“Pardon me,” he chuckled. “I've always wanted to do that to someone.” Helping me up, he added, “We left all your stuff in your apartment. We're setting things up so that you'll look dead. It's better than being a runaway. You won't have your own investigation into your whereabouts. We've gotten you some new stuff and put it in your room.”

Like a bad pitch, I was hit by a sad realization: I didn't have my laptop, and I couldn't remember having it when I was in Reese's car. “I don't have my laptop!”

“Yes, you do,” sighed Reese. “I took it off you after I drugged you the first time. I didn't want you to hurt it when you tried to untie yourself.”

Well, that was certainly a relief.

“Well,” said Reese pointing towards the door, “after you Sebastian -”

“No!” I said suddenly, surprising even myself. “Not that name.”

Reese looked utterly taken aback. “What then? A new name entirely?”


“No, the Sebastian part is fine,” I said, thinking for a moment.

“Well, Sebastian what?” said Reese impatiently.

“I know,” said Dempsey from the corner of the room where he had stayed since Reese entered. “How about Lion Heart?” He stepped forward, blocking part of the light from the lamp. The hall gave a us significant light for seeing around, but now his face was, yet again, shrouded. “Lion Heart, like the king. Besides, we'll be awaking his lion heart. Might as well address it directly.”

“Sebastian Lion Heart,” I said. “I like it.”

Reese laughed. “Well then Sebastian Lion Heart, you can follow me.”

With that and little else, Reese led me out of that building, down the street, and into a nice apartment in a nice apartment building where I spent the rest of that night, which was unfortunately almost over.

© 2007 by Nathan Cook