The Psychiatrist Session (Childhood Years)

[Music fades in, something light, but with a significant beat. As the music is as prominent as it will be, a light glows brighter in a psychiatrist's office. A child sits in a chair consuming his little body, maybe 7 or 8 years of age, as a psychiatrist sits in his own comfy leather seat, dusted with age, yet as clean as it has always been, staring at the child with a determined stare.]

Psychiatrist: So...now son, will you tell me what's on your mind?

[Silence is all that drips from the child's lips]

Psychiatrist: Now look, I don't want to be rude but I have been sitting here for 10 minutes and all that I hear is silence. Please, can I have at least 1 session with you that consists of more than just "hello doctor...I'm good...you?...that's good". I have asked you what's on your mind every session we've had and all 4 times all I receive is a blank stare and a stitched mouth.

[Although the psychiatrist sees a blank stare, that is hardly what is given, the child has more hurt in his eyes than any 50 year old man, post-mid-life-crisis. But this psychiatrist isn't as perceptive in sights of a patient as he is in the sight of money, everyone knows he doesn't care about you, he just wants to be paid. This child, will not tell him what is going on, he will not give a hint, he is a mere child, what is he to say?]

Psychiatrist: Look Son, I guess I will have to cut this session short just like all the others that came before, unless you change your mind. Do you have anything to say?

[The child's mind finally grasps onto something worth the toll of leaving his mouth, but instead, something tells him to keep his words perched on his lips. He hears the music in his head, almost louder than ever. The singer pounds the words into his skull, "Don't you trust them, they will all turn on you. Won't you listen, You know what to do. The truth is more important, when kept in your head. The cries from the past, are meant to be buried with the dead." Although young, the child is an intelligent one, and immediately finds these sudden poetic verses a sign. The child will keep his mouth in control, and will only tell the psychiatrist weekly events, only simple stories of his day at school. But what is yet to come from this child's mouth, the psychiatrist could never be ready for, even with his prior knowledge of the past.]

Psychiatrist: Well since you have nothing left to say, I will just leave that at that and I will see you next week, have a good week, child.

[The child leaves, almost to a tune, to his own rhythm, tramping across the ground like his legs were drumsticks coming down on a snare for a drum roll of a big event to pummel him into a sudden realization, a realization that would change his life. He exits.]