Losing Posture

"Ben, are you listening to me?" I hear Dr. Roberts say. He snaps his fingers to try and catch my attention. "Did you hear what I just said?"

I turn to him. He always carries a slight scowl on his face, but now the scowl is more prominent. He takes off his huge and thick glasses and rubs his face in exasperation. Then, in a moment of epiphany, he asks, "What are you thinking about, Ben? You've been staring at the walls while I'm trying to talk to you for a while now."

I sigh, almost worn out even before I begin to speak. "Well," I begin, "I've been staring at these boring and dull white walls because they are a canvas for my mind, a blank page for my imagination to roam free on." I see him begin writing down notes on his notepad. He nods at me, and I continue. "I was thinking about how we all will die and eventually will have nothing to be remembered by. Sure, great men are remembered for their courage and nobility for generations, but they too will one day be forgotten. Since that's the case," I look dead into his small eyes, "then why bother with many of the things we do? It's all futile and worthless. Like me. At least my dad thought so when he left." I look down at my shoes, which are dirty and worn out from endless days of wearing them. "And I thought about why and how people can be so passionate about many of the things they are. What about movies makes Steven Spielberg care so much for them? What about music made Beethoven want to be a composer? What about the universe intrigued Einstein so much that he wanted to study it? I don't know, nor do I think I ever will..." Then I look back up at him, and he's still frantically scribbling down notes.

Finally, he puts down his pen and looks at me again. He begins to fiddle with his thumbs, almost nervously. "Yes, while we all will die, there is still meaning to be found in life. We all have a purpose, Ben, and just because you may not have found yours yet doesn't mean that you are without purpose for your life. Secondly, feeling disinterest for things in life is a very common symptom of depression, one that many people face. Men like Spielberg, Beethoven, and Einstein did what they did because they loved their work, and they all had a vision of a better world. They wanted to help leave the world in better shape than when they found it."

"Bull!" I spit out. "No one's that noble. We all are monsters inside. Selfish and greedy monsters who think of no one but themselves."

He's taken a bit aback by my response, but he quickly gains his composure and says with the most sincerity I've ever heard in anyone's voice, "Well, I don't quite believe that. I understand why you think that. You've been surrounded by people like that all of you're life. Your father left you and your brother. Your mother neglected you and your brother. Your brother then left home the moment he could. You needed someone who loved you and would let you know that you mattered. But no one ever showed you that. And I'm sorry. I truly am. It breaks my heart to see children, adolescents, and even adults who never realize how much they mean to the world." Tears begin to swell into my eyes, but I fight them back. "You are someone. And you have the ability to change the world. Always remember that, okay?"

I nod as I try and keep myself from crying, but it's no use. I break down and begin crying, right then and there. I release everything that's built up inside of me for the past sixteen years. Dr. Roberts walks over and puts his hand on my shoulder, assuring me that I'm okay and that he's there for me.

After what seems like forever, I can't cry anymore, and I look up at him. He smiles a bright smile down at me, and I say, "Thank you."

"Don't mention it. It's my job." Then he looks up at the clock on the wall. "Well, it's five o'clock. Time to go."

I stand up and begin to leave the room. "I'll see you next week."

"And I'll see you then." He puts his hand out, and right before I shake it, I come in and hug him. He's warm. I've never really hugged anyone before, though, and it feels nice. It feels better than what words could ever express. Then I leave his office, walk out of the building, and get into my car.

While on the way home, I stop by the hospital and pull into the back and up to the dumpster. Then I open the glove compartment and pull out an old revolver. I take it and open the car door. I walk over to the rusted dumpster, check to see if the round is full, and then dump all of the bullets out into the dumpster. Then I toss the gun in there as well. I walk back to the car, get in, close the door, and begin to drive away from there.