Breathers by S. G. Browne

Author:S. G. Browne [Browne, S. G.]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: General Fiction, Lang:en
Publisher: Broadway
Published: 2012-03-30T14:06:32+00:00

scribble words down on my dry erase board so Ted can't see what I'm writing as I watch him out of the corner of my eye, studying me with a mixture of aversion and interest.

“How are you feeling today, Andrew?”

I hold up my dry erase board, upon which I've already written:

How are you feeling today, Andrew?

He's so predictable.

Ted lets out an anemic laugh, followed by a strained smile. Either that or he's showing off that he just had his teeth capped.

… twelve … thirteen … fourteen …

“I understand that you've recently had something of an adventure,” says Ted.

Not really, I write.

“That's not what your parents tell me,” he says.

My parents.

After the bus fiasco, my parents left me at the SPCA for two days. I didn't really mind. The volunteers and staff treat me with more respect and consideration than the majority of Breathers and it gets me out of the wine cellar. Plus they've got some really tasty dog treats.

I know my father wanted to teach me a lesson, but all he taught me was that he has no compassion. I'm an affront to his senses and an embarrassment to his sensibilities. I'm a social and economic albatross. He'd sooner see me consumed by maggots than happy.

At least my mother tries to understand me, to share in what I'm going through, even if she does spray me with air freshener and wear heavy-duty latex gloves whenever she has to come into contact with me.

My mother is sitting out in the reception area waiting for me, probably reading a Sunset magazine and humming to herself while my father is probably waiting for me at home with a can of gasoline and a blow torch.

“When you got on the bus,” says Ted, “was there someplace you wanted to go?”

I didn't tell my parents I'd been on my way to see Annie because that would only create more problems. Maybe even encourage Annie's aunt and uncle to move her out of state. So I'm not about to tell Ted. I know there's the whole patient confidentiality thing but somehow I don't think that applies to zombies. Ted would just as likely tell my parents where I'd been going as he would get a chemical peel.

I just wanted to feel normal, I write.

“Normal,” says Ted in a manner that lets me know he has no idea how to respond. “Normal …”

He's smiling again, caressing his teeth with his tongue. I glance up at the digital clock, at the red numbers advancing second by second, and realize I'd rather be home watching Trick My Truck on Country Music Television.

I erase my previous words and write:

What's going on?

“What do you mean, Andrew?” he says through a strained, artificially brightened smile.

I think he knows what I mean.

Why are you here?

“Do you mean in the emotional sense, the spiritual sense, or the existential sense?”

What does that mean?

Nothing. Just silence. I don't think he knows what he's talking about.

What are you doing?

“I'm trying to help you, Andrew.”

How is this helping me?

“I don't know,” says Ted.

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