The Cure for Fear



                 The Cure for Fear

I loved her. Since the moment we met I had loved her with all my heart. There is something that I just cannot explain. It is something intangible, something that I always try to explain to my friends, my coworkers, but there are no answers. It was simple love.

            Her name was Laura. We met only a few months ago. We knew then that we were met for each other. She was the opposite of I. She was compassionate, kind, caring, her only flaw being her own fear. Her own anxiety. She feared death so very much. In only the first two or three months in which I met her she had two break downs. She had nightmares of her own demise. I would try to console her. I took her to a string of doctors, who gave her medication to quell her fears.

            I was cocky, headstrong, and sometimes at my worse, narcissistic. I would always need things to my way. I recognized that, and that alone I felt sometimes gave me my strength in the most destitute times. No matter the times, no matter the brevity of what I am forced to deal with, deal within myself. People have always said opposites attract. I failed to believe them. It seemed like love would never been possible. But, sometimes fate works in mysterious ways.

            I worked as a psychologist myself, perhaps the very reason I was so infatuated with her. I knew from the start that she was hyper sensitive, hyper emotional, and neurotic. Even in the very first days I could sense it. In fact, I remember some of our first conversations.

“What would the feeling be like, John?”

“The feeling, the feeling of death?” I stared at her, as though I was staring into her soul.

“Yes. Can’t there just be a simple answer?”

<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:200%"><span style="font-size:12.0pt; line-height:200%;font-family:"TimesNewRoman","serif"">“I suppose we’ll all find out one day. You can’t boggle your mind with such endeavors.”

<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:200%"><span style="font-size:12.0pt; line-height:200%;font-family:"TimesNewRoman","serif"">            I had what some would call an endemic memory. Tests done on other people claiming to have the same skill set failed to show the ability being in fact, real. Despite that, and my knowledge of the ramifications of believing a lie, I continued to believe in it. I continued to believe, no, not believe, use my ability to the fullest I could. I would ask her the same questions day after day, remembering each response after another. I wouldn’t need to write it down. I could just…remember it.

<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:200%"><span style="font-size:12.0pt; line-height:200%;font-family:"TimesNewRoman","serif"">            Days went by where there were no issues. I had talked to colleagues who convinced me she was bipolar, and that she needed more medication to function. They knew she was unemployed, and that during the day she did little. I had supported her, and would continue to support her despite her emotional struggles. I didn’t care if she would never work, as long as she would care for me.

<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:200%"><span style="font-size:12.0pt; line-height:200%;font-family:"TimesNewRoman","serif"">            During those days she would often call me at work. Sometimes with patients, and the patients would listen to the disturbing messages relayed. I would often tell the patients not to worry, and that it was another patient of mine. I would sometimes take the call, sometimes not depending on the brevity of her words. If I did not pick it up she would be sour with me for a few days, but she would eventually get over it.

<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:200%"><span style="font-size:12.0pt; line-height:200%;font-family:"TimesNewRoman","serif"">            Every single conversation etched into my mind. I would repeat them in my  spare time, trying to think of any way to help her. So many medications. So many things I had given her, against her will. I had to tie her to a chair once and force feed her the pills. After the first time it was not so bad, she would pick up the routine, realizing that it was not so bad.

<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:200%"><span style="font-size:12.0pt; line-height:200%;font-family:"TimesNewRoman","serif"">            But it was stressful on me. Sometimes I felt like I couldn’t take it anymore. That I was stuck. I would love her no matter what. But I had been hesitant on engaging to her. It just didn’t feel right. No, not right- more, just fearful. I was worried how she would react. I knew she loved me despite my eccentric nature. Still, she might be overwhelmed and…and I don’t what I would do. Finally I decided there was no choice. I would do it. I would cure her fears, her fears of death.

<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:200%"><span style="font-size:12.0pt; line-height:200%;font-family:"TimesNewRoman","serif"">            Weeks passed on and she stabilized. She was beginning to feel as though she were just ‘normal.’ But I would like into her eyes, and not see the woman I loved. I could see her slowly losing her. Through drugs, through pills. One after another. She began to lose weight rapidly. She began to lose…herself. She would not eat. She would not move. But she smiled. All the time.

<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:200%"><span style="font-size:12.0pt; line-height:200%;font-family:"TimesNewRoman","serif"">            And, I felt strangely happy. I dragged her limp body around the house. She began to rot slowly, but I failed to care. She was still the woman I loved. I still would never forsake her. I hung her in a case, as she stared at me on the couch. I smiled at her, both of us finally happy. She no longer feared, and I was no longer feared for her safety, for she was already dead..