Board Thread:Writer's Workshop/@comment-26114676-20150320213930

So, this is my first time posting to WW. I hope I posted this right, I'm not sure whether the title goes under 'what do you want to talk about' or 'Topic'...

Anyway, I wrote this but I'm not very impressed with it. Before submitting to the actual site, criticism would be much appreciated. Thank you.

~*~

A certain type of person is attracted to me. They seem to spot me from miles away and will beeline towards me no matter where I am. It seems I can never do anything without one of them breathing down my neck. Grocery shopping, miscellaneous errands, walking the dog…they make it a point to find me and talk to me.

The type of people I’m referring to, of course, are the mentally unbalanced. They love to tell me their stories of fantastic imagination. I can’t remember a time where these people didn’t seek me out personally. I really wonder why they come to me. Isn’t there anyone else in the world they can talk to? They bypass multitudes of people and decide I’m the person to strike up a conversation with.

I remember as a child, I loved talking to them. Their stories were great and I enjoyed them. I was told tales of Alien abductions; people disappearing into thin air; ghosts of another life. I used to get excited when I seen them come towards me. Now, I just want to run a different direction and seek safety in numbers.

As I grew older, the people got worse. Their mental afflictions became almost unbearable. One man felt it necessary to tell me how he was forced to eat humans in prison, disguised as bologna. Another man screamed at me about how shadow-people forced him to take the life of his wife and two young children. A woman cried about the demons that left bits and pieces of small animals in her yard and house.

A Rottweiler isn’t enough to keep these people at bay. They scratch on my windows at night, howling to be let in so they can tell me their stories. Despite Titan’s intimidating growls and barks, they still pound on my door and attempt to get inside. They approach me in public, ignoring the gnashing of Titan’s teeth.

They have to tell me their stories. It’s the only way to make them leave me alone. I miss the simple stories I used to be told. I miss the joy I felt when releasing these people from their mental agonies. They would tell me their stories and leave, the burden lifted from their shoulders. I could bear the remnants of their nightmares, then.

The only remnants they pass on to me now plague me. They walk away with their sanity, yet my own weakens more with each day that passes. I had longed so much to do this, to set people free from the cage of their minds. Now I question why I would ever want to be a psychologist. The biggest question, however, is why I chose to run my practice out of my home. 