Wednesday, October 15th -- 4:13pm
“I just don't know what I'm doing here.”
The stallion sat, fore-hooves planted firmly together on the cerulean carpet. His back was hunched, shoulders tensed. Head hanging, his gaze bored into the carpet. Across from him, professor Fugue sat at his desk, uncertain if the stallion was actually seeing the carpet, or something else.
“It's been three whole months,” the stallion continued, flicking his gaze upward, then back down. “Three months and nothing. No change. Nothing returning.”
Fugue waited, one hoof draped over the other as he leaned forward. He watched the stallion, noting the slant of the brows, the spasmodic flicking of the ears, piecing together the parts into a complete image: Irritation.
Fugue relaxed slightly. Good, it hadn't become depression.
Yet.
He opened his mouth to speak, then hesitated. The stallion's tail had stopped twitching, relaxing. Then his shoulders dropped. Even if only a fraction, it was a good sign. Fugue closed his mouth, waiting. Eventually, amber eyes turned up to meet his gaze. Fugue gave him a smile.
“Yeah yeah, I know,” the stallion grumbled, turning his face away. He lifted his head and brought a hoof to rub his snout. “`I may never get my memories back.` You've told me that often enough.” He coughed out a short laugh, half mocking, half embarrassed. “I need to …” He trailed off and heaved a sigh, ears falling. He began again. “I need to move on. Make new memories …. But it's really hard, y'know? I … I want those memories. I mean, who am I if I don't know where I came from?” He returned his gaze toward Fugue, the outsides of his brows drawn down.
Pleading, Fugue realized. He returned the gaze with a small, sad smile.
“Do your memories make you?” he asked. The stallion looked down at the carpet once more.
“I …” He began, but trailed off.
For a while, the stallion remained as he was. Eventually, he turned to gaze out the window to his right. The white light of the noonday glare felt heavy, the sun suffusing through grey clouds. It cast the entire office into subtly shifting hues of white, grey and gloomy. The bright wood of Fugue's desk and bookshelves were dulled. The calming cerulean of the carpet became a dark, lethargic mess on the floor. The exciting and energetic reds and yellows of the pillows and artwork around the edges of the room became brooding and sickly. The only things that seemed to have remained the same were the stallion's charcoal coat and Fugue's own deep crimson, both too dark to be affected.
This was one of the days Fugue never wished his clients to face, but knew that if they could come through it, it would be just one more small step toward recovery. Which was why he left the blinds up.
“Yes,” the stallion finally said, meeting Fugue's gaze.
“Yes … what?” He prompted.
“Yes, my memories do make me who I am. Or … at least are a large part of it.” Fugues ear's drooped slightly, but he beckoned the stallion to continue. “If I liked something, but now I don't know if I liked it or not, haven't I changed?” He paused for a moment, but before Fugue could respond, he continue. “Or, a better example, lets say I had been abused by my father when I was younger, but now can't remember it. Aren't I different than if I did remember it?”
“Are you?”
The stallion blinked. His brow knitted and he frowned.
“Yes …?”
“You don't think you would still be affected by it, regardless whether or not you remembered?”
The stallion looked down, but his eyes weren't focused. Absently, he began to rub a hoof against the carpet.
“I … I don't know,” he finally admitted. “I mean, I want to say yes, but … but I'm no so sure.”
“Ripple,” Fugue spoke softly, leaning a bit closer and dropping his head slightly to catch the stallion's eyes. “There are a lot of things we can't be certain of, but being uncertain won't help you heal. Don't dismiss your questions or fears, but don't focus so much on them. Don't focus on your lost memories, focus on—”
“Making new ones,” Ripple finished for him, sighing again. “Right. I know.”
Fugue smiled, then glanced to his right at the clock on the bookshelf. Ripple belatedly followed his gaze. Four twenty-nine.
“Do me a favor?” Fugue asked, turning back to the stallion, who was starting to stand.
“What?”
“Make some friends.”
Ripple looked down and smiled, finally letting out a genuine chuckle.
“Yeah, yeah,” he replied. “I know.”
Fugue levitated his glasses from the desk onto his snout, pulling open a drawer to bring out a pad of paper and a pen.
“Same time next week?”
“Yeah, that works.”
Fugue jotted it down, then looked up, a smile on his face.
“You're doing better, Ripple.”
“Thanks doc,” Ripple responded after a short pause. “Yeah, I guess I am.”
Fugue studied him surreptitiously. The smile on Ripple's snout seemed … not strained, exactly, but not as genuine as the one from before. He met Fugue's gaze, glanced away, then back, broadening his smile. Fugue responded in kind, waving as Ripple left.
As the door clicked shut, Fugue frowned. He hated that. He hated being unable to tell if Ripple believed him or not. Had he been lying …?
He stood, crossing to the mirror that hung on the reverse side of the door. Gold eyes stared back at him beneath wire-framed spectacles. He grinned, though not feeling like it. A genuinely happy pony stared back at him.
“Blast it,” he muttered, dropping his head and smile. “Still can't be certain …”
For a moment he stood still, tense. Then he abruptly relaxed, eyes shutting and smiling. He snorted out a short chuckle.
“My word, Fugue,” he muttered. “`Can't be certain` ... heh. Take your own advice.”
--- Word count: 1013