Red as riding hood: a short story by drew garner.

                    I

I waited in the lobby of the doctors' office for an appointment that I was always early for, but still somehow always waiting eagerly with anticipation to get over with. I am in love with a person and an idea. I am mentally ill, knowing that this is all a delusion, a construct of my subconscious mind. I idealize things I do not understand...but usually these people I put on a pedestal are beautiful in some form or the other.
   Which is to say they are in opposition to what I feel I represent. But Sara is genuinely something unusual, something obtainable but always out of reach even when she is sitting a couple of feet from me.
   The door in front of me opens, and the skinny Sara is smiling at me and says my name. I follow her back to her office sitting opposite from the chair she goes to after closing the door. "So how have you been?" she says. So I explain some interpretation of a broken thought that is useless to the world as I feel I am, probably about my lacking qualities as a writer and how I fear my failures will be talked about till the end of time. She listens smiling, then starts to speak again "Why don't we switch roles, I'll tell you something, and you help me by listening?" all said with her honesty but somehow seeming like a trap. "sure...." I said, then with her hand between her legs as it always was. She begins to speak, with an intensity that I am not used too.

                      II

"I had a dream last night that chilled me to my core. I was going to visit my grandmother, so I kissed my children goodbye and started off into the woods.
   There were things in the woods I knew of but hadn't seen: changelings and warlocks. But it was my birthday, and I wanted to see my grandmother, so on I went. The branches creaked and scratched as the wind blew and the sun was hiding behind clouds, but on I continued. A lonely owl chanted hoot then faded into the distance. Frogs croaked in a nearby pond, but I followed my path exact.
   But then came the big bad wolf who had eyes like yours. Green when it was up close and grey when he was far away, but I swear they were your eyes. I Tried to ignore him, but he was persistent with his hello's so I looked him in the eye just like I am you and he said 'stay and pick flowers?' 'No thank you' I said. 'Oh, come on you have time' said the big bad wolf. 'No, I don't' I said. So I ran away from him often looking over my shoulder.
   Though I couldn't see him, I felt something watching me.  I knew, but I continued till I got to my grandmothers feeling anxious that she would not be there. When I entered the darkness and cold of her house, I saw her and asked Grandma 'why is the skin hanging off your neck?' And she told me 'I am an old woman, what do you expect?'  'Grandma, I said what is wrong with your voice.' 'Nothing child' said the thing in the dark, come and sit on the bed.
   Then I hesitated, but it would do me no justice, I could hear walking out of the dark towards me. Revealing my grandmothers face with a wolf snout protruding from between her lips. I said what 'the fuck have you done' pulling a knife out of my basket. The wolf ran at me, leaping, as I thrust out blindly. Feeling it's weight gripping the blade then stabbed without hesitation marks wherever I could. It bawled up like a wounded spider around the knife. When it was dead I saw my grandmothers face laying on the floor where it had fallen then went and sat on the bed and said 'fuck me.' then I woke up."

                    III

 I noticed that she was rubbing her pants with her fingertips between her legs. And as she swung her leg back and forth, I looked at her foot and said "for a moment I thought it was a cat." she just smiled then said "no...." "never tell me about your dreams again." I said, she looked at me with disapproval then told me "I guess it is more about how they make you feel, then what happens." "most likely," I said, "but you didn't describe a feeling did you?" "no, I described a dream." 
   She got down on her knees and stared at me then deliberately raised her eyebrows. And we did what we always did during my appointments: we played a role not designated by society or the context we existed in. I wanted to kiss her but instead pulled down my pant's and felt a warmth that left me confused and surprised every time it was allowed. But then there was a pop and a feeling of loss, and I looked down at her smiling coldness she was smearing the blood over her face that dripped from where my severed penis was once connected. I remember seeing her spit out my head.
   And I felt like I lied to more than one of you, possibly to myself. I felt the life leaving me along with the warmth of my blood as it trickles down to the floor. Or the delusion of my conscious mind clinging to a hope of pride with diligence I don't understand. I said to her "you're as red a riding hood." Then felt the oblivion of death take me off too where all lies go.
   Somewhere in the dark where they can comfort themselves, Feeling like they were wronged or escaped some fate they created for themselves. The question is not what happened but why? And the answer shook me to my core because I have lied, not to you but myself. You need to understand before all of this lying took place, I had blackmailed her. More than that I had used it to decide what I should never have had. And even now I continue in this way to lie. But do not try to think much of it, because I have found that the truth is scary but that maybe the place where fear sleeps is in the abyss of dreams one step removed from the hole of lies.
   And comforting as leverage of a future that perhaps still can but never should be. I apologize to you Sara because I promised I wouldn't use your name, but here I am trying to salvage a car crash of a narrative with the hope that truth is scarier than a lie and the truth is this was an apology for mistreatment. The cloak you wear is to hide a lack of innocence as glaring as mine, yet you have never done me wrong.
   You don't have my madness, my schizophrenia or my anxiety.  But perhaps we do share a lust for self-destruction even if others hands desire it.
   Death welcome me as I have appreciated all of your criticisms through every session I felt lost in the woods unsure if I was the hunter or hunted. Wandering now if this is my narrative or one more of the wolves waiting to strike me down for wanting to breath.