The Burgundy & Gold Stitched Chair
This piece represents Generation F because in today’s society the older generation tends to underestimate the younger one, when in all reality we are the change, whether or not those who come before us see it.
A majority of my adult life has been spent sitting in a burgundy-and-gold stitched chair in a secluded office on the corner of some sketchy block in Houston, Texas. Being one of the only reliable psychologists in town, I have heard it all. From petty boy problems to fourth-graders’ rape stories, I have comforted people through some of their darkest times right from that chair. Not only do I comfort those who seek my help, I help them battle their demons, and I must say, I am pretty darn good at it. Every single time I have some sort of game plan and pretty quickly, too . . . or at least a diagnosis. Then one day Alex Marshall came along.
The star athlete on his football team with a beautiful girlfriend and a large group of friends: a typical high school teenager. He began coming to me two weeks ago on Tuesdays and Thursdays, when he began hearing voices and having “thoughts that seemed to be coming true.” Initially, I thought it was schizophrenia, but he didn’t show any “normal” symptoms, so I was skeptical. The following weeks, he just became more of an impossible puzzle. I was getting pieces, but none seemed to fit. He told me last Tuesday that his dream vividly happened in real life. Apparently, a kid on his football team got diagnosed with skin cancer and he dreamt about it. I figured it could perhaps be a coincidence or all in his head. He also said he had these “visions” and when he had them he would go into paralysis mode. He mentioned that he’s had sleep paralysis, and it was similar but this was real. He had a vision in the shower one night about receiving a test back and the next day it happened in real life exactly like the dream, everything down to the questions they got wrong. At this point I figured it was completely in his head but what exactly was IN his head? Schizophrenia? Too many football concussions? The fact that I couldn’t figure it out was irking me, but I was determined to—even if it was the last thing I did.
Then he came in on Thursday for his second appointment of the week. Earlier that day there was a massive terrorist attack in a church in Rome, Italy. He came in, sat down, and said he had another image of the attack. He said he caused it. He wouldn’t go into details about his image because “he never wants to relive that again.” (Taken from my notes.) The rest of the session was silent. I thought he was making it up or having really bad schizophrenic or anxiety-induced false memories. But still, nothing seemed to add up. Until last night around six p.m. he texted me asking the nearest time he could come in. I told him that I had off and was in the office so he could come by whenever he needed to, free of charge. About five minutes later I heard a voice.
“I had an image.” I looked up and across from me was Alex Marshall. He was shaking as the words left his mouth.
“What happened?” I asked.
“I was called down to the main office in physics saying that I was going home. I went down and this FBI agent posed as my uncle told me I was going with him and the ladies at the desk didn’t even question it. He said to come with him and I went outside and into his car and he didn’t say a word to me and then my phone went off with a loud alarm. Like really loud. Like Amber-Alerts-on-steroids loud. I looked at my phone as I read: ‘INCOMING MISSILE: YOU HAVE APPROXIMATELY THIRTY MINUTES TO FIND SAFETY.’ I looked at him and he said, ‘We are getting you to safety with your family; we know your secret, you won’t be harmed.’ Then the image ended,” said Alex with tears welling in his eyes and his face as pale as a ghost.
“Alex . . . it’s just a thought, it won’t happen,” I tried to reassure him.
“I know it sounds ridiculous and like I’m losing it, but I’m not.”
That is the last conversation he asked me to record to prove he “wasn’t losing it.” I didn’t believe him. Quite frankly, I thought he was losing it. Then this morning I was sitting in my chair after my patient had just left. And then alarms on my phone started and they were loud. Like really loud. Like Amber-Alerts-on-steroids loud. “INCOMING MISSILE: YOU HAVE APPROXIMATELY THIRTY MINUTES TO FIND SAFETY” was displayed on my phone. Now here I am, in the basement of a secluded office on some sketchy block of Houston, Texas, writing perhaps the last thing I will ever write. Maybe the FBI will find this. In the meantime, I am going to complete his diagnosis, which might be the last thing I do. Alex Marshall, seventeen, can actually predict the future.