By Aanya Sharma
As the river of blood pooled out of Alex Smith’s body, the new Alex Smith walked expressionlessly away from the corpse, donning a mask that was an exact replica of the face lying barely a dozen feet behind him in the cold, cold jungle. In just a few hours, the lions would emerge and the body would be gone by sunrise.
This was the eleventh time Alex had longed for a new identity. He chose that of his therapist this time. Monday would be interesting.
He went back to the house that was now his and got into bed, subconsciously wishing he was happy with who he really was.
Monday came, and by then, Alex had learnt how to be this version of himself. He walked into his office and met his first patient, Harry Jones, a 25-year-old young man, having an identity crisis.
“Good morning, Harry,” Alex greeted him.
“Good morning.”
“How are you today?”
“Well, I did those exercises you suggested, to notice when I’m helping someone, and to notice when I’m feeling most like myself. It kinda worked, I guess,” He seemed unconfident.
“Why the hesitation?” Alex asked. He was getting the hang of this therapist thing.
“You know how it is. It’s hard to feel like myself these days. I keep trying to do what my parents and my friends recommend, the things that I enjoyed doing before, but I don’t know. None of those things feel right.”
“Ah, that’s your problem right there. You are trying too hard to be what other people think you need to be. You need to know that you have real worth and real value outside of people’s ideas of you. You need to know that you have real worth and real value in who you are. You don’t need to be anything apart from you.” Alex watched as a flicker of a smile appeared on Harry’s face as he nodded.
The rest of the session was spent discussing the latest happenings in his life, as well as his most recent breakdown. Alex passed through it all like a phantom. He kept thinking of what he had told Harry. He could relate to not being able to find who he was. But the solutions and the pep talk he gave him were both fake. He’d been making them up on the spot. He didn’t believe any of them.
Harry did, though.
Harry believed every word he told him over the next few weeks, about how only he defined his worth, how the opinions of other people didn’t matter, how his identity could only ever be his.
Harry gradually got better. It took him around 6 months, but after that he was ready. Ready to go out and face the world. Ready to live his life as himself.
It really is a shame he won’t ever get to.
On the fifth Saturday after Harry found his identity, it was stolen from him.
As the river of blood pooled out of Harry Jones’s body, the new Harry Jones walked expressionlessly away from the corpse, donning a mask that was an exact replica of the face lying barely a dozen feet behind him in the cold, cold jungle. In just a few hours, the lions would emerge and the body would be gone by sunrise.
This was the twelfth time Harry had longed for a new identity. He chose that of his patient this time. Monday would be interesting.
By Aanya Sharma
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