The overhead fan continued to make its soft, repetitive, whump-whump-whump sound, as if hundreds of 1920s housewives had decided they were all going to beat out their rugs in the next office. Timed with every whump was a nearly indiscernable push of cold air against his skin, tousling stray hairs, rustling the top corners of the pages of the magazine he was reading at the time. The absolutely tripe and trivial magazine, full of trashy content for trashy people. Even the very paper stock it was printed on was trashy. One could feel it under their fingers. The slightly damp sticky feeling of cheap varnish on thin paper that barely did an adequate job at keeping the ink on the page.

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Jeremy momentarily glanced at his fingertips.

No, not even barely adequate, he thought to himself in disgust, as his deft, long fingers swiftly went back to turn the page over to the next insipid article or uninspired advertisement.

Not even barely adequate. There was red and black smudges all over the pads of his thumb and forefinger where he had been flicking the pages. Pathetic. He had older magazines that were still in perfectly good condition as they had been constructed of better stuff. His collection of vintage Roll-

“Mr Wernheimer?” the secretary interrupted his thoughts “The doctor will see you now, if you’re ready.”

“About time,” Jeremy murmured as he delicately folded the magazine, ensuring that he would do as little damage to it’s pathetically loose binding and shattered spine as was humanly possible “It’s like waiting in limbo out here!”

He stood up, his legs creaking in the cold of the waiting room, his slightly too short pants’ cuffs dropping back on top of his rich, brown, patent leather shoes. The square toed cut on the shoes that he favoured was hideously out of style at this time, but he favoured them, found them comfortable in a way that the pointed, Italian inspired shoes that th au fait were currently wearing about simply could not achieve. He thought of them as the sort of shoes one could expect an elf to wear if the mythical creatures somehow broke out of the pages of fictions and screens of tragically pimpled virgins and decided to play the stocks and derivatives markets.

The thought gave him a perverse giggle. Such a ridiculous notion that mythical creatures would be out and about. Then again, he chastised himself, the Earth used to be flat and stars used to be dead kings.

He gripped the immaculately polished iron handle of the door and ave it a gentle push downwards and in. The door glided open silently on well greased hinges, feeling nearly as weightless as the air it displaced as it swept its quarter circle arc on the plush red carpet of the doctors office.

The carpet. So deep, so red, and amber and yellow. The way it seemed to move of its own accord whilst staying still. The yielding texture that was soft to caress and made a thousand promises of the comfort if one lay down and submitted themselves to its luxury. The subtle heat it always seemed to contained, like a promise of so much more to come if one were to be wrapped in, consumed by, that carpet.

Jeremy was glad that the doctor allowed his patients the luxury of removing their shoes whilst in his care. It was about the only thing of the doctor’s personal mannerisms that Jeremy was glad about, as the doctor horrified him in a way that he could not explain. There was something that was simply off about him. The way he stressed syllables in odd places of words and sentences, like a FOB European, even though he did not have an accent that seemed to originate from anywhere within the former Soviet or fascist states that were so amazing at producing psychotherapists. But it was not that one thing alone that disturbed Jeremy about his mental carer. There were other things that continued to nag.

Other things such as the way that the doctor was fat. Not just fat, or moribund, or morbidly obese. None of these terms did adequate justice to the physique that this strange man had. All of them implied someone that was a walking bag of fluid and cellulite. Jiggling tissue that gave into to gravity and sagged, rubbing against itself and the clothing that always struggled to contain it. Wobbling about as a person moved, so much so that one could almost imagine a sloshing sound with every pendulous footstep that such oafs took. Sausage like fingers yielding under the pressure of some sweetmeat that was about to pass blubbering lips, to be wetly smacked upon, gulped, and wheezed over, until they ultimately added to the very sea of yellow, oily tissue that craved their presence in the first place.

These were the nauseating thoughts that Jeremy had when he thought of people that were normally fat. But the doctor was not this kind of fat. He was able to move with a grace and speed that was unusual for anyone of his stature for a start. Furthermore, this activity never seemed to make him gasp for breath, attempting to draw in great lungfuls, as even the simple physical labour of removing such a fat arse often did for the people Jeremy thought of as fat. The doctor did not sweat, did not indulge in sweets in any noticeable way, did not jiggle or roll or blubber… Yet he still exuded the feeling of being monstrously fat.

“My dear Jeremy, welcome in,” the doctor beckoned as he grasped Jeremy’s hand. The grip. It was smooth and cool, always cool, like quality marble, except hat it yielded and gave way under the slightest pressure when Jeremy firmly shook it.

Jeremy looked at their hands. The doctor had such finely manicured hands. Perfectly shaped and polished nails. Not a hair to a knuckle, nor blemish or freckle. He let go of the grip, and the doctor placed his other hand on the back of Jeremy’s shoulder, applying a gentle pressure “If you’d just like to take a seat.”

You might also like to read:

1. Penitence & Therapy pt4
2. Penitence & Therapy pt3
3. Penitence & Therapy pt5
4. Penitence & Therapy pt6
5. Penitence & Therapy pt8

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