Misfortune's Sons: Chapter 1

[This is a romance story with some mentions of substance abuse and homophobia.]

     I should know that my day is about to take a turn for the worse when I spot my ex from Sixth Form in the produce section of the supermarket where I work. It’s as if an unwelcome ghost from my past is paying me a visit; thirteen years after we broke up and I still recognise her instantly. She’s tall and elegantly lean, with curly red hair that falls past her shoulders. She’s still as fashionably dressed as she’d always been in our teenage years.

 I wonder where her life had taken her that she would be buying strawberries at an upscale supermarket at ten in the morning, but I don’t dare approach her. Instead, I disappear into the stock room of the store until I am quite sure that she has left. I would be mortified if she saw me and asked me how my own life is going. When we broke up after going to separate universities, I was beginning a programme in nuclear engineering at my country’s premier university, and dreamed of joining my father in his work at the Ministry of Energy. But that ship veered far off course and into a minefield long ago. No passengers survived.

 I try to stop myself from dwelling on the past that day, occupying myself with stocking shelves and assisting customers when needed, but those awful two words “what if” keep circulating in my head.

 That evening, I’m getting ready to head back to my flat and am waiting for my coworker, Noah, to join me. Despite being discouraged from dating fellow store employees in the orientation to my current job, I’ve been going out with him for four months now. He usually spends the night at my flat since I have the nicer living accommodations. I’m quite aware that he’s a pitiful excuse for a human being, but seeing as I’m 30 and lonely, and my only friend moved to another city earlier this year, I put up with his behaviour most of the time. He’s straight edge, at the very least, which is something I really need in a partner.

 “Hey, you coming?” I shout to him from across the store.

 What’s up with him, I wonder as he walks towards me painstakingly, as if he has blisters.

  “Where are we going for dinner?” I ask him as we headed out of the store. Given that we work in the centre of the Nation’s capital, there are plenty of options around.

 He stops dead in his tracks and I turn around to stare at him quizzically. He methodically adjusts his glasses and runs a hand through his dark, curly hair. “Knut, this isn’t working for me. I don’t think we should see each other anymore.”

 My heart skips a beat and I wonder if I misheard. “What do you mean? Is this about something I did?”

 He shakes his head. “Look…you’re not fun. I don’t know if it’s an ‘I’m 30’ thing or a you thing, but it’s not working for me. You bring me down, you know? It’s not the dynamic I’m looking for.”

 I’m flabbergasted, and words catch in my throat. “I - I get that I don’t have the greatest past, but I don’t talk about it all the time. That’s not who I am now.”

 He looks me over. “But it is who you are. I just don’t want to date someone with…well, baggage.”

 My fists curl and I try to think of a clever comeback, but end up exhaling in defeat. “Right. See you around, I guess.”

 He shrugs. “Yep.” I can’t believe this is happening. I feel like I’m watching a TV series about a guy that isn’t really me. I want the option to switch off this sad episode and go back to my normal life. A sense of disbelief makes me feel light-headed as we part ways.

 With the evening sun dyeing the sky red, I walk in the opposite direction of where Noah is heading. I wish that I had my bike so that I could cycle home, but since I expected to go home with my now-ex-boyfriend, I was planning on taking the bus. I decide to brave the walk home since I don’t feel like I can tolerate the confines of public transport at this moment.

 You’re better off now, I tell myself as I march step by step to my residence. You knew he wasn’t a good person. You should be glad that someone who has no respect for you is out of your life. Have some dignity, Knut.

 Two hours of marching and ruminating later, I arrive at my residence. It is in a quiet, affluent area of the city with lots of greenery and parks. I could never afford this flat on the salary I make at the supermarket. My posh accommodations are paid for by the parents I haven’t seen in four years.

  There are a few people strolling in the park across the street from my abode. The bushes around the entrance to the building are in full bloom, although the red flowers appear less brilliant in the twilight. I let myself in the front entrance and then sigh as I walk upstairs to my apartment on the second storey.

 I’ve managed to keep the apartment fairly clean lately since Noah came over here quite a bit over the past few months. The place has a colour scheme of soft blues, right down to the carpets and the ocean-themed art hanging on the walls.

 I’m not feeling hungry, and open a large bag of crisps out of habit rather than true need. I ease myself down on the sofa and turn on the TV as I prepare to eat my pathetic dinner. I tell myself that I will not allow myself to be affected by this sudden breakup. I am in control of my life and will not allow someone who showed me so little regard to affect my stability. I mindlessly flip through channels as I eat the entire bag of crisps, a dietary decision which does not improve my mood. As my eyes close, I tell myself that I have grown stronger in the past few years and will show up at work tomorrow no matter what.

 In a half-conscious state, I manage to turn off the television. As I fall asleep, I can’t help but think about my Sixth Form ex, the first and last healthy romantic relationship I’ve ever had, and what might have happened if we’d stayed together all these years.

 I feel her hand running through my hair, and I smile with my eyes closed. “Took you long enough to wake up, sleepyhead,” she says I crack one eye open to see my wife that I met thirteen years ago in Sixth Form, grinning at me. She shifts closer to me in bed to plant her lips on mine, and I wrap my arms around her. I feel like the luckiest guy in the world. What are the odds that our love was built to last?

 Later that day, we knock on the door to my parents’ house. My mum and dad answer and excitedly greet our two beautiful children before saying hello to me and my wife. I can tell in their smiles how proud they are of me and the life I’ve made for myself. I gladly accept a glass of wine as we sit down at the table for one of my mum’s amazing dinners. When my dad and I talk too much about the goings on at the Ministry of Energy, my mum chastises us for bringing our work to a family meal, and I smile at him and say that we’ll continue the discussion later.

 At the end of the day, my wife and I are reclined on the porch swing that looks out on our green back garden. Her warm body is pressed against mine, and my heart is filled with happiness as I lightly kiss the crown of her head. The summer insects buzz in the night air as we enjoy this peaceful moment together.

 And then I feel this dream slipping away like sand in an hourglass, taking my heart down the drain with it. I’m lying alone in my apartment on the sofa with crisp pieces on my chest. I can barely take the weight that is pressing down on me, and no matter how I scream internally at myself, I can’t make myself get off the sofa to go to my job.

 I can’t stand the thought of seeing Noah at work today and pretending like he didn’t just throw me under a bus last night. But I tell myself that I am strong and that I am in control of my life.

====Two weeks later ====

 “Knut Berg, here for a 09:00 appointment with Ms. Jakobsen,” I say to the receptionist and hand her my ID. The examination of my card is a formality, since she knows me; she used to be in my therapy group until shortly after she was hired by the Centre.

 “She’s ready for you,” the receptionist smiles at me. I try to make my face contort into something that vaguely resembles a happy expression. Here is someone who had healed successfully. I’d watched it happen. Why couldn’t this be me?

 After not returning to work since the breakup, I got a call from the Eiksø Rehabilitation Centre mandating that I meet with my social worker. About ten years ago, government reforms in the healthcare sector created these centres in every city of the Nation, facilities where individuals with substance abuse issues can go to get comprehensive treatment. The services provided by the centre range from medical care to job placement. Despite being located in the centre of the capital, the inside of the building is decorated to look like a posh mountain lodge, and I know from experience that the rooms here are comfortable.

 I’ve been a regular at the Centre for almost five years now, from when my parents signed me up for 90 days of live-in treatment to the group therapy that I still attend every Saturday evening. Despite my poor track record at keeping myself employed, I have only missed the weekend meetings because of the occasional cold or flu in the past few years. I feel accountable to the people there. Even though my close friend from the group moved away shortly before I lost my previous job as a florist, the other people there for the therapy still help me keep me on track.

 As I walk into my social worker’s office and sit down in the chair in front of her desk, I wince slightly as I feel my trousers pinch my sides. I’ve always been a big guy, and I depend on cycling around the city to keep my weight stable. Even so, at 188 cm tall, I weigh 131 kg as of this morning, a number I’d prefer to get down to 120.

 When I was dating Noah, who didn’t show any interest in cycling, I tried to explain to him why I really wanted to bike to work instead of taking the bus. He told me that I ought to learn some self-control when I complained about gaining weight during the course of our relationship. Today, his words come back to me and sting quite a bit, considering the building I now find myself in.

 Besides my size, my most notable feature is my eyes. My right is dark blue and my left is brown, which the other kids in secondary school thought was very cool. I have medium-brown hair that curls slightly at the front, and an otherwise-average face apart from my heterochromia.

 Ms. Jakobsen smiles at me, but I can see a bit of exasperation in her eyes. I’m sure she must be sick of dealing with me. Most days I’m sick of dealing with me. “Knut, I was notified that you stopped going to your job at Svendsen’s. Can you tell me why that is?”

I shrug. We go through the same routine every few months and I never give her a straight answer to this question. “I was feeling overwhelmed,” I said. Now I just have to wait for her to assign me to a new job after writing a letter of recommendation to a new employer. Part of her job is to produce these letters that say that despite my poor employment track record, I would still make an excellent new hire. After two weeks of being shut in my flat (save for the Saturday meetings at the Centre), I feel ready to work again.

 She sighs. “This is a serious problem with you and I feel like you aren’t getting the treatment you need to address it. For a few months, your employers rate your behaviour and work ethic as excellent and you seem to get along with your coworkers. But then…something…happens and you just stop showing up. Dr. Velgård tells me that your last absence was probably related to Bjørn moving out of the city, so I think you may need a little more help in learning to cope with emotional disturbances.” I bristle at the last sentence, since it makes me feel like a 5-year-old that just threw a temper tantrum. Maybe that is accurate, I think sadly to myself.

 Dr. Velgård is the doctor who runs the Saturday therapy sessions. Bjørn was my friend from the group who has since departed for a new job in Manetberg. He was fifteen years older than me but we got along very well. He and his wife invited me to their house for dinner quite a few times during the two years that I knew him. I haven’t been warmly welcomed into anyone’s house since then or enjoyed a homecooked meal besides the takeaway I reheat in my microwave.

 “Well, I feel stronger now and am ready for new work,” I say to Ms. Jakobsen.

 “Knut…I’m not going to recommend you for another job yet.”

 I splutter, “But why? I consistently attend group therapy on Saturdays and am confident I can go back to work now.”

 She looks at me sympathetically. “I understand how you’re feeling. But you’ve been coming here for 5 years and are still struggling to keep your job. Group therapy isn’t doing enough for you. I want you to try two months of individual therapy in addition to your sessions on Saturdays. I’ll put you on unemployment benefits immediately.”

 I argue, but eventually see that my protestations will not bear fruit. I reluctantly accept my appointment with Dr. Hansen at 09:00 that Wednesday. Perhaps if I can convince the psychologist that I am well and willing to work, my prescribed two months of therapy can be cut down to just a few weeks.

 By Wednesday, my feelings of uselessness and failure have been replaced by supreme irritation that I have been ordered to visit a shrink. I can’t believe that some genius in government believes that this is the best way to “improve” my life. I arrived at the Centre ready to give my psychologist a hard time.

 I’m sitting in a plush chair in the waiting room when Dr. Hansen comes out to greet me. He is of medium height, with a ruddy complexion and blond hair that is greying at the temples. “Knut?” he asks, and I nod to confirm. “Good! Come along with me.” I wordlessly follow him past a large fish tank to his office. The carpet is brightly coloured and there are oak shelves with plants and knickknacks. A few panoramic photos of the Sonnefjell mountains hang on the walls. I recognise the mountain range immediately, having gone there on several holidays with my family as a kid.

 Dr. Hansen gestures to a long green sofa. “Do I have to lie down on it?” I ask a bit snarkily.

 He is unfazed. “Whatever makes you most comfortable.” He picks up a notepad from his desk and sits in a green chair at the end of the sofa.

I sit down on the middle of the sofa, feeling like an idiot. I can’t believe I am in a psychologist’s office on a weekday morning. I have never had any problems with group therapy and enjoy the accountability the setting has forced on me, but I really doubt I’m going to benefit from some doctor trying to prod me to spill my feelings.

Dr. Nansen says, “Anything you say in these sessions stays completely confidential, unless you reveal information that suggests you or someone else is in imminent danger. I’m sure that Ms. Jakobsen briefed you on the basic procedures of the appointment. I’ve been given your files and know of your history at the Centre, but perhaps you could tell me a bit about yourself, Knut.”

 I look at him levelly. “If you’ve read my files, Doc, then you already know all there is to know.” He narrows his eyes at me.

 I spend the next hour doing my best to exasperate my psychologist, but he maintains his composure the entire time. It seems there is nothing I can do to chip through his professional façade. When our time is up, he tells me with a slight smile that we will meet again at the same time next week.

 As I exit the room, he calls to me, “I’m sure you think that you are unique in your obstinacy. I assure you that I have dealt with far more difficult patients than you over the years. I have been threatened with physical violence and even death in this office. Your games will only stop you from getting the help you need.” My heart sinks a bit as I am told that my efforts to make myself intractable don’t make me stand out. As I cycle back to my flat, I curse Dr. Hansen under my breath for furthering my feelings of inadequacy.

 It’s hard not to be reminded of my unemployed status as I lay on my sofa until late in the afternoon. I decide that getting out of the flat would benefit my state of mind. Plus, I add to myself as I see my physique in the bathroom mirror, I really need to be doing more to lose this weight.

 I cycle around the city for about an hour, turning back when I begin to get hungry. As I coast into the car park of my building, which starts on the ground floor and leads down several levels underground, I hear a car engine behind me. Alarmed at the sudden noise, I look behind me and swerve to the left as a flashy red convertible passes me by. I try my best to rebalance myself, but end up toppling over and scraping my arms on the ground.

 The car squeals to a halt ahead of me as I try to assess my injuries. I feel bruised in multiple places but nothing seems to be broken. I groan as I pick myself off the ground.

 “Gods forgive me, I’m so sorry!” says the owner of the car as he rushes towards me. I haven’t been having the best day or the greatest of times lately, so I’m fully prepared to excoriate this man for making me fall over.

 But when he approaches me and I see him flinch at my scowl, I change my mind. I really don’t want my last interaction with another human being for the day to be an ugly one. “Are you okay?” he asks.

 I look him over as I dust off my arms. He’s a little shorter than me and slim, dressed in a flattering navy-blue suit. His hair is silver but his face is young, so he either went grey prematurely or has a marvellous plastic surgeon. He has large ears and his eyes are fawn-brown. “Yeah, just a little bruised,” I tell him.

 “Once again, I apologise. I’ll be more careful in the future,” he tells me. He sounds kind and sincere, so it’s hard for me to stay annoyed at him.

 I’m not sure what else to say, but he continues to stand in front of me. Glancing down at my bike, he adds, “I hope your bike’s okay too.” I stand my bicycle up, lean it against me, and give it a cursory inspection.

 “It seems fine.”

 The man laughs nervously. “You’re doing the right thing. I wish I could bike to work, and thought that it would be easier in Eiksø – I just moved here last week. But my job’s too far away to make cycling there and back the best choice.”

 I shrug. “That’s too bad. Um…welcome to the building.”

 “Thanks. I’m Magnus, by the way.” He shakes my hand, and I cringe a bit as I realise how sweaty my palm is from holding my bike handlebar.

 “Knut,” I say.

 He grins and then looks at the ground sheepishly. “Well, I’ll let you get on with your evening. Sorry again…really.” He then retreats quickly to his automobile, and I can’t help but noticing how well his suit fits him. No doubt it is tailored.

 As the red car drives away, I groan again. After dinner, I now plan to soak myself in warm water to help with the bruising. I lock my bike in the rack near the front of the garage. What a day, I reflect as I trudge up the stairs to my apartment, not letting myself give into laziness and use the lift. I’ll have to think of new ways to get under the skin of my psychologist for next week’s appointment. I also hope I’ll see that Magnus again, if only to tease him about the way he almost committed a homicide today.