My Unknown AlexanderDoll-like eyes with infinite hope
lie confused among suppositories.
Gulliver's fingers to discover the world
chopped and sprinkled with cigarette ends.
All I see is a tunnel of light
that gives birth and breath to being.
The protector from Heaven, the road to recovery
for you, my son, is the end.
Your only memory is the surgeon
plucking you from home with Thor-like gusto.
Sorry son, you can't stay home today,
you have a very important landfill to go to.
Your mother's nest invaded by cold latex
may undermine your freedom,
but I swear to you, I fought for your chance.
Our love is a democracy.
I'd grab a knife and carve a womb
to house you and let you dander.
But alas, it seems you're doomed to be
my unknown Alexander.
Don't let your skeleton mingle with rusted needles.
Dad, thank you so much for fighting for me, I'll never forget it.
Psychoanalysis: Alex and NiamhName: Alexander (Alex) White.
Previous Therapy?: Anger management and counselling therapy at age nine.
Appearance: Alex appears to take pride in his appearance - he is clean-shaven and his hair is neat. He greeted me with a smile and a firm handshake when he entered, yet slouched in his seat when he sat down. He seems to have a low attention span when being spoken to as his eyes often travel around the room.
Relationship with Mother: When his mother (Melanie) is mentioned, Alex seems to perk up and his eyes brighten up. "I love my mom," he says. "We have a very close relationship - we tell each other everything. My dad used to work a lot when I was growing up, so it was just us a lot of the time.". Alex admits to me that his mother still styles his hair when he is going out. Judging by his posture, I would say that this reliance is due to a combination of being quite lazy and an attempt to hold on to the intimacy between himself and his m
A Prince in a TowerAs I sit here in my room with my four-poster bed, gilded furniture and a view of the world I am supposed to inherit, I can only think of seven words to describe my situation.
Where did my life go so wrong?
A few weeks ago, I had not just a fraternity, but a family. We would greet each other with a punch in the ribs and insult one another when we wanted to show that we care. To me, they were a real family: we weren't obligated by blood or family ties, but I genuinely wanted to spend time with them.
Now, I have a 'real' family, but a family is not made with blood ties. These people don't want me to be Eliroh, proud member of the Black Rats who spits and cannot read the writing on the family crest, they want me to be charming Prince Eliroh, kisser of hands at aristocratic functions and heir to the family throne.
Yes, that's it, that's it exactly. For several generations, my 'family' have had male heirs to the throne. It doesn't matter how good my dear sister would be at ruling, they would
The Blue-Blooded BuffoonIt is an unwritten rule in society that the crueller we are to comrades, the more we care for them. In a world where human decencies are abandoned for survival instincts, cruelty is the only way to express affection.
In the fraternity of the Black Rats, cruelty and therefore affection came in the form of nicknames. Each and every brother would be assigned a nickname that somehow mocked a bodily feature or personality trait of theirs. 'Flat-Foot Farian' was an example of this: he would stamp his feet and wave his hands to distract a victim while his cousin searched their pockets.
For Eliroh, his nickname was 'Blue-Blooded Eliroh'. He had spent a great deal of his spare time thinking about what exactly was hurtful about his nickname, but he could not come to any firm conclusion. He had taken a guess at 'Blood', assuming that it was because he often cut himself during knife practice while he was younger, but his blood was red just as any other human being's. A theory Eliroh