Can you miss someone who was never really there? What do you call it when you realise others have something that you are just somehow missing? There is an empty space, but no one to fill it. There are questions, but no one to answer them. There are needs, and no one to fill them. Something is missing you realise. Someone is missing. It doesn’t matter you tell yourself. There are more than enough people in my life... There are so many people who love me you think. But every person has their own rightful place. They love you, in the way they are supposed to , and that love is not the same as the kind that you are missing. There is a hand on your shoulder, the one that gets you through almost everything. But there’s still something missing, the hand that’s on your shoulder in those very rare cases to get you through more than almost everything. To get you through those handful of times and places, that would be almost nothing, if he was just there to put a hand on your shoulder.

There are so many in my family who complain about being pushed away. Who claim to have suffered profound abuse and felt exceptionally unwelcome and unloved. They are delusional, every one of them, and they are obviously living their lives choosing to look at things through a one way mirror. That won’t work in our family, no. Not in ours. A two way mirror is the only you will see the truth,and realise why you can’t do what is right, and why it is so easy to walk away from the only thing that truly matters in life apart from God. What matters is family. It’s not that I don’t believe them, because then I wouldn’t be a part of this family after all. I do believe them. Which is exactly why I blame them, and hold them fully accountable for their actions. We come from a long line of people who above all, survived despite being placed under impossible circumstances. People who were supposed to break, but didn’t. People who are supposed to be bitter, but aren’t. People who should be misshapen, deformed and out of their minds, but appear completely untouched by the hand fate has dealt them. They learned long ago that there is no time to dwell on things past, and no way to go on if you look too closely at the cruelty of what is true. The truth is frightening beyond belief, and the past is a dark void that will suck you in and extinguish the flames of your life leaving nothing but darkness, emptiness, and a breathtaking loneliness. These people are hard. They come from people who are hard, and tough. And they give birth to people who are indestructible. You are raised to be hard, and tough, but you are also raised to be loved more truly than any singular other emotion you may ever have felt. People who see you for what you are, exactly as what you are, and choose to love you, not in spite of it all, but because of it all, because it is all you, and you are all of it, and you are all a part of everyone of the people who truly love you. Their love is hard, their path is hard, and they are hard. And so are you. You are one of them. You can stand with all of them, if you choose to, because all that is in them, is also in you. And this is why I blame them for their failure in being part of the family. No one is going to be weak, so that you can feel strong. That’s not the way we role around here. And no one is going to accept that you are weak, just because you are too scared of being like them. No one will move heaven and earth for you, but they will. Even when you are angry at one another, family is always family. You choose who is worthwhile enough to give you grief, and who is not, as long as you do it together. You want the right to be weak, and to receive all the time without ever giving, and this is why you look into the one way mirror, so that you don’t see yourself staring back at you when you look at their image. All that they are, and will ever be, is in you. It is in you too. It is inescapable, and you hate them for seeing you as you are, when you try your best to escape from your own skin and take the form of something less. Something less than hard. Something less than indestructible. Something less than you. The real you. The you that can only be seen by someone who comes from the same stock, and sees straight through to your core. You see the gods of the arena looking at you, and a fear sinks in. A fear that takes hold of your very soul. For you don’t want to enter the arena. You know that you will be skillfull. You know that you will be victorious.And the crowds will cheer your name in unison and children will wish to be you when they grow up. But you are afraid. You knw not even what exactly you are afraid of, only that it is a feeling you cannot shake, and that consumes you the way a fire does a wisp of hay. And this is why I blame you. For lack of courage you pass the privilege of standing in the arena on to those too young to know what dueling is. Their legs too short too get them very far. Their arms too small to lift a single weapon, let alone weild it. Their tiny bodies swimming in the folds of the robes and armour meant to protect a fully grown warrior from the enemies advances in the throes of battle. And I weep further still for you have done this great injustice without taking care to remember that whis=ch is of utmost importance. That though they be children still, babes of the times, they are yet hard, and tough. As they were sired by those who were hard, and tough, and they were raised albeit a very short while, to be hard and tough. And when other babes would have fallen, slain and bloodied on the rose gold sands of the arena, these would rise no matter what, and emerge even harder still for want of the childhood so unjustly bereft of them by those who should have known better. And now wish to say what, when you look at these magnificent warriors. Beautiful young man and women, always smiling, always playing to the crowd, even as their “deathbringers” steal the life from those who would so dearly have clung to it. They are now gods of the arena. Children no more. Afraid no more. And they have taken the opportunity you have so callously passed on to them before their time, thus giving them double the death sentence, half the time and but a tenth of the strength necessary to get through such a trial. Oh and what a trial it was. How many times did we not think to give up? How many times did it not seem all for naught? How often did we cry that it was unfair? Until cries turned to silence. And Anger turned to silence, and grief and hope and despair turned to silence. For you see, it is best to attack the enemy in silence as he will not be expecting it. It is best to bear your wounds in silence, and save your strength for healing, and it is so much better to look upon your enemy in a knowing silence, than in noisome fear. Look upon your opponent, watch him carefully, and you will know when the time is right to strike, and strike true. When they should have run, being children, they knew not where else to go, and chose to remain. To stay with those too old, too weary, and too broken to fight with them, or even for them. But as these picasso’s of the gladiator art tended their wounds, they listened, these babes, they listened in their silence. And received all the wisdom, the secret techniques, and the countless blessings which should have been bestowed upon the gods of the arena, now absent. And know you know why I blame you, for running away. You see my strength and beauty, you see what you wish to see. Do you see the secret wounds? Do you see the hidden scars? D you still know who stands before you? Or do you guess at it all? For id=f that be the case, do not guess that I had become all that I should have been, because that would never have been enough. You made sure of that. You must know, with all truth and certainty, that I am all that I was forced to be, and perhaps a bit more, for that is what was required. That is still what is required. I outweigh you in every aspect. I do not think I am that good. Oh no. I learned long ago that thinking misguided things could very well lead you to your death, sooner than you could possibly imagine. I know it. Knowing is the only way to survive against all odds, and I, my darling, have done more than survive, I have thrived. And so have my fellow warriors. Gladiators who traipse the battlefield with ease, flair and grace. We are the new gods of the arena, and we have reason to smile at the corpses of our adversaries, for they would have jumped for joy had our positions been reversed. And I am sorry to admit that there is no way that you can trumps us. Not anymore. For the ones who would have passed their light on to you, have all passed away. And when they chose to pass their light on to those who were worthy. Only we were present, and only we met the grade, and thus we have received their power, albeit prematurely, for we are indeed still very young in form, though time and circumstance has made us wise far beyond our years. It is ours, and we cannot be robbed of it for it is etched into our very DNA, and enforced by the gravity of memory, and the unseen marks left by the lessons that our bodies could never ever deem to forget. 

“Brian Tracy,” he heard himself mutter under his breath. His words were still slurred. His blurry vision clearing up slowly to reveal forms and figures in the dimly lit room before him. He closed his eyes and lifted his chin. His head ached. His body ached. His stomach churned and it felt like he could hurl his guts out at any second while his head spinned frantically. He took a deep breath, held it in for a moment, and then breathed it out on a heavy sigh for several seconds before repeating the exercise again. 

Gradually, he regained some control of his senses and could muster the strength to open his eyes again, this time revealing a row of windows to his right, and a desk before him, against which a man was leaning with his arms crossed. His gaze was steady, but his smile was unnerving. Almost as if he was never meant to form his lips in the shape of a cupid’s bow, and the mere effort exerted towards doing so was an act against nature itself thus contorting his features into a horrid yellow toothed grimace, which was sure to make even the most docile of babies cry at the sight of it.

“Ah,” he said. “I see a little less cloud and a little more man in those eyes of yours now. Will you kindly state your name for the record again?”

“Who are you?” Brian managed to croak out, his tongue sticking to the roof of his dry mouth.

“I am Dr Everett Saunders, Brian. And you and I have come a long way together. Oh yes, long indeed…” He pushed off from the desk and walked round to his chair.

Brian could make out a plaque on his desk and several honorary certificates on the wall to his left, but no words just yet. He blinked several times while Dr Saunders continued speaking.

“Years to be exact. I assure you that by now we could have called one another “good friends” had our circumstances not been quite so extraordinary.”

“Extraordinary?” Brian wondered aloud, while trying to sit forward. Something held him back and as he looked down at his chest he found himself bound in a cross jacket and strapped to a wheelchair. ”Wait…Where AM I?!” he queried, his voice now sharp with concern.

“Everything will be clear in a moment Brian. Now, if you’ll simply remain calm,” he paused mid-sentence while fiddling with a piece of paper and a frame, probably another addition to the already crowded wall of certificates. “I will pay you my full attentions in just a few minutes.”

Now done with his task, he placed the frame on the wall as Brian had expected. He could make out the place where it had previously been due to the discolouration of the wall in the exact shape of the frame. Why would the Dr need to take it down? Surely he had someone to do the cleaning? But then the wall wasn’t clean. Then perhaps to add a new accreditation in the place of a less liked one. But the wall was already so full, which indicated that he didn’t mind the clutter to begin with. So why? And furthermore, why was this so important to Brian of a sudden. He could care less what someone else chose to do with their office décor. Were it up to him, he’d just put up a new frame till the entire wall was covered with certificates if it came to that.

“Wait,” he said softly, a strange uneasiness grabbing hold of his belly as a frightening thought crept into his mind.

“Exactly Brian,” said Dr Saunders. “Wait just a moment, and everything will make perfect sense.”

He looked at the desk, now focusing on the plaque. ”Now tell me how you are feeling today Brian,” said the Dr, now moving into place in front of the desk, hiding the plaque from sight. “We always want to talk about our feelings, now don’t we Brian?” He smiled again, and this time Brian could sense that something was most definitely not right with the gesture.

The wall, he now noticed, had several missing frames. All of whom were placed neatly one atop the other to the left of the desk. A thought started to form in his mind, and he brushed it aside by shaking his head vigorously.

“Am I ill?” he asked tentatively. Yes, that must be it he thought. I am not well.

“Ill? ILL?!” Dr Saunders exclaimed. “No. You’re not ill.” He knelt down before him resting his hands on Brian’s knees.

“You’re not ill at all.” He rose and turned to the desk again, reaching out to several sheets of paper like the one he’d framed earlier. Taking them in his right hand, he turned to Brian and placed the pages in his lap along with the plaque. Leaning in to look into his eyes, his face too close for comfort.

“You see…You’re cured Brian. I cured you,” he said. Looking every bit as pleased as a cat that’d caught a fish.

“Our time is up for today dear Brian. Let’s continue this little chat tomorrow, shall we?” Dr Saunders walked to the door and called for someone to take Brian back to his room.

This was all so confusing. What was going on? Where is this place? Why am I here? Is there anyone who could tell me something useful?

His gaze dropped down to the pages in his lap. He blinked. And then blinked again. What was this? What did it mean? He could feel his body start to tremble. The muscles in his face went lax and he suddenly forgot the skill necessary for speech.

“Ah Tess. Thank goodness YOU came and not that aweful new girl Maggie. I think she’ll be a bit of a problem for us.” He heard Dr Saunders say behind him.

“Would you like me to take Mr Tracy to his room right away then Ben?” Tess said in a cheerful young girl’s voice, not more than 19. Brian knew her voice well. He’d often dreamed of her. Or rather, he’d dreamed of possessing her red haired innocence for himself one day.

“Yes. Take him away. I’ll have a go at him tomorrow. Today I’d like to finish up here,” he gestured at the room with emphasis on the wall.”…and do some research.”

“Very well Ben. Do be having a good day then” She said merrily as she wheeled Brian to the door.

“Oh and Tess dear,” he said as if in afterthought. “It’s Dr Saunders now. Please do try to remember that from now on.”

“Thanks for reminding me. Dr Saunders. Do have a good morning then.”

“And a good morning to you too Tess…and to you…Brian,” he said with an even broader smile.

Brian said nothing. He felt nothing, unless numbness were a feeling. And of that he had plenty. Back in his room he stared blankly at the wall before him. Tess had left him still fully strapped up in his wheelchair before leaving and locking the door behind her. He thought  the circus of doctors and patients they’d passed on the way to his room and a smile came to his face. At first just lifting the corners of his mouth, but steadily increasing until he burst out laughing hysterically. He laughed until his sides hurt and tears welled up and spilled forth from his eyes. He laughed until he was writhing in his bonds like one beset with epileptic seizures, and then he laughed some more. This bout of uncontrollable mirth soon waned, and left him weeping in a greater state of agony than he could recall ever having been in.

He sighed a burdened sigh when it was ended, a hopeless sigh, utterly exhausted, and looked back down at the pages still nestled safely in his lap where Dr Saunders had placed them.

“…The regents of the

UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA

ON THE TOWN NOMINATION OF THE GRADUATE COUNCIL

OF THE ABC DIVISION, HAVE CONFERRED UPON

BRIAN TRACY

Who demonstrated ability through original research in PSYCHOLOGY

THE DEGREE OF DOCTOR OF PHILOSOPHY

WITH ALL THE RIGHTS AND PRIVELEGES THERETO PERTAINED…”