#6. Metafiction - Me and Counselor

Ye Ji Park / 111053 / 6

Mr.Garrioch

English Composition

October 30 2011

Metafiction: Me and Counselor

     Where was I?

     The place looked similar to Seoul Station. Endless railroad, benches spaced few meters apart from each others, pillars standing next to benches. Everything in the Station was covered with pure white snow except few small red circles. I looked back, and found the lines of red circles. I followed the lines and stopped just next to me. The circle closest to me was the largest; actually, it continued to be larger. I looked down my arm. And there, at my wrist, blood was falling. Tick, tick, tick.

     Right, now I remember. I committed suicide. And I guess I succeeded; this place definitely seems like heaven. I don't feel bad about my decision, though it contained some portion of bad luck. I closed my eyes.

     ... In my opinion, nothing in the world is "fresh". Every time I visit my psychology counselor, she spreads out books and pamphlets about music, traveling, sewing, and those trivial entertainments that common folks. Then, she tries to make me show at least a little bit of interest about these suggestions. But to me, everything is same. I mean, I had never done yoga or swimming before, but these are no different from volleyball or dodge ball PE class played. Everything is mundane. I cannot feel any kind of passion among these boring tasks. I wish something really new, really fresh, really innovative, to appear in my life. (PYJ)

     That "Freshness" can be deviations from this mountanous desolation: anything crazy or frantic considered from the "normal" people. I might do face-printing especially in exotic, flamboyant colors all day, I might ride scooter down to the hill, I might cut my hanbok skirt to the shortest it can be. These mighty possibilities can lead to ... (KHJ)

     "Crazyness". And eventually, this crazyness isolates you from the society. Just get yourself into that "crazyness", and you will be "enlightened". But once you open your eyes to the world, you find no one beside you. Pity, but this is just how it is. This is how this damn world is like. I know this better than you do. (HIH)

     Every time I did crazy things, I felt kind of freedom. And every time on my way back home, drunken in that feeling of liberty, neighbors circumvented me, and some seniors even spatted at me. My parents cooperated with the counselor, and demanded to find something interesting among normal things every time they see me. And I laughed at them. I firmly believed that any normal activity could not make me feel fresh. As more as their recommendation turned into threatening, I did more "crazy" things.

     Once I jumped on the flying swing. Well, it felt hurt, but the wind across my face was so fresh that made me do so. Next time, I hurted myself with my nails. As blood spilled out from the wound, I felt cool through the wound. It was worth a try. Next time, I tried deeper. I felt much freshier than any time before. And this time, when I knew my parents were secretly planning to hospitalize me in psychiatric hospital, I went too far. I think I cut my wrist too deep, much deeper than what I expected. But it does not matter. Death is inevitable, and for me, I just decided to put that date forward. Still, at this point, I feel quite despondent, and a little bit of remorse.

     Maybe, now I think, I was able to find something fresh rather than hurting myself. I now realized; there always had been a premise in my head that all normal activities are mundane. If I was aware of this earlier, I could look ordinary tasks in different perspective and find out better way than hurting myself to feel pleasure. 

     Well, whatever, it’s over. No matter how much I remorse, I'm dead, and no more opportunity to find another freshness is already over. I opened my eyes, and gazed at my arm. And I was surprised to see the wound slowly being cured; bleeding stopped, the crack was slowly being covered with new skin cells. A small smile came over my mouth. Maybe I can go back, I can start again.

    I opened my eyes, and the familiar face was sitting in right front of me. It was the counselor. She smiled brightly at me.

    “Hey, I knew you will come back.”

    I smiled faintly at her. I, who was captivated in all-normal-tasks-are-not-fresh bias, always hated her and her brochures. But now, she looked somewhat different. I saw all the brochures stuck in the trash can. As I gazed the trash can curiously, the counselor came close to me and grabbed my hand.

     “I think it’s time to confront you in sincerity, girl. I underestimated your pain… I thought yours is much weaker than what I experienced before.”

    What she experienced before? I raised my eyes and gazed at her. She showed me her wrist. I was shocked; much more scars than mine were remaining in her wrist. She started talking her story in calm voice.

    “When I was young, I thought nothing in the world is "fresh". Every time I visited my psychology counselor, like you visited me, she spread out books and pamphlets about music, traveling, sewing, and those trivial entertainments that common folks. Then, she tried to make me show at least a little bit of interest about these suggestions. But to me, everything was same. I mean, I had never done yoga or swimming before, but these were no different from volleyball or dodge ball PE class played. Everything was mundane. I could not feel any kind of passion among these boring tasks. I wished something really new, really fresh, really innovative, to appear in my life …”