Unfulfilled

“So, what’s your greatest fear, Tom?” Doctor Headshrinker asked.

“Death.”

She tapped the word into her computer while still looking at him.

Psychiatrists and the like had long since stopped hand writing their notes and had taken up the more straightforward method of keying directly into the patient’s electronic file. Gone, too, were the uncomfortable couches that the patient laid restlessly upon.

“What about death leaves you in fear?”

Tom sat for a moment mulling the question over before answering, “That I’ll die unfulfilled.”

“Unfulfilled?”

“Yeah, but I can’t really explain it.”

“Try,” Headshrinker said.

“I’ve always wanted to be known for my writings.”

“I didn’t know you liked to write,” she stated, tapping more notes into the computer, “Are you an author?”

Tom shook his head up and down as a hurt look came across his face, “How long have we been holding these sessions?”

“I don’t recall the exact date, but about five-years,” she answered.

He sighed, “See what I mean?”

“No.”

“Betcha know who Danielle Steele or David Baldacci are, right?”

“Yes, and I enjoy both authors.”

“Do you know either of them?

“No.”

“But you know me, right?”

“I don’t see your point,” she responded avoiding the question.

“We’ve been holding these sessions for about five-years, you said so yourself. And in all that time you didn’t know I was a writer, with two books under my belt, and yet you ‘know’ me. That is what unfulfilled means to me.”

Doctor Headshrinker had stopped typing by this time.