Ok, I Can Explain

"Ok, I can explain," the words finally leaked out of me. Immediately, I could see the sigh of relief on the psychologist's face.

H'es been trying to dig for two weeks to arrive at this particular juncture.

I sat across from the psychologist, fingers interlocked, except the thumbs, which were rubbing against each other, and like my

mind, they were restless. Contemplating whether the psychologist was able to handle these confessions. He'd think I am crazy, maybe I am.

My head is buried down, eyes wandering about the aggressively beige office. Beige walls. Beige carpet. Beige couch.

Even the clock sounded beige. An environment designed to harvest honesty, whether you liked it or not.

I suddenly lifted my head, and his eyes met mine.

"You see, doctor, I've played a lot of roles; Kings, priests, lawyers, drug lords, madmen, sick men, monsters with haunted childhoods.

I've done it all, and unfortunately, I was..." I halted. This isn't a good idea.

No one should be punished with the weight of these confessions, especially the doctor; he's tolerable, patient, and for the past

two weeks, he's been affable even when I decide not to talk at all. "Take your time, Danny" He said in the deep but soothing voice of his.

"... I was umm, good at my job, perhaps a little too good. Critics said I disappeared into the roles I played.

That I was selfless, zero ego. I was empty and generous enough to let any character live fully inside of me. Turns out they were right."

"Why say it's unfortunate? Isn't that a good thing?" "It is for posture and awards, not so much for sleeping." I answered.

The psychologist quickly scribbled something down "Go on, please" He pleaded.

"Characters have emotions, skills, egos, habits and an essence you can't fully wipe away.

Each character leaves a residue in me, an indelible stain, some subtler than others, but still, it is there somewhere, sniffing

around the vicinities of my very being. I'll always know how to play a piano after I learnt it when I played "The Great Pianist".

And doctor, playing a piano isn't the only skill I picked up." I noticed the doctor sinking into his seat under the pressure of my words.

Still, he remained... calm, unruffled. Gaze glued to mine. "It all started from the last character I played three year ago."

I continued, "... I played a role in a small European movie. I was Frank Dublin, a retired hitman.

After the wrap, Frank refused to leave no matter how I tried.

Through me, he kept memorizing number plates on cars, every item was a weapon and everyone a suspect.

I could hear Frank count to a hundred ways he could kill a man on the street.

He walks into an environment, probes the area, knows exactly how to hurt, kill and main with little or no fuss.

He had me for a week, then the preacher came knocking. The smoking preacher". "The preacher?" The doctor asked, bemused.

I gave a nod of approval. "The smoking preacher," I added. "Well, that's a strange one."

"The more fucked up a character is, the more intrigued the audience is. Writers love that." The preacher was a demanding role to play.

I mean, I don't even believe in religon, and I knew accepting the role would mean I would have to change my beliefs.

That would mean eating, studying and most importantly praying like a preacher.

So, I joined a seminary and lived with priests for 3 months. Coming back, I was clean. A saint. I had borrowed God for a while.

The preacher was an orthodox religious fanatic with nicotine-stained fingers. A two-dimensional man.

He saw only good or evil, blank or white. There was no gray.

He believed his calling was to prune the world of all bad seeds, and he knew that to catch a thief, one had to be a better thief.

As long as it was a just reason, all means were acceptable to God. A bad seed trimmed off made the world a better place.

He spoke little but when he did, it was Old Testament. He was tall and wiry with a large mustache and was very ungenerous with his smile.

I won my second Oscar award with the priest. He thinks I owe him. Like he deserves my time, mind and body.

"He popped up calmly," I proceeded, "he was never the type to cause a scene except when necessary.

One cold morning, I woke up guilty like I should be somewhere else.

My hands smelled like ash or maybe I wanted it to smell like ash.

My index finger kept bouncing on my middle finger, reminding it something is missing. Like I'm missing an extra finger.

The itchy feeling crept down my throat all the way to my lungs; it needed something. smoke."

I saw the doctor make a half subconcious attempt to rise, then fell back into his chair and even distributed his weight.

For a moment, one could've thought he was sitting on ants. The clock stopped ticking.

"It was a Sunday, and the preacher had to be in church." The psychologist leaned forward I translated it to; keep talking.

"There was something about fire that comforts him. It is a reminder of the fate of the condemned. He measured everyone he laid eyes on.

Their money or status didn't matter. Their sins did; everyone was guilty in his eyes. Even you" I offered an amicable smile.

The doctor didn't return it. "The preacher saw pain as a weapon, instructional.

The Israelites spent forty years in the wilderness before seeing the promised land. Christ needed The Cross to save the world.

Pain is the value of all sacrifices." The doctor fell back into the chair. Eyes to the clock then back at me. "What happened next?"

"He had to know." I replied "Know what?" "That he was right." I swallowed, then continued.

"A lady approached me and said God spoke to her through the preacher in that movie. She said she needed guidance."

I cackled, "Can you imagine that, doctor? God talks through me.

I still don't believe he exist but then the preacher does and she wasn't talking to me." "What did he do?" The doctor requested.

"He said she was weak and the Lord tests devotion only through endurance. He is the only one who can save her."

The shoke my head like in refudal "The poor lady said she was ready for anything." The psychologist gently dropped his pen on the desk.

"Did you hurt her?" I screened the words in my head. "He did," I paused, "I just watched. I couldn't stop him. He was in charge."

"When did he leave?" "He didn't." l leaned forward and whispered, "He just moved aside when the others started knocking."

I retreated, leaned slightly backward, allowing what I said to settle. There was a loud knock at the door.

The psychologist looked at the door, winced, looked at the clock and then back at me. It was as if he were working on borrowed time.

I noticed the unsettled countenance, but ignored it. "How many are they?" He asked "I stopped counting after seven."

"Seven?" "Some stayed for weeks; some for days. There's this carpenter who wanted jsut my right hand. Some showed up just to laugh."

I let out a fleeting rueful smile. "But there was one more." The doctor didn't ask, even though I half expected him to.

"He was gentle, at least at the start, that is why he lasted longer than all. He even... loved me."

I cleared my throat, adjusted my weight, and the leather beneath grumbled in resistance. "He was my twin."

Silence quickly filled the room. If he didn't think me mad before, now he will. His countenance didn't change.

Eyes focused on me, right hand gently holding his chin. He was focused. Laser focused.

"The movie I met him, He was my twin, same height, same looks, different choices. He was better at everything.

He had the lefe fear caged me from having." I released a soft, doleful sigh. "He spoke not only through me but to me.

Not like a character, like a memory. Like a... regret. He knew me fears, my flaws, and doubts. He knew when I lied and when I was right."

I forced a fleeting, dry smile. "What did he do?" The doctor demanded. "He told me I was feeble.

Everything I had done, he could have done better. He knew what was on the other side of my fears, and hot to reach it.

I just had to step aside." "Did you?" "Did I what?" I asked, bemused he asked a question like that. "Did you step aside?" He added.

"Of couse not." The answer left with an aggressive tone. I could feel my heart rate jump a pulse faster. Why would he ask me that?

"You should have let him free Danjuman. Sorry, Danny" Daniel was what everyone thought Danny stemmed from. He called me Danjuma.

I stopped, a quizzical look on my face. Studied the doctor; How his head rested on his neck, The cadence of his voice. It sounds...

Familiar. "You've been too calm through all of this." I told him, still holding the quizzical look. "I'm trained to be" he replied.

I was convinced.

"You know," I said, eyes up then back at him, trying to remember accurately "My first main award was won after I played a man

who listened for a living, He asked just the right questions, mirrored emotions as bait for people to keep revealing truths."

The psychologist stayed unbothered. Wore a neutral countenance, not bothered, not excited. Just... There.

I continued, "I didn't realize until recently." I leaned back full on my chair.

"Danny," the doctor called me this time like a father calls his son, "Who do you think I am?" I withheld the response for a second.

"You're the only one who let's me talk. You're the only oen who calls me Danjuma." He smiled. The clock ticked louldly.

Ticked again, louder. Then stopped.