Abhay's Bhay

“Do not forget your final appointment is in 15 minutes at 7:00 PM today. The client’s information is the first document in the brown file on your desk. Sorry about the inconvenience, Dr. Martin.”

“It’s all right, James. An emergency is an emergency. Go and take care of your mother.”

Dr. Charles Martin smiled fondly as he bade farewell to his receptionist. Sitting in his office, he was finishing his paperwork for the day. After work, he was supposed to see his parents for dinner. He had a decent-sized office with dark hardwood floors and subtle cream-colored walls. There were eight bookshelves filled to the brim, and his diplomas and certificates hung decoratively on the walls. A little kitchenette on the right side of the door welcomed visitors when they entered the room, and a Monstera plant in the left corner next to his desk provided a pop of green. A giant wraparound window framed with thick dark maroon curtains on the right side behind his desk let in plenty of natural light.

Filing away the papers and finishing the documents on his computer, Dr. Martin began preparing for his final client.

Mr. Hael Vetica wasn’t a local. He lived quite far south and was only in town for a brief visit. He had a strange “episode” and wanted a safe space to talk. That was something Dr. Martin could provide easily enough. Still, Mr. Vetica had filled his form terribly, leaving empty his birthday, age, ID, email—pretty much everything important. How did James even set up the appointment?

He saw that Mr. Vetica had already paid for the session.

Dr. Martin glanced at the wall clock—5 minutes to 7. He got up to boil some water for tea for himself and for Mr. Vetica if he wanted one. His mind wandered. He hadn’t seen his parents in some eight years. They weren’t on bad terms, at least not anymore. It was always strange for him to believe how different he grew up to be, despite his parents’ best efforts to get him to choose a life of faith. How different would life have been if he had stayed with his faith? Would he be the same man?

Yes, he liked to think that he would be a similar man. In his present career, he believed he was doing a similar, if not better, service to society. As the kettle whistled, he noticed the clock was at 7:00 PM. No patient had arrived. Disappointed, he chose peppermint tea and made his drink. He liked punctuality and preferred if people shared the same value for time. But he was patient and waited longer out of courtesy. His eyes followed the second hand on the clock, his mind taking him to the last time he saw his parents.

They had a disagreement about his career choice. It involved lots of shouting and tears on his father and mother’s side and a lot of disappointed sighing on his side. He was glad his mother had reached out to set up this meeting.

A knock at the door drew Dr. Martin back to the present. His eyes sought the clock—7:06 PM. Dr. Martin was leaning against the kitchenette shelf while waiting. He walked out of his office, crossing the little reception area with James’ desk, and saw the man’s briefcase by the chair. He’ll be back for it. Tea in hand, he opened the door and was greeted by a peculiar gentleman.

“Thank you for waiting for me. I deeply apologize for my tardiness. I had some business that took longer than I had initially thought.” The person spoke in a deep, smooth voice as he extended his hand, “I’m Hael Vetica. Pleasure to meet you.”

The man standing in front of Dr. Martin was tall, slender, and deathly pale with a strong-jawed, clean-shaven face. His eyes were dark, matching his slick jet-black hair, a few strands of which were in front of his eyes. He was wearing a crisp black three-piece suit over a white shirt, a gold chain hanging from his waistcoat into his jacket. A dark red tie and a white pocket square completed his attire.

Dr. Martin shook his hand and noticed the dark leather gloves he was wearing and the bowler hat he held in his other hand. It was almost like he had jumped out of a different time.

“No worries at all, Mr. Vetica. Please come on in.” He gestured inward with his hand still holding his cup of tea. “Can I offer you any beverage? A glass of water, maybe?”

“No need, I’m content,” Mr. Vetica said in his deep voice.

Hael Vetica stepped into the office through the reception, hung his hat on the coat stand next to the door, and looked the whole place over with his hands clasped behind him. Dr. Martin walked around him over to his desk and sat down, putting his cup of tea on a coaster and offering a seat to his client with a hand gesture. Mr. Vetica didn’t budge.

“How long have you been practicing clinical psychology, Dr. Martin?” Mr. Vetica asked as he moved towards the bookshelves on the left, hands still clasped behind his back.

“I have had this office for about five years. My practice is still relatively young, but I believe I make a difference,” Dr. Martin said. “Would you like to have a seat?”

“I’m okay standing, thank you. Again, I apologize; this might be an unusual session for you. I’ve been asked and told to see a therapist by plenty of people in my time. I have never considered it to be important before. I am still not sure why I am here, to be honest.”

“That is fine. We only need to move at your pace. May I ask you a few questions?” Dr. Martin asked. Mr. Vetica just nodded without looking towards him.

“What kind of work are you into?”

Mr. Vetica turned to meet his gaze and stepped forward, his expression passive. His hand reached into his coat’s inner pocket.

“I run a funeral home,” he said as his hand drew a card, which he placed on Dr. Martin’s desk. He stepped towards the bookshelves on the right side of the room, both hands clasped behind his back again. The card was dark like obsidian with a smooth finish. Dr. Martin picked up the card and on the other side it said “The Last Resort” in beautiful golden calligraphy. No other details were present.

“I inherited the business after my father passed away all those years ago. Between myself and my two younger brothers, it was never up for debate,” he said, his jaw clenched. “Never thought I’d end up living a life dictated by others’ choices. Mother had her own breakdown, a good excuse for my brothers to focus on her recovery. I wasn’t asked what I wanted to do.” His eyes lowered from the wall to the floor, his voice softening.

Dr. Martin let the silence hang. After a moment, Mr. Vetica raised his gaze, meeting Dr. Martin’s eyes, and continued, “After the first scorn towards my family, I decided if I’m going to be doing something, I’ll do it right. I put effort into my work. Made sure people would get the closure they deserve when their loved ones pass. Made my services available to far and wide places. Made sure that the dead left this plane in peace.”

Dr. Martin found that remark odd, but he didn’t want to break Mr. Vetica’s flow.

“It was even good for a while, and I made a name for myself. But eventually, it became tiring. The same process, the same grief-stricken faces, the same tears and wails. And through it all, I remained a detached, neutral figure. I am a necessity, and people respect that. But respect does not equate to being valued.” His voice was steady, though he was visibly trembling. Dr. Martin noticed his fingers twitching, his mouth quivering. “It’d be nice if they didn’t think I am a monster.” He cleared his throat, not meeting Dr. Martin’s eyes.

As the evening sunlight lit up the room, Dr. Martin noticed that Hael Vetica’s eyes weren’t dark but a fiery red color.

Dr. Martin relaxed his posture, placing his hands flat down on the table. The person sitting in front of him was different from the one who had entered his office. This person seemed vulnerable.

“Do you think you are a monster?”

“Of course not,” he growled, looking at him now. His expression changed. “You know, when I had just started my work, I would make a point to attend every funeral. I would stand at the back and not interfere in people’s grief. I shared their grief, but I was not part of it. After the ceremony, when people left, some would come shake my hand to convey gratitude.” He paused, staring at his hand, before continuing, “That used to be enough. Over time, things changed.”

His brows furrowed. “Death comes whenever and wherever. As years passed, the only other thing common in my funeral home besides grieving souls and dead bodies was myself. People decided I was a bad omen.” He shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly. “Go figure, what kind of logic is that?”

Dr. Martin let out a breath he didn’t even realize he was holding. He didn’t dare interrupt Mr. Vetica. His eyes fell on his cup of tea, almost forgotten. It was still warm to the touch, thankfully.

“Slowly, the handshake evolved into shoulder tapping as people walked past me, which over time became all-out ignoring me,” Mr. Vetica said as he sipped from his own cup.

Did he pour him a cup as well?

“That is when I decided I’m better off distancing myself from everyone. My work continues, people get to say their goodbyes, no feelings are hurt,” he spoke conclusively.

“How does your family feel about your struggle?” asked Dr. Martin.

At this, Mr. Vetica laughed, slapping his hand on his knee. “My family? They don’t know anything; they don’t care. I haven’t even seen any of them in a long time.”

“Do you have any friends?”

“Some work associates.”

“Any romantic interests?”

“None.”

Dr. Martin nodded. Collecting his thoughts, he began, “I can only imagine what you’ve been through. You seem like an intelligent individual who understands how the world works and what part you play in it. However, I think you do understand you cannot always predict how people will react to different things.”

Dr. Martin leaned back into his chair. “We just met. I do not think you are a monster,” pausing for effect, “I did get to hear you, though. You were kind enough to share what is on your mind, and I know that can be hard. These other people, do they know how you feel?”

Mr. Vetica’s posture stiffened slightly; he did not speak.

“When we do not communicate, our minds tend to create a narrative that fits our perceptions with our own biases. This is universal, the same for both interacting parties. Just like when all those people began bumping into you rather than shaking your hand, did you ever let them know what was on your mind?”

“No, I did not.”

“Same goes for them. Did anyone say to you exactly what their problem was?”

“They did not.”

“See, our mind is our greatest ally and our worst enemy at the same time. Good news for us is that we get to choose what it will be. How does that make you feel, Mr. Vetica?”

For the first time since he had walked into his clinic, Dr. Martin saw a genuine smile on his face.

“Call me Hael, please.” He said, showing his pearly whites. “That makes sense, and it does make me feel better. I might be done here.”

“Ha-ha, I’m afraid it will take a little more time than that, Hael, but let’s start with…”

Dr. Martin was interrupted by a knock at the door.

“Oh, pardon me. That must be James, my assistant. He is here to pick up his briefcase. Please excuse me for a moment.”

He left Hael at his desk, Hael’s fiery red eyes looking nowhere in particular. He crossed the room, through the little reception, and opened the door.

“Dr. Martin, I’m sorry I forgot my briefcase. I had to rush back to pick it up.”

“That’s all right, James. I saw it earlier and knew you’d turn up.”

James walked in and grabbed his stuff. “So, the last appointment didn’t show up, huh?”

“What are you talking abo…” Dr. Martin turned to find the chair in front of his desk empty. His eyes went wide as he stepped back into his office to find no one there.

“I gotta run, Doc. You’ll be okay to close?”

Bewildered, Dr. Martin just nodded and waved James away.

“Okay, see you Monday!” James yelled as he closed the door behind him. At that exact moment, Dr. Martin moved frantically around the room to see where Hael went. The bowler hat from the coat stand was gone. He eyed the bottom of the curtains to see if any shoes were poking out. No human outlines either. He looked outside the window, hoping to see a fleeing Hael Vetica, with no luck.

What was happening?

He looked at the clock; it read 7:07 PM. The world swirled around Charles Martin. No way had only one minute passed since he last checked the time. He could not have just imagined that whole interaction.

At that moment, his attention returned to his desk. He saw two cups of tea and a black card still lying there. He picked up the card, feeling its smooth yet rough texture between his fingers as he read the text on it again: “The Last Resort.”