lips move. She said that when she was a little older her and her dad had a falling-out. Well, she said it was like a falling-out, only secret. She couldn’t tell anyone. She said she fell out with Mr Fungal, too. She’d wake up in the night crying and Mr Fungal would be there, grinning away from her bedside table. She hated him. She couldn’t even stand to be in the same room as him. She wanted to throw Mr Fungal out but then her mum would want to know why she didn’t like him any more. Mr Fungal belonged to her dad and by this point her dad had gone and her mum liked to keep the few things he’d left behind.
Miss Hayes said that she stuffed Mr Fungal right down at the bottom of her wardrobe, under her boxes of books and cuddly toys and shoes. She ignored him for a while but in the back of her mind she always knew he was still there, grinning. By then she was becoming a teenager and going through a rebellious time, so she took Mr Fungal out to the woods. She walked for hours without even thinking. She came to a clearing and sat Mr Fungal right in the middle, on the dry grass, and poured a bottle of methylated spirit over his head and set fire to him. She said he gave off a lot of smoke, a big column of it pointing into the sky. She said he crackled. She couldn’t leave till she was sure he was all burnt away, till she was sure he wouldn’t end up back on her shelf the next day, grinning with his lips all blistered and popped.
By this point in the story Miss Hayes’ voice was breaking. She clutched her skirt. Her hands were red but for a thin border of white round her engagement ring. There was silence – and not a nice silence. Miss Hayes wiped the side of her face. She said that sometimes our Metaphorical Phantoms can seem like the root of all evil but they’re not, they’re just a barrier between us and our real problems. She said that even if there was some natural phenomenon and all of Them were wiped out forever, I still wouldn’t be happy. She said they’re just a symbol.
I’ve heard similar theories. A couple of years ago when my phobia was getting out of hand again Mum took me to see her doctor, Dr Filburn. Dr Filburn was different to the other doctors I saw because he was a doctor of the mind. He wasn’t like the others who just palmed me off with pills. Dr Filburn was going to cure me.
Dr Filburn said it was the concept of Them that scared me. He said I could happily coexist with Them if I could just overcome my irrational brain. Dr Filburn also used the term ‘Metaphorical Phantoms’, only he said I needed to face my Metaphorical Phantoms head-on. Dr Filburn was old. Not age-wise – he just looked like he belonged in the past. He had a moustache. Mum seemed to like him, though. He really helped her when she went through her sick stage. The whole time I lay in that comfy white chair Mum stood there, smiling back and forth between us. It was that same smile she dons while showing off a new item of furniture – the smile that forces you to smile right back.
Dr Filburn told me to close my eyes. With the click of a remote his office was engulfed in low, moaning whale music. After a few minutes he began to speak, softly. He told me to imagine a mountainside, shrouded in mist. He told me to pretend I was walking through the mist, searching for something, an animal. He told me to find the animal. I found an American bald eagle. It was perched on a rock overlooking a misty beach. Apparently this was my ‘Safety Animal’, and Dr Filburn told me to approach it, which I did. Then he told me to stroke it, which I also did and which, I have to admit, felt relaxing. Its wings were spread and I could feel the ribbed bones beneath. It made me feel light-headed.
Dr Filburn told me to open my eyes. He placed my right hand on his desk, which was empty apart from a pen, a pad and a picture of a blonde lady that could have been his wife or his daughter. Then he left the room, returning with a little plastic one
Miss Hayes said that she stuffed Mr Fungal right down at the bottom of her wardrobe, under her boxes of books and cuddly toys and shoes. She ignored him for a while but in the back of her mind she always knew he was still there, grinning. By then she was becoming a teenager and going through a rebellious time, so she took Mr Fungal out to the woods. She walked for hours without even thinking. She came to a clearing and sat Mr Fungal right in the middle, on the dry grass, and poured a bottle of methylated spirit over his head and set fire to him. She said he gave off a lot of smoke, a big column of it pointing into the sky. She said he crackled. She couldn’t leave till she was sure he was all burnt away, till she was sure he wouldn’t end up back on her shelf the next day, grinning with his lips all blistered and popped.
By this point in the story Miss Hayes’ voice was breaking. She clutched her skirt. Her hands were red but for a thin border of white round her engagement ring. There was silence – and not a nice silence. Miss Hayes wiped the side of her face. She said that sometimes our Metaphorical Phantoms can seem like the root of all evil but they’re not, they’re just a barrier between us and our real problems. She said that even if there was some natural phenomenon and all of Them were wiped out forever, I still wouldn’t be happy. She said they’re just a symbol.
I’ve heard similar theories. A couple of years ago when my phobia was getting out of hand again Mum took me to see her doctor, Dr Filburn. Dr Filburn was different to the other doctors I saw because he was a doctor of the mind. He wasn’t like the others who just palmed me off with pills. Dr Filburn was going to cure me.
Dr Filburn said it was the concept of Them that scared me. He said I could happily coexist with Them if I could just overcome my irrational brain. Dr Filburn also used the term ‘Metaphorical Phantoms’, only he said I needed to face my Metaphorical Phantoms head-on. Dr Filburn was old. Not age-wise – he just looked like he belonged in the past. He had a moustache. Mum seemed to like him, though. He really helped her when she went through her sick stage. The whole time I lay in that comfy white chair Mum stood there, smiling back and forth between us. It was that same smile she dons while showing off a new item of furniture – the smile that forces you to smile right back.
Dr Filburn told me to close my eyes. With the click of a remote his office was engulfed in low, moaning whale music. After a few minutes he began to speak, softly. He told me to imagine a mountainside, shrouded in mist. He told me to pretend I was walking through the mist, searching for something, an animal. He told me to find the animal. I found an American bald eagle. It was perched on a rock overlooking a misty beach. Apparently this was my ‘Safety Animal’, and Dr Filburn told me to approach it, which I did. Then he told me to stroke it, which I also did and which, I have to admit, felt relaxing. Its wings were spread and I could feel the ribbed bones beneath. It made me feel light-headed.
Dr Filburn told me to open my eyes. He placed my right hand on his desk, which was empty apart from a pen, a pad and a picture of a blonde lady that could have been his wife or his daughter. Then he left the room, returning with a little plastic one
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