A Comedy of Fate
Synopsis: Sarah calls the Goblin King and decides to take him to her patronizing therapist, to prove that he's real. Unfortunately, they get stuck in an elevator and a comedy of fate ensues.
Prologue: The Problem with Therapy
The problem with my brilliant, and I say that with sarcasm, therapist is: she's never taken into account that the Goblin King may be real. She calls him a figment of a fifteen-year-old, puberty driven mind. The one last thing I have to do, she says, is call him and prove to myself that he isn't real. She tells me I haven't completed this last step because I do not want my therapy to end.
Ha! Ten years of paying these people an insane amount of money for monthly therapy, and for what? For her to tell me that I should realize he's unreal, and move on. What's more 'unreal' to me is that she helped me write out a phrase to call him. I should take back my control as an adult, she says.
Call me cynical, but I don't think saying, 'I, Sarah Williams, wish the Goblin King would show up and speak with me for half an hour, and then leave without taking me and/or any of my friends and family members with him,' would work. Besides, what if he's real? He's something that can do magic and he's clearly going to be pissed off with me. I don't think he'd appreciate a twenty five-year-old civil engineer asking him if he was her twisted sexual imaginary character some ten years ago.
Of course, I explained all this to my therapist, but she only smiled. By the way, are they trained to smile in that calm and patronizing way in therapy school? She told me to try with courage. Yes, I paid a hundred and twenty dollars, an hour, to be told (and patronizingly) that I should try. So it was not actually me paying them, they still made tons of money off of me through my insurance.
Well, here goes "I, Sarah Williams, wish the Goblin King would show up and speak with me for half an hour, and then leave without taking me and/or any of my friends and family members with him."
"Surely, this is a joke."
Holy shit. The figment is standing in my living room with a livid expression on his exquisite face. Somewhat disappointed, I notice his pants are not as tight as I remembered.
"I. You. But. How…" I clamp my hand on my mouth before saying anything further. Must regain composure as an adult. Must regain control as an adult. See, my brain automatically goes into this mode in a crisis due the years spent on 'the couch.' I'm not too sure if it's a good thing or not though.
To be continued.
Disclaimer: I don't own the Labyrinth or its characters.