Farmhouse
Han Gemeny
Han Gemeny
Robbie Henderson hated sitting still. He hated the way his neck grew stiff, and the way his knee never stopped bouncing, and how his palms—slick with sweat—slid against the arms of the chair. The chair was stiff, it was hard on his back. The cushion was near nonexistent too, and he was beginning to wonder if this damn receptionist would ever call his name.
“Mister Henderson?” The lady asked.
She had a nasally voice. It croaked and reeked of old coffee and cigarettes. It reminded Robbie of his mother. He forced a thin smile as he got up, his body swaying under its own weight. The teen followed the frizz of blonde hair down a long corridor. Her heels clacked along the wooden floorboards, a sharp sound compared to his torn up sneakers. Robbie exhaled a sharp breath, trying to lose the tension in his muscles to the paintings on the walls.
There was one that stood out to him. It was of a farmhouse. He noticed that the lights were on, even though blue streaks of paint coated the sky. It was funny; he couldn’t figure out why people on a farm would waste their electricity bill during the day. Robbie decided to brush the thoughts off as he was shown into the office.
The first impression of the room Robbie caught was that it was big. Wide open space made the office, with a variety of charcoal slates making the wooden floor. Deep red curtains tumbled down across tall windows. A man was behind a black desk, twirling a pen in a circular motion along his knuckles. The cycle stopped as Robbie took a seat in a chair, the woman disappearing behind the door they came from.
“Good afternoon,” The man started, though Robbie was aware of the lack of sunlight bleeding through the windows, “I’m Doctor Boynton. You are Robert Henderson, correct?”
“Uh…” He looked around, scooting with the chair, “Yeah.”
Robbie’s eyes drifted to an object on the desk. Beside an hourglass, was a box of matches. He didn’t recognize anything particular about the label, but it sat by a cigar box. He exhaled a shallow breath, and looked back to the doctor.
Unlike the mess of brown hair atop Robbie’s head, this man’s was thinning into grey wisps at a rapid rate. He still wore a formal suit, something the boy figured cost more than his house. He blinked at the thought of his family home, swearing he could hear a distant voice call his name.
Robbie?!
“What—”
“Are you alright Robert?”
“It’s Robbie,” He was quick to correct him, “My Old Man calls me Robbie.”
“Right, Robert…” The doctor nodded. “Do you remember why you’re here today?”
He couldn’t. He hated sitting still. He hated doctors too. He wasn’t a problem to solve. Did his parents sign him up for this? Why would he do this willingly? He shook his head, scratching at the back of his neck.
“Hm, interesting,” Boynton mused, “Well why don’t we begin with some tests. An assessment of where you are.”
“Where I am?”
“Mentally,” He clarified, “Your well being is a priority, is it not?”
Robbie never saw it as that.
He was presented two photos. They were traditional ink blot tests. He didn’t know why he was shown these. Robbie didn’t really see himself as psychotic.
“What do you see?”
“Ink.” He scoffed.
“What do you see?” The man kept the same tone.
Robbie stared at either photo. One was an elephant, the other was...it was…strange. It was moving. Robbie’s eyes grazed over the photo. The ink churned like a murky ocean, lines bleeding into one another. It formed a snarling dog, with black teeth bared. He went to ask about whatever the hell this was, only for his breath to get caught in his throat.
The ink was normal again.
“What…?”
“Don’t see anything? Just the elephant here?” Robbie didn’t remember mentioning what he saw. “Interesting. Elephants have terribly good memories. Do you remember?”
“Remember…?”
“Let’s carry on.” Boynton nodded, “Can you please write the time and date for me?”
“You don’t know what day it is?”
“Time perception, Robert.” The doctor explained.
Another meaningless task. Robbie let out a sigh and shook his head. Of course he knew what time it was. Didn’t he? He picked up the pen he was handed, taking a piece of paper as well. He began writing, the nib of the instrument scratching along the page like nails to a chalkboard. His eyes drifted as he wrote, confused by the frost building on the windows.
Winter?
His watch, when he checked it, said it was four in the afternoon, but it was black out there. He was wearing a short sleeve shirt too. How could it be snowing? Robbie would’ve at least worn a coat if he knew it were snowing.
He looked back to the page, confused by the line there.
All my fault.
“I suppose...guilt has no relation to time.” The doctor sighed.
“Hey, what the hell is this? None of this is making any sense!”
“At ease, Robert.” The doctor frowned. “You’re the one who wrote this down. Would you care to tell me why?”
“I don’t fucking know—”
“We’re here to fix your problems.”
“I don’t have…” Robbie let out a sharp breath. “I don’t know why I’m here! I don’t know what’s going on! I don’t even know what this is!”
“Do you not remember?”
“I-I…” He shook his head.
“Do you not remember?” The doctor repeated, a smile playing on his face. “I’m surprised… they were so careful with how they worded it.”
When Robbie turned back to the window, it was gone. It was a wall. The painting of the farmhouse was back. On the desk, there was no parchment, or ink tests, or anything. It was a picture of his family. His mother’s face was blurred with red ink. Ink? He prayed it was ink. His father’s too. His little sister. It hurt to see, like a pain drilling between his ribs and into the beating organ in his chest.
“It’s my fault…” The words slipped past his teeth without a second of thought.
“Triple homicide. Nice ring to it.” The doctor hummed a laugh.
“I-I didn’t mean to.” Robbie shook his head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about!” He jerked his head back to the painting. The farm was burning to the ground. Doctor Boynton’s chuckle grew as the office began to singe at the edges. Ash and licks of flames at the edges of the walls, the place deteriorating. Snow still fell out the window. “I didn’t!”
“They hurt you.” He sighed. “Didn’t they?”
“I didn’t mean to! They don’t…”
“Burning in Hell...must be nice for them. It’s what they deserved, is that right?” Robbie looked in horror as fire ate at the man’s suit, along his face. Blistering skin bubbled and popped with red irritation, the fire ceaseless in its destruction. He saw it then; the doctor’s face had melted into people he knew, the people from the picture. His mother. His father. His sister. He stumbled back in his chair, the wood crumbling as it struck the floor behind him.
“T-They...they loved me.”
“Oh don’t be ridiculous.”
“They did!” He snapped, a burning rafter falling from the ceiling.
“You lit the match…” The burning man danced with the matchbox. “Started it with your father’s beer. You smiled too.”
“Shut up.”
“A little girl…only four. She was playing dollies upstairs.”
“Shut up!”
“And your mother’s damn cigarettes...same smoke that killed her.”
“Shut up!”
He fell back into the fire, only for his eyes to snap open. White light flooded his vision. He gasped for air, an oxygen mask stuck to his face. Nurses were surrounding him, rushing him along on a wheeled stretcher. Robbie looked around, blinking back tears. A gentle hand was placed on his shoulder, a blonde woman with coffee on her tongue.
She reassured him with a gentle voice. “You’ll be alright, Dear. The fire was put out an hour ago. I’m...and I’m sure your family is alright too.”
They aren’t.
“We’ll get you on your feet for the holidays...I’m sure of it.”
“Mister Henderson?” The lady asked.
She had a nasally voice. It croaked and reeked of old coffee and cigarettes. It reminded Robbie of his mother. He forced a thin smile as he got up, his body swaying under its own weight. The teen followed the frizz of blonde hair down a long corridor. Her heels clacked along the wooden floorboards, a sharp sound compared to his torn up sneakers. Robbie exhaled a sharp breath, trying to lose the tension in his muscles to the paintings on the walls.
There was one that stood out to him. It was of a farmhouse. He noticed that the lights were on, even though blue streaks of paint coated the sky. It was funny; he couldn’t figure out why people on a farm would waste their electricity bill during the day. Robbie decided to brush the thoughts off as he was shown into the office.
The first impression of the room Robbie caught was that it was big. Wide open space made the office, with a variety of charcoal slates making the wooden floor. Deep red curtains tumbled down across tall windows. A man was behind a black desk, twirling a pen in a circular motion along his knuckles. The cycle stopped as Robbie took a seat in a chair, the woman disappearing behind the door they came from.
“Good afternoon,” The man started, though Robbie was aware of the lack of sunlight bleeding through the windows, “I’m Doctor Boynton. You are Robert Henderson, correct?”
“Uh…” He looked around, scooting with the chair, “Yeah.”
Robbie’s eyes drifted to an object on the desk. Beside an hourglass, was a box of matches. He didn’t recognize anything particular about the label, but it sat by a cigar box. He exhaled a shallow breath, and looked back to the doctor.
Unlike the mess of brown hair atop Robbie’s head, this man’s was thinning into grey wisps at a rapid rate. He still wore a formal suit, something the boy figured cost more than his house. He blinked at the thought of his family home, swearing he could hear a distant voice call his name.
Robbie?!
“What—”
“Are you alright Robert?”
“It’s Robbie,” He was quick to correct him, “My Old Man calls me Robbie.”
“Right, Robert…” The doctor nodded. “Do you remember why you’re here today?”
He couldn’t. He hated sitting still. He hated doctors too. He wasn’t a problem to solve. Did his parents sign him up for this? Why would he do this willingly? He shook his head, scratching at the back of his neck.
“Hm, interesting,” Boynton mused, “Well why don’t we begin with some tests. An assessment of where you are.”
“Where I am?”
“Mentally,” He clarified, “Your well being is a priority, is it not?”
Robbie never saw it as that.
He was presented two photos. They were traditional ink blot tests. He didn’t know why he was shown these. Robbie didn’t really see himself as psychotic.
“What do you see?”
“Ink.” He scoffed.
“What do you see?” The man kept the same tone.
Robbie stared at either photo. One was an elephant, the other was...it was…strange. It was moving. Robbie’s eyes grazed over the photo. The ink churned like a murky ocean, lines bleeding into one another. It formed a snarling dog, with black teeth bared. He went to ask about whatever the hell this was, only for his breath to get caught in his throat.
The ink was normal again.
“What…?”
“Don’t see anything? Just the elephant here?” Robbie didn’t remember mentioning what he saw. “Interesting. Elephants have terribly good memories. Do you remember?”
“Remember…?”
“Let’s carry on.” Boynton nodded, “Can you please write the time and date for me?”
“You don’t know what day it is?”
“Time perception, Robert.” The doctor explained.
Another meaningless task. Robbie let out a sigh and shook his head. Of course he knew what time it was. Didn’t he? He picked up the pen he was handed, taking a piece of paper as well. He began writing, the nib of the instrument scratching along the page like nails to a chalkboard. His eyes drifted as he wrote, confused by the frost building on the windows.
Winter?
His watch, when he checked it, said it was four in the afternoon, but it was black out there. He was wearing a short sleeve shirt too. How could it be snowing? Robbie would’ve at least worn a coat if he knew it were snowing.
He looked back to the page, confused by the line there.
All my fault.
“I suppose...guilt has no relation to time.” The doctor sighed.
“Hey, what the hell is this? None of this is making any sense!”
“At ease, Robert.” The doctor frowned. “You’re the one who wrote this down. Would you care to tell me why?”
“I don’t fucking know—”
“We’re here to fix your problems.”
“I don’t have…” Robbie let out a sharp breath. “I don’t know why I’m here! I don’t know what’s going on! I don’t even know what this is!”
“Do you not remember?”
“I-I…” He shook his head.
“Do you not remember?” The doctor repeated, a smile playing on his face. “I’m surprised… they were so careful with how they worded it.”
When Robbie turned back to the window, it was gone. It was a wall. The painting of the farmhouse was back. On the desk, there was no parchment, or ink tests, or anything. It was a picture of his family. His mother’s face was blurred with red ink. Ink? He prayed it was ink. His father’s too. His little sister. It hurt to see, like a pain drilling between his ribs and into the beating organ in his chest.
“It’s my fault…” The words slipped past his teeth without a second of thought.
“Triple homicide. Nice ring to it.” The doctor hummed a laugh.
“I-I didn’t mean to.” Robbie shook his head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about!” He jerked his head back to the painting. The farm was burning to the ground. Doctor Boynton’s chuckle grew as the office began to singe at the edges. Ash and licks of flames at the edges of the walls, the place deteriorating. Snow still fell out the window. “I didn’t!”
“They hurt you.” He sighed. “Didn’t they?”
“I didn’t mean to! They don’t…”
“Burning in Hell...must be nice for them. It’s what they deserved, is that right?” Robbie looked in horror as fire ate at the man’s suit, along his face. Blistering skin bubbled and popped with red irritation, the fire ceaseless in its destruction. He saw it then; the doctor’s face had melted into people he knew, the people from the picture. His mother. His father. His sister. He stumbled back in his chair, the wood crumbling as it struck the floor behind him.
“T-They...they loved me.”
“Oh don’t be ridiculous.”
“They did!” He snapped, a burning rafter falling from the ceiling.
“You lit the match…” The burning man danced with the matchbox. “Started it with your father’s beer. You smiled too.”
“Shut up.”
“A little girl…only four. She was playing dollies upstairs.”
“Shut up!”
“And your mother’s damn cigarettes...same smoke that killed her.”
“Shut up!”
He fell back into the fire, only for his eyes to snap open. White light flooded his vision. He gasped for air, an oxygen mask stuck to his face. Nurses were surrounding him, rushing him along on a wheeled stretcher. Robbie looked around, blinking back tears. A gentle hand was placed on his shoulder, a blonde woman with coffee on her tongue.
She reassured him with a gentle voice. “You’ll be alright, Dear. The fire was put out an hour ago. I’m...and I’m sure your family is alright too.”
They aren’t.
“We’ll get you on your feet for the holidays...I’m sure of it.”
Farmhouse, and other pieces by Han, can be found on their website, https://hgemeny.wixsite.com/solsticegem/work, where it was originally published.
//
Han (18) is a nonbinary fiction writer and artist living in Southern California. When they aren't writing, they're spending time with their two French Bulldogs searching for their next big adventure. They've always had a deep love for storytelling and advocate both mental health awareness and inclusivity.
Han (18) is a nonbinary fiction writer and artist living in Southern California. When they aren't writing, they're spending time with their two French Bulldogs searching for their next big adventure. They've always had a deep love for storytelling and advocate both mental health awareness and inclusivity.