I thought I might try to write something a bit different from my usual style. This was the product of my endeavor. The character Henry has been in the back of my mind for a while and I have grown fond of him...

I think I'm going to expand it and add more stuff about 'Duckie', but this is what I have so far. As always opinions are welcome.

Henry had never been entirely comfortable with himself. He felt he had never really gotten to know himself well, and given the chance of a decent chat over a cup of tea this could be remedied. But Henry was a shy man and could never find the courage to say hello. Instead he made certain to keep himself busy and thus avoid any awkward conversations. Over the years Henry came to look upon ‘himself’ as another person, the two of them just happened to flat-share within the same body. He decided to call this other person Duckie.

The quiet moments when he was alone with his thoughts were the most uncomfortable. As a boy Henry had always had a very vivid imagination. It was even suggested to his mother that Henry, with his creative potential and jarringly inept social skills, was perhaps autistic. Though he never talked to his mother often enough for the topic to come up. Despite the exciting imaginings of his youth, thoughts now seemed to shuffle sedately through Henry’s mind like thickly wadded cotton wool, leading him to wonder whether something really was wrong.

Each morning Henry followed the same routine with such precision as to be ritualistic. Shower, toast, brush teeth, feign noises of disbelief/amusement appropriate to the newspaper article, coffee, grey suit, black shoes. Finally Henry would put on a mustard yellow hat that he bought at a garage sale; check that the coast was clear of well-wishing neighbours and friendly joggers and step outside to walk to the train station.

On the train Henry would begin the 45 minute commute into the city. On this day, like every other, he stood at the very back of the carriage to make sure he didn’t take anybody’s seat, and practiced what he might say to Duckie if the fore mentioned conversation ever were to occur. Looking out the window Henry focused on the shapes of the buildings as they whirred past.

Finally at Central Station Henry entered the platform amongst the surging crowd. A floating yellow hat bobbing along atop a sea of people, made its way out into the street. Walking along he looked cautiously at those that passed him, businessman, teenagers with wildly coloured hair and bright, glossy signs advertising menus on the sidewalk, but Henry saw it all in muted tones, as though he was looking through a dirty pane glass window. This new development particularly troubled Henry and all day long he was filled with a hallow sense of foreboding.

Henry stood in front of the bathroom mirror on his lunch break. The reflective surface was speckled with grime further blemishing his middle-aged complexion. He could feel what Henry could only assume was Genghis Khan’s army rampaging through the inside of his skull. Patiently he waited for the hoard of barbarians to leave, eventually taking two Panadol to rid the tiny heathens. Henry sighed. What was wrong, he wondered. Resolving to see his shrink after work Henry was interrupted by a colleague needing the toilet, his stomach churned as he quickly exited and re-joined his workplace.

Later that night, Henry sat on a faded green leather couch in a small cluttered office and explained his worries to his psychiatrist Leo Bernstein. Expressing himself always made Henry a little uneasy, as did being in the company of anyone holding the title of doctor, but in an overly-diagnosed, overly-medicated society he accepted this as a necessary evil.

“I’m very sorry Henry, but it appears there is nothing wrong with you. You are completely and utterly sane.”

Henry furrowed his brow. “What?”

“100% sane; there’s really very little I can do.”

“But what about Duckie, surely that is evidence of… split personalities?” Henry asked anxiously.

“I’m afraid not, sir. Duckie quite simply represents your deep seeded personal anxieties. The fact that you recongise this aspect of your personality as a separate person signifies only that you have a low self-esteem and are not yet comfortable with your own identity… I suppose the voice of ‘Duckie’, which you have internalized, is just your inner critic.” The shrink said dismissively.

“Inner critic?”

“According to my daughter’s Cosmopolitan, yes.”

“Ah. And this means?” Henry watched while Dr. Bernstein chewed his pen, thinking.

“Well Henry, you are in fact – normal.”

“Normal?”

“Normal.” The psychiatrist re-iterated, annoyed.

“But I don’t feel ‘normal’.”

“Nor does anyone else, trust me Henry, in this day and age it is normal to feel abnormal.”

Henry left Dr. Bernstein’s office unsure what to do with the knowledge that his lifelong feelings of unhappiness and disenfranchisement was just part of the greater human experience, and wondered what this would mean for Duckie.