CONFIDENTIAL
From the desk of Tucker Wells
Attn: Dr. Fyellegedde
Re: Essay on Monogamy

[Handwritten at the top]
I don't understand why you want me to write this out in essay form! I could tell you about it in next week's session much easier. I guess you just needed a way to stick it to me while you were on vacation. Thanks. Thank you, Dr. ( Read more... )

Tucker's office door has been closed for twenty minutes. Usually it's open so he can pass on information to Wes without using the intercom. The intercom wigs him a little, because it's like a walkie-talkie without the walkie-talkie protocol. Is he supposed to say "over"? Is there any etiquette to how long you're supposed to wait to speak, so you ( Read more... )

When I woke up the next morning - completely unsure of how I got back to the hotel or who got my pants off or why there was a dead canary in my mouth (or what tasted like it) - Warren was asleep next to me. I started to piece everything together.
( ... )

Tucker's just been busy. As soon as he got into Boston from his post-recovery stint in Maine, he's been slammed at work. The first free weekend he had was spent crash and burning with Warren's dad in New Jersey. It was while on that trip that Warren and Tucker agreed to get back to the cabin in Maine as soon as possible ( Read more... )

I thought that my dream house was the one that Warren and I moved into: a loft off the park in Boston. Which means, I guess, that I lived in my dream house once. Lots of light. A nursery for small demons. A guest room with a racecar bed. Robots to keep house. a balcony. Perfect for parties. It turns out, however, that this particular abode was ( Read more... )

At times, lots of people never tell us what they are really thinking. Who is the one person that you would really like to know what they are thinking (as far as how they feel about you), and why?Oh, good. More opportunities to talk about my father. Here, let me turn the suck down for a second as I turn up my cynicism. I am Tucker Wells's grievous ( Read more... )

He wakes up in the middle of the night, after dreaming about dinner parties in the Mediterranean and flat-brimmed hats blowing over a bocce court, to find that his secret lair is quieter than a blanket of snow. The cabin smells like a cold wood stove and the central heating doesn't seem to have kicked in yet. Tucker Wells wakes up under what feels ( Read more... )

Thanks for all your cards and letters. And by "all", I mean a decorated hospital room from Kara Keating, a call from Remus Lupin, and a couple of comments in LiveJournal. Yeah, I saw. Thanks. Thanks for asking after me, people, and following up by doing jack shit. I know you think I'm being sardonic, but I'm really not. There isn't anythign to ( Read more... )

The irony is: when you're schizophrenic, you're never alone. When you're sociopathic, you always are. The inside of Tucker's head has always been ugly, in a figurative sense. Last weekend, after he (sorta maybe) tried to off himself (face first), the outside of Tucker's head finally matched in ugliness. There's some kind of finality and poetry in ( Read more... )

Little flashes here and there of a bright and glaring whiteness. Beeping. A bad wheel on a gurney. Burgundy fabric and a nametag passing in front of his eyes. It's not a hospital, though. It's dressed up to look like one, but it's something else. Overly sanitized surfaces freak Tucker out, but it's the glow he sees around him that really worries ( Read more... )