Shadowland

Therapy with Dr. Sanders was . . .annoying. I say Dr. Sanders here because it finally felt like I met that doctor side of him. Again, he had on that white lab coat and he sat behind his desk when I walked in, scribbling away inside of a file. I had to clear my throat twice before he looked up. I arched an eyebrow at him when he frowned. What was his problem?

“Don’t clear your throat, you’ll hate it later in life. It wreaks havoc on your throat. How does it feel to be out of those clothes?” He asked, standing up and moving to the couch in the middle of the room. I sat on one of the over stuffed, over-sized chairs in the room and if it hadn’t been for the white coat and notepad in his hand, it would have felt like two friends chilling.

“Better.” I couldn’t talk to this man, this doctor.

Or so I thought.

“Did you get to see our guitars? We have a new Schecter model you’d love, I bet.” He sat forward eagerly.

“Oh, no. I wasted too much time talking to Val in the cafeteria.” I shrugged, “When can I go to the rec room?”

“After this if you want. How are you feeling? Sick? Headache?” He rapidly changed the subject and it took me a moment to blink and catch up.

“Not sick, but my head hurts, yeah. No more than it usually does when I’m coming down.” I shrugged.

He stood and walked over to me, pulling my head up and taking a tiny penlight from his pocket, “Open.”

“I didn’t puke, Matt.” I said softly.

His eyebrows lifted and he sighed, “I trust you, but to be fair to every other patient who’s ever told me that, I have to look anyway.”

I dutifully opened my mouth and he peered down it. When he nodded and smiled a bit I rolled my eyes, “See, I told you. Have a little faith, Matt.”

“You’re an oddball. I like that. So tell me what happened last week, Brian. Tell me why you’re here.” He sat back down, this time on the end of the couch nearest me.

I shrugged, “Some jack off kid stole my coke. I hunted him down and beat the fuck out of him after I went and bought some more. By the time the police got there, he was damn near unrecognizable. It was either come here to get sober and make something out of a life most would consider already ruined or go to jail for assault and drug possession. Which would you have chosen?”

“Prison. I could never go clean again. It was too hard on me the first time.” He sighed, “How long of a sentence do you think you would have deserved?”

“For beating the shit out of that guy? None.” I sneered, “Little snot shouldn’t have had my drugs.”

He laughed, “Maybe you’ll think otherwise at another date.”

“Not likely. Matt, I’d give you the shirt off my back, but steal a rag from me and you deserve an ass beating. I know drugs are illegal, so I’d deserve the stupid time for that, and I guess getting clean won’t be so bad. I would love to have a decent paycheck again.” I sighed, “One that doesn’t get snorted up my nose, that is.”

His face showed surprise, “You know there are steps to detox for drug users just like there are for alcoholics, right?”

“Yeah. Duh.” I snorted.

He chuckled, “Well, you’re about halfway through them mentally if not physically. If you could tell me the reason, I could ease up some of the security on you.”

“I initially started taking coke but I heard that it was a metabolism builder. I was sickening, so much flubber from sitting around and drinking, playing guitar and being a spoiled rich kid. I figured I had money to blow why not really blow it? So I started doing coke and not eating and I started wasting away. I got addicted to the drug and to how I looked in the mirror. Now? Not so much. I wouldn’t mind looking less like a skeleton, but more like me again . . .but I know if I stop, I’ll get fat.” I made a face, “And coming down is annoying so it’s better to spend the money and stay high and skinny.”

“Who needs figure anyway, right?” He sneered, “So this has all been for vanity?”

“Yeah.” I nodded.

“Who and what were you trying to attract?” He peered at me curiously. I thought doctors were suppose to be impassive.

“Boys, men, attention.” I shrugged, “Positive attention on something other than my guitar skills.”

He stood and went to his desk. He came back with a battered looking hand mirror. Seriously, the handle looked like it’d been chewed on. I took it gingerly when he handed it to me. He steadied my somewhat shaky hand with his own, “Brian, tell me what you see here?”

“My dad’s nose, my dad’s eyes, stringy hair that needs a good washing, and an almost girly face.” I shrugged.

“You’re nuts. I see a pug nose that needs time to heal from the chemicals being snorted up it, hallowed cheeks that needs some weight but otherwise make you look like a male model. I see hair that could be glorious if you cared to wash it and eyes that have seen way too much horror to be that deep and beautiful. Your eyes are only outdone by-erm, anyway. I think there is more going on in your head than simple addiction and vanity. No doubt you have confidence . . . Just not in anything other than your ability to play music. So what I would like to do is to take you to the rec room and instead of you playing guitar, I’d like to have you paint or draw or sculpt. I’d like you to do something that doesn’t involve music and see how you enjoy that.”

“I wouldn’t. Outside of music I like booze and sex and until a few days ago, coke. I have no interest in sculpting or painting or anything like that.” I shook my head, “Sorry.”

“Well, let’s try it anyway. Even if you don’t enjoy it, we might learn something anyway. Come on.” He stood and I was forced to follow him or be left behind with the cracked mirror. No thank you.

The recreational room was actually a huge open area in the building with closets with clear doors dotting around it. One held painting supplies, one held several guitars and drums, and another held dvds or other forms of passive entertainment. All along the walls were books and there were big comfy looking chairs, a couple of couches, and tables with board games on them. I itched to pick up a nice black Schecter with flat, widespread frets and a skinny neck but Matt directed me to where two guys were sitting. One looked comfortable in a sweater and his hair styled stylishly if not neatly. The other was wearing the all too familiar white tshirt and jeans. He eyed me as we walked off and scurried away, toward the music closet. Matt shook his head, “Sorry, Z., I suppose you were making some progress with Johnny?”

“A little. You terrify him, poor kid. Hi! I’m Zacky.” The man stood and his wide, cat-like eyes fixed on me, “You must be Brian.”

“I am. Hi.” I looked away, the name registering as Matt’s boyfriend. I nodded at the kid that had run away, “What’s that kid’s deal?”

“Johnny was born a meth baby and grew up a crack child. His parents abandoned him two blocks from our house when he was just ten. He’s been living here every since and . . . He’s shy and terrified of his own shadow. Or of Matt’s.” Zacky said softly, obviously so that his voice didn’t carry in the large room.

I glanced at Matt, “I can’t blame him there. That shadow could eat him a live and not even burp.”

Matt laughed a bit, “I am not that big, thanks. Anyway, Zacky, I want Brian to choose a medium other than music and try his hand at it today. Just freestyle, okay?”

“Okay.” Zacky lead the way to a closet and opened it, “We have painting, drawing, oils, water paints, sculpting, pastels . . .whatever you want to try. Though you look more of a sculpting guy to me.”

“I can’t see me doing any of this but . . .okay.” I shrugged. I figured the faster I got through my therapy the better and to do that I’d have to cooperate. I sat there and worked clay in my hands, over and over, not really shaping it into anything. Eventually I did try it as I watched Matt and Zacky talk out of the corner of my eye. They were far enough away that I couldn’t hear what they were saying. From the way that Zacky was gazing up at Matt adoringly, I was betting it wasn’t anything having to do with this place.

Matt left me in there with instructions to finish what I was working on and go back to my room at the end of the hour. I looked down at the clump of clay in my hands and rolled my eyes. I’d somehow managed to make it phallus shaped. It showed where my mind was at: straight in the gutter. I turned it into Zacky anyway and he laughed, rolling his eyes at me too. With that quick laugh, I could see a thousand attractive things about him and couldn’t blame Matt at all for chasing that tail.

My next therapy session was scheduled for two more days, though I was suppose to report in and have my vitals checked sometime the next day. I ate a quick breakfast, aware that I knew no one in the cafeteria but Val, who was busy. Or so I thought. I’d only been eating a moment or so when that kid from the rec room the day before came and plopped down next to me. He glared over his shoulder for a moment before speaking up, “Hey.”

Every instinct in me screamed that I needed to protect this kid so that my response was quiet and gentle, “Hey. My name’s Brian.”

“Jonathan Seward or Johnny.” He mumbled at his plate before looking up at me, “What are you in here for?”

“Coke.” I already knew his story so I didn’t ask, no point in making the kid rehash that. “So do you go to school?”

“I have a tutor that comes here every other day. I get a chance to get my diploma this year though. Matt’s been encouraging it for a while.” He shrugged, “I just don’t know what I’m going to do with it after I get it.”

“Be a doctor, like Matt.” I suggested.

He smirked, “I couldn’t put up with jackasses all day. Matt’s gotta be nuts to do what he does.”

“I guess so. I haven’t been here long enough to know. I do know that if I weren’t a doctor, I doubt I could work here. Or as big as a horse like Matt.” I shuddered. You had to get some real assholes in this place, or tough guys who were still slightly afraid of prison.

“Newsflash: you’re not tiny.” He grinned at me, “But I get it. You mean, you couldn’t be like Zacky and work here.”

“Exactly. Or Val for that matter.” I shrugged.

He smiled at the name, “Val is awesome. She gets out of here soon. What’s first on your agenda today?”

“I have no clue.” I shrugged, “No one told me anything.”

“Then Matt hasn’t decided what your routine should be.” He shrugged, “Anyway, I have tutoring today. Like in ten minutes or so.”

“Is your tutor nice?” I wasn’t going to turn this kid down for simple conversation and possibly damage his psyche even more.

“He’s cool. If you didn’t know he was a teacher, you definitely wouldn’t be able to tell. I’m gonna go get changed. Bye!” he stood up abruptly and left. As he was going out, Matt was coming in.

He smiled at me and sat down across from me, empty handed, “So how did your night go?”

“Itchy, sweaty, and my heart beat so fast I thought my head was going to explode.” I answered truthfully.

He nodded, “Sounds like withdrawal to me. Any dreams?”

“Nope, I’m not sure I slept at all to tell you the truth.” I sighed and pushed my plate away.

He smiled down at it, “At least you ate. That’s good. The girls can really cook, so take advantage of that. Being a single guy, you won’t get that at a restaurant.”

“True.” I looked away from him before I asked, “So do you and Zacky eat all of your meals here?”

“I practically do, but Zacky does eventually go home. He has to, we have animals.” He grinned slightly but the grin didn’t match his eyes, “So . . . How’d you figure me and Zacky out? We try not to be obvious about it.”

“Val told me, but then . . .” I sighed, “He looks at you like you’re a god.”

His face flushed slightly, “Yeah, the feeling’s pretty mutual. Anyway, I thought you’d do better with therapy at night and recreation during the day. So if you’ll come to my office for your physical, you can have the rest of the day to yourself.”

“Sounds good.” I followed him out of the cafeteria and to his office. He closed the door and turned to me, mouthing the word ‘strip.’ I did so and it felt entirely too like the courthouse incident, except on top of that he took my heart rate, blood pressure, and checked the dilation of my eyes.

Finally, he smiled, “Get dressed. I have a feeling this withdrawal stuff won’t hurt you as much as it would most people. Other than being underweight and what I suspect as anemic, you’re in excellent health. If your blood pressure gets out of hand though, I’ll prescribe you something for it. Now there’s just one more thing.” He moved behind his desk and waited while I wound my belt around my hips. It had been one of the few things they’d let me get back at the jail.

“What’s that?” I settled into a chair opposite of him.

He opened his desk drawer and set the phallus shaped clay on it, “I really hope that was a joke.”

“It wasn’t intentional.” I muttered, my face flushing.

“You weren’t aroused when you did it?”

“No not at all.” It was testament to his prowess as a psychiatrist that he saw through my lie immediately.

“Yeah, of course not. Well you know what this says to me?” He handed it to me.

I took it gingerly, “What?”

“That coke wasn’t in your system long enough to keep you from maintaining sexual potency. Congratulations, you can still get a hard on.” He smiled at me, “Even if you can’t use it here.”

“What?” Now I was confused and sounded a bit like parrot.

“There’s no fornication at Shadowland. Not between anyone, gay, straight, employee and patient, or patient and patient. Being as this is a health institution I can’t tell anyone that they can legally have sex because they may not be clear minded enough to make that decision on their own. So there’s no sex here.” He smiled again, “The only people that have sexual relations here are Zacky and I and we don’t actually do anything on Shadowland property.”

“Oh. Um . . . .” I fidgeted, “Do we ever get weekends out?”

He laughed, “You’ll get weekend passes when you’re clean enough. Just keep it in your pants until then.”

“Easy for you to say, you’re getting laid.” I grumbled.

He chuckled again, and shook his head, “Go chill out. I’m have a patient in five. Your vitals are good today.”

So I gathered the first time he said it. I waved as I headed out the door, trying to discreetly hide the “sculpture” from anyone I might pass. I dropped it off in my room on my way down to the rec room. Immediately, I sought out Zacky, “Hey, did Matt mention me being able to play music now?”

“Yeah, he said it was okay, it was just an experiment. Have at it.” He nodded at the closet.

I took off for it and drew down a nicer guitar. It had nothing wrong with the body and when I strummed it, I noticed it was in tune. I wondered, briefly, who did the upkeep on them or who else here played, but didn’t take time to go ask. It’d been too long since I played. I did some scales, some intricate riffs to warm up and then started playing some classics. A little Pantera, a little Guns ‘N’ Roses, and onto Dream Theatre. Before I was done, Zacky made me go to lunch with the promise that I could come back and play as much as I wanted to after I ate. I sighed when I realized as I was eating and Johnny joined me that already I was going to establish a routine and I wasn’t sure I was entirely uncomfortable with it. Where was the incentive to leave?