A Chronic Invalid
II.
I can almost taste it, the sweet flavour of what is Sam Adams… I fucking love it. Oh god, I’ve missed it so much. Oh Jesus, is the room spinning or is it just me? Fucking Christ, it’s the room. My room’s alive, it’s out to get me and... fuck, is that a beer bottle? Oh shit, that’s a bottle of Guinness.
I try to turn and run, but then I see that there’s no door for the room. I’m trapped. Holy shit, I’m trapped. I bang on the walls, the floor, I want out. Lemmeoutlemmeoutlemmeout. LET ME OUT—
I wake up in my bed, sweat leaking out of my pores and drenching my body in its disgusting scent. I feel it on my upper lip, so I involuntarily take my tongue out and taste its saltiness. I cringe. My chest is heaving up and down as if I was hyperventilating.
“Holy fuck.”
I give a deep sigh, collapsing back on my bare naked bed, hearing the springs creak and moan from my sudden weight. I put a hand on my forehead—I’m dying. I hate this, I’m dying. I lie in bed for what must’ve been another half hour before I check the bedside clock.
04:37AM.
It’s too early for me to be awake, but I can’t fall back asleep. I sigh deeply before lifting my back off of my mattress and blink, rubbing at the sleep sand in my eyes. What the fuck—it’s been more than a month and I’m still feeling like this. This... what is this? It isn’t normal. I pick up my phone and punch in my lifeline. It rings five times before I hear a click to signify I’ve been answered. A groggy, but pissed as shit voice answers.
“What, Frank.”
I almost had to laugh because Gerard knows it’s me. Of course he knows it’s me. I hate how he knows it’s me. I’m always the one who calls at insane times in the mornings, wanting to talk because either I can’t sleep or I’ve had another dream. I hate Mondays.
“I had another dream.”
He sighs a deep sigh and I hear him give out a loud yawn, “Was it Guinness or Jack’s this time?”
“Guinness,” I tell him.
I can almost imagine him rolling his eyes. “I’ll be right over,” and he hangs up before I can whisper a quiet “Thank you.”
-
This isn’t normal therapy. This isn’t a normal relationship in therapy. Therapy doesn’t involve the therapist coming over to the patient’s rundown apartment, kicking off his shoes and making himself comfy on his old corduroy couch, smoking a Camel, while said patient’s making a pot of Nabob.
But then again, when have I ever mentioned anything about being normal.
“So tell me exactly what happened.”
I sit down on the opposite end of the couch and prepare myself by taking a deep breath. This isn’t going to be easy, I think. I hear a scoff come from Gerard’s direction and my eyes narrow. It’s not funny.
“Okay, so I was in my room... only, it wasn’t my room, you know? And I start smelling something really good, it was like Sam Adam’s—”
“I thought you said it was about Guinness.”
“Shut up, let me finish,” I snap before going back to my story. “So my—the room starts spinning and that’s when I see the Guinness.” I pause, half for a dramatic essence and the other for a reaction. I get neither.
“I turn around and try to run, but you know how it is, running in dreams is just like running in cold oatmeal—absolutely pointless—and I turn to go out of the room, but as it turns out, there’s no goddamn fucking door. So I find myself trapped. I remember panicking.”
Cue pause, “And?”
“And what?”
“That’s all?”
I blink. “Yeah?”
“Hmpf.” That’s all he says and reaches for his man-purse that he brought with him. I see a pad of slightly yellowed three lined paper and a blue pen being brought out. He begins to write in it. I raise a brow because I was expecting something with more... pizzazz. There’s about a fifteen minute silence between the two of us, besides the little noises of pen scratching against paper. I tell him this.
“Aren’t you... going to say anything else?”
I get no response. Okay, that’s cool. I watch him scribble god knows what into his stupid little paper block. I give him a nasty face because he deserves it.
“I saw that.” I stay silent. He’s still looking at his paper, so I don’t know how he managed to do it. He’s probably just saying it to make me scared.
“What are you writing?” I lean over to look, but he quickly turns the pad upwards into his chest, so I can’t see it. The pen clatters to the ground.
“Important... patient stuff,” he tells me. “You know, for the other patients.”
My face flat lines. “While you’re having a session with me.”
“Technically, it’s not a session because it’s not scheduled on paper.”
“But—”
“It’s five in the morning, Frank. No person in the entire world gets up this early. Except for teachers and engineers, but they never had much sense to begin with anyway.”
Fair game. But I snort, showing that I’m too stubborn to admit defeat, even though I know he’s right.
“Anyway,” he goes, grabbing his bag off the floor and slinging it onto his shoulder. He gets up and nods his head towards the door. “If that’s all, I’m gonna leave now.” I don’t say anything to stop him like he expects me to. He continues on, “So I’ll see you next... tomorrow. I’ll see you tomorrow, Frank. Two o’clock.”
I nod.
“You’ll remember? Tomorrow—”
“Two o’clock, Adam Fest’s building on 18th Avenue, Suite 307. The same place that I’ve been going to for the past one and a half months. Ask for Dr. Way.”
He smiles a big smile, “I’m glad you remember.” He opens the door to my flat and leaves.
I turn around and sigh. What the hell was the point of him coming over, I won’t know. It was a spur of the moment kind of thing, I guess.
I turn around to go get another cup of coffee and a cigarette until I see that Gerard has forgotten his paper pad. I’m curious, so I turn it over to see what he’s written. I pick it up and hold it in my hands. It’s not words or anything of relevance to psychology. I almost slap my hand to my forehead; he wasn’t taking notes at all.
It’s a picture of a monkey smoking a joint.
I roll my eyes and place the block back on the coffee table. I walk back to my bedroom, flopping onto my naked mattress and continue breathing in my fifth Newport this morning. I’m thinking of Gerard and one single word is running through my mind.
Fucker.
I try to turn and run, but then I see that there’s no door for the room. I’m trapped. Holy shit, I’m trapped. I bang on the walls, the floor, I want out. Lemmeoutlemmeoutlemmeout. LET ME OUT—
I wake up in my bed, sweat leaking out of my pores and drenching my body in its disgusting scent. I feel it on my upper lip, so I involuntarily take my tongue out and taste its saltiness. I cringe. My chest is heaving up and down as if I was hyperventilating.
“Holy fuck.”
I give a deep sigh, collapsing back on my bare naked bed, hearing the springs creak and moan from my sudden weight. I put a hand on my forehead—I’m dying. I hate this, I’m dying. I lie in bed for what must’ve been another half hour before I check the bedside clock.
04:37AM.
It’s too early for me to be awake, but I can’t fall back asleep. I sigh deeply before lifting my back off of my mattress and blink, rubbing at the sleep sand in my eyes. What the fuck—it’s been more than a month and I’m still feeling like this. This... what is this? It isn’t normal. I pick up my phone and punch in my lifeline. It rings five times before I hear a click to signify I’ve been answered. A groggy, but pissed as shit voice answers.
“What, Frank.”
I almost had to laugh because Gerard knows it’s me. Of course he knows it’s me. I hate how he knows it’s me. I’m always the one who calls at insane times in the mornings, wanting to talk because either I can’t sleep or I’ve had another dream. I hate Mondays.
“I had another dream.”
He sighs a deep sigh and I hear him give out a loud yawn, “Was it Guinness or Jack’s this time?”
“Guinness,” I tell him.
I can almost imagine him rolling his eyes. “I’ll be right over,” and he hangs up before I can whisper a quiet “Thank you.”
-
This isn’t normal therapy. This isn’t a normal relationship in therapy. Therapy doesn’t involve the therapist coming over to the patient’s rundown apartment, kicking off his shoes and making himself comfy on his old corduroy couch, smoking a Camel, while said patient’s making a pot of Nabob.
But then again, when have I ever mentioned anything about being normal.
“So tell me exactly what happened.”
I sit down on the opposite end of the couch and prepare myself by taking a deep breath. This isn’t going to be easy, I think. I hear a scoff come from Gerard’s direction and my eyes narrow. It’s not funny.
“Okay, so I was in my room... only, it wasn’t my room, you know? And I start smelling something really good, it was like Sam Adam’s—”
“I thought you said it was about Guinness.”
“Shut up, let me finish,” I snap before going back to my story. “So my—the room starts spinning and that’s when I see the Guinness.” I pause, half for a dramatic essence and the other for a reaction. I get neither.
“I turn around and try to run, but you know how it is, running in dreams is just like running in cold oatmeal—absolutely pointless—and I turn to go out of the room, but as it turns out, there’s no goddamn fucking door. So I find myself trapped. I remember panicking.”
Cue pause, “And?”
“And what?”
“That’s all?”
I blink. “Yeah?”
“Hmpf.” That’s all he says and reaches for his man-purse that he brought with him. I see a pad of slightly yellowed three lined paper and a blue pen being brought out. He begins to write in it. I raise a brow because I was expecting something with more... pizzazz. There’s about a fifteen minute silence between the two of us, besides the little noises of pen scratching against paper. I tell him this.
“Aren’t you... going to say anything else?”
I get no response. Okay, that’s cool. I watch him scribble god knows what into his stupid little paper block. I give him a nasty face because he deserves it.
“I saw that.” I stay silent. He’s still looking at his paper, so I don’t know how he managed to do it. He’s probably just saying it to make me scared.
“What are you writing?” I lean over to look, but he quickly turns the pad upwards into his chest, so I can’t see it. The pen clatters to the ground.
“Important... patient stuff,” he tells me. “You know, for the other patients.”
My face flat lines. “While you’re having a session with me.”
“Technically, it’s not a session because it’s not scheduled on paper.”
“But—”
“It’s five in the morning, Frank. No person in the entire world gets up this early. Except for teachers and engineers, but they never had much sense to begin with anyway.”
Fair game. But I snort, showing that I’m too stubborn to admit defeat, even though I know he’s right.
“Anyway,” he goes, grabbing his bag off the floor and slinging it onto his shoulder. He gets up and nods his head towards the door. “If that’s all, I’m gonna leave now.” I don’t say anything to stop him like he expects me to. He continues on, “So I’ll see you next... tomorrow. I’ll see you tomorrow, Frank. Two o’clock.”
I nod.
“You’ll remember? Tomorrow—”
“Two o’clock, Adam Fest’s building on 18th Avenue, Suite 307. The same place that I’ve been going to for the past one and a half months. Ask for Dr. Way.”
He smiles a big smile, “I’m glad you remember.” He opens the door to my flat and leaves.
I turn around and sigh. What the hell was the point of him coming over, I won’t know. It was a spur of the moment kind of thing, I guess.
I turn around to go get another cup of coffee and a cigarette until I see that Gerard has forgotten his paper pad. I’m curious, so I turn it over to see what he’s written. I pick it up and hold it in my hands. It’s not words or anything of relevance to psychology. I almost slap my hand to my forehead; he wasn’t taking notes at all.
It’s a picture of a monkey smoking a joint.
I roll my eyes and place the block back on the coffee table. I walk back to my bedroom, flopping onto my naked mattress and continue breathing in my fifth Newport this morning. I’m thinking of Gerard and one single word is running through my mind.
Fucker.