Page 73 of Twisted Heathens
A pair of shrinks wrapped in their pristine white coats battle with a male patient, one securing him in restraints, the other brandishing a deadly looking needle. I hastily look away as they successfully get the screaming man sedated. The sight brings up far too many bad memories, both past and present.
Hurrying the rest of the way down the endless corridor, we descend into the basement and through a final layer of security into the Z Wing. Lazlo’s office awaits at the very end. He promptly opens his door on the first knock, as if waiting for me to arrive.
“Good morning, Brooklyn. Come in, quickly now. Lots to be getting on with.”
I sit in the chair facing him, my arms wrapped around my jittery body. Lazlo takes a seat and studies me for a moment, setting my teeth on edge. When he goes to the mini fridge and retrieves the shot, I have to swallow the protests bubbling in my throat.
“Here we go, another dose. How are you adjusting?”
Let’s see. I can’t fucking sleep. My mind feels alien. My skin itches and I feel like a stranger in my own body. The trembles kill me and delusions plague every waking moment. Voices taunt me, shadows chase me, and I’m losing my fucking mind—day by day.
I offer a simple nod. “Fine.”
“Good. No more voices?”
Shaking my head mutely, I turn and study his shelves. Anything to avoid that penetrative stare that threatens to uncover my darkest secrets. Can’t give him any more ammo to use against me. I’ll be tossed into a padded cell for the rest of my miserable existence.
“Well then, that’s good news.” Lazlo beams. “Now, just a little prick. It’ll be over before you know it.” He slips the needle into my neck and I flinch.
“What’s this?” He runs a finger over my tender forehead, where I know there’s a dark bruise forming. “Been banging your head against the wall, have we? Tut tut.”
“No,” I struggle out, swallowing hard.
Fucking idiot, Brooke. Too obvious.
“I’ve worked in psychiatry for forty years, Brooklyn. I know a self-harmer when I see one. Were you lying about the voices? Or is it the intrusive thoughts this time?”
I pick at my jeans, still avoiding his gaze.
Fuck him. Fuck this room. Fuck Blackwood.
Lazlo chortles under his breath. “Okay, we can discuss this later. We hardly know each other, after all. Now that I’m your therapist, I need to familiarise myself with your case. We will be spending a lot of time together over the next three years.”
He peers at me again, almost like he’s expecting something. I remain silent, unprepared for his next words. “Tell me about Victor.”
“Hell no,” I blurt automatically.
“Excuse me?”
I finally meet his widened eyes. “I said no.”
Placing my file down, Lazlo sighs and folds his ugly spectacles. I can feel the lecture coming from a mile off as he plasters that therapist shit talking smile on his face, ready to spew some patronising bullshit.
“Look, Brooklyn. We both know why you’re here. I’ve read your notes from Clearview and the various assessments conducted there. I am familiar with the details of your case. Schizophrenia is a weighty label in itself, let alone any others. Your destructive personality is something we can work on together.”
I stand abruptly. “Can I leave?”
“No. Sit down.”
Ignoring him completely, I begin to pace the small office. Wringing my hands as he watches intently, taking subtle notes that he thinks I can’t see. I don’t give a fuck if I look crazy, my spiralling thoughts take over everything and I need to move.
“Tell me what you are feeling right now,” Lazlo suggests.
“Get out of my head.”
“It’s my job to be in your head,” he replies curtly. “Come on, what’s the worst that could happen?”
He could lock me up for the rest of my life, preventing me from ending my pathetic existence. He’ll force me to live beyond the looming anniversary and my mind simply won’t cope. It’ll implode. The memories will be too much to handle and I’m fucking terrified of what my mind does when it’s had enough.