Page 74 of Twisted Heathens
“I’m… pissed off,” I admit reluctantly.
Lazlo crosses his legs, getting comfortable. “Why is that?”
“I don’t like being analysed.”
“Are you afraid of what I might find?”
Fucking smug wanker. Of course I’m afraid of that.
“No,” I lie easily, but it doesn’t quite ring true.
Lazlo taps his pen, eyes calculating. “It is our natural instinct to protect what we are ashamed of. But in this space, we are nothing more than therapist and patient. You need not be embarrassed of what afflicts you.”
I throw my arms up in annoyance. “I’m not fucking embarrassed!”
“Then tell me what’s got you strung so tight right now.”
I give up and sink to the floor, crossing my legs. Refusing to return to the stupid seat where he can study me like a damn specimen. “The labels,” I mutter.
Understanding dawns as he clicks his pen, scribbling something else down. I resist the urge to march over there and snatch the notebook away, or shove it so far up his ass he’ll spit paper.
“Schizophrenia?”
A thick lump forms in my throat, impossible to swallow. Ancient memories tickle my mind that I don’t have the strength to keep at bay in the face of his scrutiny. A time long past, when the family sickness first reared its ugly head.
The car veers off to the side as my parents scream at each other, Mum battling an invisible enemy that none of us can see. She talks to it all the time. We sail straight into a tree, twisted metal and smoke filling the space. Airbags burn my skin and sizzling flames drown out Dad’s dying cries. Broken ribs cut off all air as I battle against the seatbelt. Blood slick beneath my fingers, my own and theirs mingling.
“Brooklyn? You with me?” Lazlo prompts.
I clear my throat, vision filled with smoke. “Yeah.”
Blinking rapidly, I try to force the images away. Reality and imagination blur as their cries still echo through my mind, mingling with the ever-present shadows that always appear to torture me further.
Lazlo gives me a moment, watching my expression closely before continuing, “I want to talk a little about your diagnoses. You’ve been aware of these issues for some time, I believe.” He searches his papers again. “I can see that you had several psych evaluations growing up, and a stint in an inpatient unit then too.”
When the stupid foster carer stumbled in and cut me down from the noose. Interfering bitch.
“When did the voices start?” he asks conversationally, as if he isn’t prying into the deepest pit of my mind and shining a light where it really isn’t wanted.
“On and off for several years. Worse as I got older,” I reply, hoping to appease him and prevent further questioning. I deliberately don’t mention the shadows. Voices are crazy enough without adding horrifying hallucinations into the melting pot of madness.
“And the drugs. This made your affliction worse, I presume?”
I shoot him a frustrated glare. “Don’t bring the drugs into it.”
Lazlo disregards my words, lacing his hands together. “Drug use and psychosis is well documented. Narcotics are proven to increase paranoia, hallucinations, erratic emotions. In fact, I participated in a study which…”
“No,” I interject firmly. “Don’t blame the drugs. We both know where it came from.”
“Your illness?” he clarifies, quickly catching on. “I see. Well, there is a genetic component to Schizophrenia, a familial pattern that is also well established. Although myriad factors also impact…”
I suddenly stand, my body coiled tight with tension. “I’m done.”
“We still have an hour, Brooklyn.”
“Just, please. Not now,” I beg, revealingly honest for once.
Lazlo looks me over, sighing in frustration. He slides some printouts from my file and hands them to me. “As you’re still adjusting to life in general population, I will make an exception today. But only this once. Don’t get used to it.”