8

They didn’t bother to pipe music into the warehouse floor, sparkle flecked linoleum tiles wound around the four walls of Dr. Proctor’s waiting room, the center square a faded tan Berber sheet planted with lounge furniture and inn tables, magazines in the drawers, a large puzzle sat completed in the middle of a square table sealed under glass. An oversized lamp head hung as chandelier, calm yellow light rounded off the box. The room was full as usual; you didn’t recognize any of the patients from your previous sessions. Proctor was high profile. He put out a few books and had a bi‐ weekly television show. Sophie, his receptionist came through one of the doors lining the walls, each one a room where you could talk through your problems and take your medicine if you so chose. “Ms. Ashby, follow me.” You walked through the door after the bob cut auburn haired woman. Proctor was sitting at a computer as usual, he rolled his chair away from the desk and beckoned you to sit, Sophie was gone through a magic door.

“Hi Barty, you missed our last session,” he crossed his legs. Shawn Proctor wore a faux hawk, hair silvery and features mousey highlighted by the same colored eyebrows. He wore a pin stripped buttoned up shirt and rectangular glasses, the black frames boxed in his brown eyes. You sat across from him.

“I was incapacitated.” You left your sunglasses on. He wasn’t a bad doctor, his formula had gone to his head, it wasn’t your prescription but he was wearing on yours.

“Mmhm, and how is Wonder Boy?” He scribbled a note. “You could have called if you weren’t going to be here Barty, you have to be responsible for these things. Our relationship is a two way street, it doesn’t work if you just leave me short.”

“Incapacitated.” You put your feet on the table and lit a cigarette. He turned on the vent system; the ionizing hum sucked the smoke out of the room. “No lectures please, incapacitated means incapacitated. Look, I’m not going to be seeing you anymore.”

“Are you in a safe enough place to make that decision Barty? You have exhibited a lack in better judgment and with this last fall off of the wagon I just don’t think I can allow you to step out on this.” His pen was furious on the little notepad in his lap while his face kept the same shiny demeanor.

“Shawn, go f**k yourself.”

“That’s not helping your cause at all, Barty. Now, I want to discuss what brought you to this decision. From the beginning, I’d like you to tell me where and what you’ve been doing since missing your last appointment.” He stared at you through the glasses unblinking he reached across to you. His hands were small and fingers dainty. You took his hand, your fingers intertwined; his skin was tender, his palm the soft underbelly of this five fingered beast. You flipped it stomach to sky and buried your cigarette where its navel would be. He stifled a scream, but with his eyes pinched shut he let out a whine. You kept him under your grip, digging into your pocket you took out a straight razor.

“I’ll split you wide open, doctor, don’t get me wrong. I’m not going to be your patient any longer. I’ll be taking my records with me, I’m not too keen on your privilege, you talk too f*****g much.”

“This is a real offense Barty,” his face contorting as he tried to squirm out of your grip. You started to cut into wrist, the edge of your razor punching through as he jerked around.

“No s**t, and if you keep moving you’re going to make it impossible to seal this little cut. Now shut the f**k up and stop moving,” He froze, your grip tightened and you released. There was a little trickle of blood running out of the wound but your effect was grasped clearly. He squeezed the gash breathing heavily. “Well that was good for me, it could have been worse for you, I mean I could have f*****g slit your throat and made you squirt like a fountain,” you kicked his chair laughing. “I’m going to be going now. I won’t be taking any messages from your office. Now call you’re receptionist back in here, we’ve got some film to discuss.”