LAST CALL
“Cheers,” she says as she lowers her glass toward hell. “Cheers to an Honest Abe.”
I shift my eyes in her direction as I watch her lift the tiny glass a few inches from the floor up to her pale lips. Bailey has been this way ever since the truth came out twelve season changes ago on this very day. The bags under her brown eyes and the black rats nest on top of her head is normal now. She always has a cigarette tucked behind her ear, if not in between her lips, and a pint of “whatever is on sale” stashed away in her purse for “emergency purposes”. The only bathing she does anymore is submerging herself in helplessness and hopelessness, but her whisky perfume covers up the stench. Her family doesn’t even question it; they are in denial too.
“Another one please,” she shouts across the bar. “And make this one a double”.
It would be an understatement to say the tragedy of her father’s suicide put her through a spiraling grief cycle. Too see the girl I grew up with and love like a sister go from an independent woman to an alcohol dependent wreck overflows my heart with sadness. She had her whole life laid out on the table and now that same table is cluttered with grief. She lost her scholarship to her first choice school, Yale, when her GPA dropped from a 4.0 to a 2.1 and her friends won’t even speak to her because they say, “She is a negative influence on our lives”. Alcohol won her over. Alcohol got the best of her.
We come to this small “hole in the wall” bar every year because she refuses to go anywhere else. “This is where I belong,” she says. The bartender is an old man named Cowboy who wears his hat and listens to sob stories all night. He says he must have heard her story a thousand times. The regulars, the biker gang, old men who have never been married in their lives and an overly enthusiastic jock who drinks his Miller Lite and stares at the TV screen all night long alternate taking her home to “get some”.
“Do you know what bothers me the most?” she asks. Cowboy slides her double across the table and she asks to add it to her tab.
“Cheers to abandonment”, she says.
I watch her choke it down. She reaches across the table and chases the taste away with my half-empty cup of Coca-Cola. She lets out a sarcastic “ah” as if the drink refreshed her and satisfied her needs; the needs she has lacked for three years.
“What bothers me is he didn’t even leave me a good-bye letter. What do you make of that?”
Her father was the one she turned to for advise on financial issues, car troubles, doing her taxes, etc…He always said that, “I fell in love with you before I fell in love with your mom” and “you are my no neck, no arms baby girl”. They had a close relationship, or so she thought.
I hesitantly answer, “Maybe yours got lost. Your father loved you very much, you know?”
The letter didn’t get lost. Unfortunately there was no letter left for anyone besides a statement at the top of his planner on the day he jumped. “You don’t know her like I do”. The planner was left open to that page at the bottom of the mountain that he jumped off of in South Carolina where she lived.
“No. He loved his mistress,” she shouts with tears streaming down her face. She makes sure the few people in the bar hear her. “‘You don’t know her like I do?’. There wasn’t any other letter, Kelly. She was the last thing on his mind before he jumped.”
I grab a napkin off the table behind us and reach over to dabble her cheeks where the mascara smudged. I scoot my chair closer to her and place my arms around her neck and press my lips up to her forehead. I grab her head and look her straight in her teary eyes and tell her, “You can’t blame yourself. His mind was already made up. There was nothing you could have done”.
And there wasn’t anything she could have done. He spontaneously left her mother the year before the accident and said, “I’m not leaving you. I’m leaving your mother”, but she didn’t feel that way. He didn’t keep a close relationship with her, in fact the only time he saw her was for a short dinner at his rundown apartment in Springfield on Sunday nights.
She glares back at me and shakes her head loose from my grip. Without saying a word, she excuses herself from our conversation and stumbles her way to the other end of the bar.
A man with shaggy blonde hair wearing a leather jacket with the words “Harley Davidson” embroidered into it turns his chair to Bailey and puts his lips up to her ear. She pulls away from him and smoothing the tattoos that creep up his arm. She gives him a smile. He strokes his beard, hands her a napkin with black ink printed on it and turns away.
“Do you know what he promised me?” She sets down two more shots of suppression and rolls her arm sleeves up, revealing the reddish-brown scars that lay horizontal across her wrist. No amount of beads she wears can hide her imperfection
My chest tightens and I hold my breath and interrupt her.
“Wait. You didn’t agree to do anything with that guy over there, did you?”
She crumples up the napkin and tucks it into one of the five shot glasses that sit empty on our table. “Hell no. He bought me these shots and gave me his number. I’m not going to call him, Kelly. I’m not stupid.”
I had to ask, knowing her reputation for these men. “I’m just looking out for you.”
She rolls her eyes at me in disbelief. The left side of her lip raises and she takes her seat.
“Anyways,” she says sarcastically. “He looked me dead in the eye and promised me on our living room floor he would never attempt it again.”
I can see the guilt in her eyes. Even though she won’t admit it, it is there waiting to be shared with me. When attending his wake she refused to stand in the line and receive hugs and support from the people she was once close to. At his funeral she didn’t shed one tear until everyone left and she was left alone with him. She placed a note in the pocket by his heart that said, “You promised”, and left the funeral home without any notice.
She picks up one of her shots and throws it back.
“Cheers to broken promises.”
Her droopy brown eyes lay fixated on that empty glass searching for unattainable answers to the fictitious queries her mind created about her dad. Three years later and I’m listening to the same speech and watching the same act in the same bar with the same stranger I once knew. Her dad was a liar I will give her that. It’s a tragedy that but her life is her choice and these behavior were not acceptable.
“Did you know he told me he had cancer?”
She hunches over to the edge of the table and rests her chin in the palm of her right hand. With her left, she reaches over and pulls my Coca-Cola close to her chest and sips on it like there is no bottom. She pierces her lips and rolls her eyes once then hints at me to empathize with her reply.
“Found out that wasn’t true. His weight loss was from all the coke he was snorting. What a two-timing, double-crossing, lying bastard.”
On a Sunday night at his raggedy apartment he held her hand and told her he had cancer. He said it was stage 4 and that he didn’t know how much time he had left. He went on a “all organic” diet and snorted coke daily to lose the weight to accompany his lie. He was hiding the truth of his real intensions of suicide with something natural.
I take her by the hand that was supporting the weight of her head and grasp it, like I’m never going to let it go. A short silence passes then I open my mouth trying not to stutter over my words and hoping that what comes out won’t guide her back to Jack. “You know that you have people that care for you. I will always be here.” I squeeze her hand even tighter. I can see the black dripping down her face leaving tread marks where the blush used to lie. She frees her hand that was circling the ice in my cup and reaches for the lonely shooter.
“Cheers to keeping secrets,” she cries as the empty glass slides through her fingers and falls to the table. The pupils in her eyes disappear and all that is left is pure white. She begins to nod off and in seconds the weight of her head is resting half on the table, half on top of my hand. I wrap the loose pieces of her hair behind her ears and lift her head upright.
Cowboy makes his way to our side of the bar eager to take our drink order. I motion my hand horizontally across my neck and put my pointer finger up to my lips, pointing at my dear friend with the other. I mouth the words,” Water, please. Thank you.” He gives me the O.K signal and walks off.
“Do you remember the time when your dad coached our basketball team?” I whisper quietly into her ear, holding the weight of her body into my chest. I run my fingers through my hair while she cries quietly to herself. “When we went to Hilton Head Island and our games were canceled due to the hurricane?”
She looks up at me with her pain-filled eyes and gives me a partial smile. She takes a second to regulate her speech then shows me a smile I haven’t seen in years. “Yeah. Remember when all of us girls were on our periods at the same time?”
Cowboy makes his way back to our table and places a cup of water in front of each of us. “It’s the last call,” he says. “We will be closing in fifteen.” I nod and ask him for her tab and return my focus onto Bailey.
“We were all so moody.” I said. I hold the cup of water up to her mouth and tilt the straw towards her. “Your dad ran to the nearest grocery store in the pouring rain just to get us tampons and Reese’s peanut butter cups.”
We laugh simShe takes a large mouthful of the refreshing remedy and chuckles, “We went through ten bags in four days.”
I hand the cup over to her and tell her, “Drink it slowly. You don’t want to throw up this good memory.” She laughs at my pun and sips on her water.
“Here is your bill sweetie,” The waitress hands it over to my friend but I grab it out of her hands before she can grab it. I give her a $50 and tell her to keep the change. She says thank you and right before she is about to leave Bailey stops her.
“Wait! Bring us two shot glasses please,” she says. “Empty ones.”
I squint my eyes at her.
“What are you doing?” I ask confused.
“You’ll see. It’s a surprise.”
Two empty shooters are handed to us. Bailey takes each of them and pours them up with water. She holds hers up toward heaven and hands me one, telling me to do the same.
“Cheers,” she says. She hits the side of my glass with hers. “Cheers to new beginnings.”
LITTLE WHITE PILL
The doors to 5A open and the white lights blind my eyes. My eyes are drawn to the white—white walls, white floors, and white ceilings. Men and women in long white coats scurry from one room to the next to pick apart brains and ensure stability. Screams escape the privacy of the rooms and echo off of the walls, streaming through one ear and out the other, not missing a single beat. If it was up to me, a sock would be shoved in each of the patient’s mouths’. Maybe then the muscles in my face could relax and the tension in my eyes would disappear.The wheel chair I am forced into, even though I’m capable of walking, stops in front of the nurse’s station. To my right sits a nymphomaniac sociopath spread eagle on the counter in hopes to either sleep with one of the male attendants or manipulate them into giving her television privileges. I can see why she failed her mission; she’s not even cute. To my left is what is known as the “Gathering Room” where a boy dressed in latex gloves and a doctor’s mask sits in a corner secluded from the rest of the patients. Every time his forearms are exposed and a hand brushes against him, he rushes over to the sink and shrieks, “I’m contaminated!”A screechy voice from behind my back startles me. “Hi. I’m Lilly.” I turn around to check her out but she grabs my hand and examines it two inches from her face. “You have a tattoo? That’s okay, you can get it removed and God will love you again.”I stare blankly at her while she runs off chasing imaginary butterflies down the hallway. “Where the fuck am I?” I shake my head and a nurse appears to take me to my room.
Brittney is a level headed young woman who always wears a smile and smells of compassion. Patients on 5A are put on “one-to-ones” because doctors think we need closer observation than the more stable individuals on the other side in 5G. I was lucky to be assigned to Brittney.“Here are your scrubs and the Lamictal the doctor prescribed for you,” Brittney says. She hands me two cups, one filled with water and the other containing a little white pill. I lift the pill up in the air between my thumb and pointer finger. I stare at it for a minute then ask, “What is this for?” Brittney responds as if I have asked this question before, “It will help level out your moods, sweetie.” She shakes her head then disappears into the white. I watch that little white pill swirl down the toilet and I change into the scrubs. I’m quite relieved to see blue for a change. I place my clothes on the only piece of furniture in the room next to my bed and sit there counting the tics, 1,800 total.
A man in a white coat enters the room and takes a seat, careful not to sit on my clothes. He is dressed sharply in his white coat, nice slacks, and freshly polished shoes that I can almost see a reflection of his silhouette in them. In one hand he holds a stack of papers each containing the same name in the top right hand corner that I can’t make out. In his other hand is a blank piece of notebook paper. Resting above his ear is a black ballpoint pen. I study his face for a moment and replay his features like a broken record in my head–golden brown skin free of wrinkles and blemishes, neatly groomed black hair gelled to perfection, and a beaming white smile. Before he can open his mouth to let out his foreign accent, I interrupt him abruptly, “You must be my doctor. You are extremely attractive.”He gives me a complex look and his straightforward response takes me a minute to comprehend his words. “Yes. I’m Dr. Rhedduri, your psychiatrist. Tell me why you are here at Memorial Hospital?”I inch myself to the edge of the bed sitting Indian style with my elbows on my knees and my hands folded under my chin. I bite the corner of my lip and give him puppy dog eyes. “I don’t know but you have got to get me out of here. I’ll do anything, doctor.”Doctor Rhedduri shakes off my invitation with another question, “Well, our records indicate that you haven’t slept in days. What’s that about?”I crash my body into the bed and bury my head in the pillow. “I’m not tired!” I scream. “Is this why I’m here, because I haven’t been sleeping?”“That amongst other symptoms,” he says as he scans his stack of papers. “Have you been engaging in impulsive behaviors such as excessive drinking, unprotected sex or promiscuity, and/or sporadic spending sprees?”I sit up straight and I look down and to the right, avoiding any eye contact. “No, sir.” “Alright,” he says. He straightens his papers and heads for the door. “We will try this again tomorrow.”I catch him right as he’s about to leave. “Wait! How long am I going to be here?” He halts and turns his head around towards me. “Until you can get some sleep. I’ll have the nurse bring in Trazadone to help you with that.” He turns out my light and disappears into the white.
Brittney returns to my room and hands me a cup of water and another white pill. I make a gesture to swallow then place the cup back into her hands. We exchange a friendly smile then she turns out my light and shuts the door behind her. Immediately that pill transfers from between my gums and my cheek to the trash. For the first time today it is relatively quiet and dark.
For the next several hours I pace around my room. I could really use my cell phone or I-pad right now. I lay on the cold ground with my legs parallel to the wall counting the tiles on the ceiling. Every so often I can hear the sound of footsteps getting close to my room. As soon as I see the white from under the door overlapping the darkness on my walls, I dart back into bed until the white subsides and the footsteps again fade then I’m back to tile counting. Somewhere after 200 I lose track.
A fine-looking face awakens me. Doctor Rhedurri is dressed similar as he was yesterday; although, today he is wearing a black tie underneath his white coat. He is holding a new stack of papers and this time I can make out the name in the corner. It says, “Lynsey Bradshaw psychiatric admissions and evaluation.”“Good morning, Lynsey.” He takes a seat on the lonely piece of furniture. He crosses his arms and gives me a slight smile. “The overnight staff tells me you slept last night. Did that medication help?”“Um. Sure. What are those for?” I point sternly to the papers he is holding.Doctor takes a seat and begins talking. “This is what I was trying to talk to you about yesterday. Based off of your previous medical records and your psychiatric history it is certain to me that a diagnosis of bipolar is only ascertainable. I’m going to ask you one more time the same question I asked you yesterday. Are you sure you haven’t engaged in any risky behaviors lately? If you are honest with me then we can get you out of here quicker.”My heart starts to race and my palms are getting sticky. It takes a moment for me to answer because my head has been so foggy the past week. I’m not sure what was real and what was fake. I’m not sure if I can answer his questions truthfully, and it’s not by choice. I do my best to answer anyway. As I speak the ink fills his pages.“Each one of those things could pertain to me I guess. I haven’t been able to see straight since Thursday. Today is Monday. I went from having $1,502 in my checking account down to $1.57 in a matter of hours. Ten new pairs of tennis shoes to add to my collection of 242 seemed appropriate. As far as the promiscuity, I’m sure you can see for yourself considering the first thing I did when you walked into my room was basically jump your bones. Less obvious, I also went home with three different men in two different nights. This doesn’t mean I’m bipolar though. I’m not. I just like to have fun. Can I go now?” I can see the black from his pen fill up an entire page with his concerns. He tucks his pen back onto his ear and folds his hands into his lap. “When fun becomes endangering then it becomes a problem. I don’t believe it is smart to release you quite yet. You seem to be less delusional than previous admissions, but the delusions are still apparent. You aren’t taking on the personas of anyone famous this time which leads me to believe this isn’t a full manic episode, maybe just some hypomania. I’d like to keep you one more night and see how you sleep.” Right before he leaves me in the plain what room by myself once again, I snarl at him. “Whatever. I’m not bipolar though.”
At 8:30pm a new nurse tells me it is time for nighttime meds. She hands me a cup of water and two white pills: the Lamictal to level out the highs and lows and the Trazadone to sedate me. I cup both in the same hand and guide my palm up to my mouth. She snatches the empty cup from my hand then turns my light out and waddles her way out the door. When it is dead silent, I open my palm into my pillowcase. Now, all that is left to do is count the tics until the morning.
“Lynsey, it is 8:30am,” a voice calls out. I turn around and see it is Brittney standing over my bed with my discharge papers. “Yes! I finally get to leave!” I hug her and run out into the “Gathering Room” with her ten steps behind me. For the next half hour Brittney runs through the list of the basic procedures for my aftercare. She tells me:1. Take your medication once daily before bed with water. 2. If you have any side effects, call your psychiatrist.If you have any thoughts of suicide call 911 immediately. Blah, Blah, Blah.The doors I was initially chaperoned through open up and welcome me back to reality. Brittney hands me a bag containing my clothes and shoes and also my discharge papers, including information on bipolar disorder. I shove the papers in my bag and head back into the real world where I am surrounded by the full spectrum of colors. I feel fresh air for the first time in nine days.
I felt euphoric for a few days after my discharge but a switch turned off and I shut down. I stayed in my bed for four days, only getting up to use the restroom. I didn’t eat or drink and my room smelt of sweat from not showering and blood from the marks of sadness I left on my wrists. I didn’t understand how I could go from feeling so “good” to so “bad” in such a short period of time. In the midst of my self-pity and despair I opened the bag I was discharged from the hospital with and read:Bipolar Disorder: A mental disorder marked by alternating periods of elation and depression.
I’m being escorted through doors and into a room. The white lights give me a headache. A nurse hands me a pair of scrubs and a white pill with some water. I put it in my mouth and swallow. She has me show my palms, open my mouth and move my tongue up and down to confirm it has been ingested. She smiles at me, pats me on the shoulder and walks out of the white room with the only hint of color resting in my lap. Three-hundred tics go by and a familiar face enters.“Hello, Lynsey. Nice to see you again. Do you know why you are here?”I look up at Dr. Rhedduri who is standing right beside me and answer, “I drank pine-sol. Doctor, I think you were right.”
PSYCHE
I didn’t exactly want to die. I didn’t know how to control the other two people inside of me anymore. It was hard work walking around being a different entity day to day. I was professionally told I was normal, that it was all in my head and I was making it up but I knew that wasn’t the case. I couldn’t have made something as horrible as this up. My desires, wants, needs, morals, wishes and feelings were always contradicting one another. I don’t have a split personality; although, sometimes it feels that way. As far back as I can remember it has always been Iddy, Sego and I. My name is Egos but you can call me Hank.
When describing myself I always consult with the other two first. I have to listen to them bicker back and forth until I end up with some reasonable understanding and deliver the message. Iddy tries to manipulate and deceive to get whatever he wants and Sego tries to guilt trip me until i follow the “moral code”. Ultimately, I have the final say in the decisions we make, the answers we give, or the way we behave but it gets rather annoying always trying to be the mediator, If an argument gets too heated, I’m the one most affected by it because I am pulled in separate directions, I’m like the knot in the middle of the rope used for tug o war by equally strong entities. I get pulled each way, sometimes shifting more towards one side or towards the other but i eventually I end up stationary back in the middle. I typically have the balanced answer, but this time was different. This time the rope snapped.
Iddy and I had been going through our manic stage for two weeks and a day. I quit my job and. emptied out my 401K which left me with a little over 97,000. The first thing I wanted to do on my new endeavors in life was to buy and learn how to shoot a gun. So i spend 1200 on a 9mm P226. Honestly, I didn’t know what that meant but i was just excited i had a gun. I got my Feud card, my conceal and carry and I was ready to shoot. I brought that gun with me everywhere. Sego didn’t like the idea at all but when my mind is manic, then Iddy takes over and runs the show. There is no consulting, there are only Iddy’s natural wants and desires and Iddy always gets what Iddy wants
One night in the midst of my craze I took my P 226 into the local bar where I noticed a blonde chick with long ass legs. I walked straight up to the bar and sat beside her, ordering a whisky neat. “Why is someone as gorgeous as you sitting by yourself on a Saturday night” I asked, shocked that those words came out of a naturally shy boy’s body. She looked me dead in the eyes,
“Why is someone as sexy as you sitting by yourself on a Saturday night?” She bit her bottom lip and sat there on her bar stool with her legs crossed, exposing the trim of her red panties under her skirt. I smiled back at her and rested my hand on her upper thigh. We ordered a drink. Then a shot. Then another drink. We spent all night throwing back shots of Captain Morgan, engulfed in the beauty of one another. With every shot we took, the more beautiful and vibrant she became and i couldn’t contain myself anymore. I pulled her into me and whispered into her ear,
“I want to fuck you in the women’s bathroom right now!” I guided her from behind, cupping her ass the whole way to the bathroom.
“You know Hank doesn’t like this idea at all,” I could hear Sego’s concern from the other side of my mind. “Maybe we should turn around and go home.”
“Nonsense. We are staying. Right Hank?”
No response.
“That’s what I thought. We are staying so fuck off!”
Iddy always had a way to win me over. He was my pleasure driven, thrill seeking, childlike mind. He was charming, he was creative, but he was also very impulsive and irrational. With my pants around my ankles and her naked ass backed up into my cock in that bathroom stall, Iddy slipped into a deep dark fantasy about this woman.
“Don’t move,” Iddy screamed shoving the 9MM into her temple. “If you so help me god even open your mouth I’ll shoot.”
Iddy had one hand over her eyes and his belt wedged into her mouth which he was pulling with his other hand. He thrust himself inside her. Clap. Clap. Clap. The sound of her ass cheeks hitting his thighs echoed throughout the stalls. The stench of vomit and blood circled the air under his nose and made its way up his nasal passage. He inhaled and let out a brief, “Ah” then moved his hand from her eyes to her throat and gripped it until the flush on her face turned blush and then back flushed. He released himself inside of her right before her limp body hit the ground.
“You are so beautiful,” I whispered. I pulled my pants back up around my waist and buckled my belt. I tucked the straggling golden lock behind her ear and kissed her forehead. She slid her red panties up her calves and thighs, covering the parts of her body I couldn’t refuse. I lot up a cigarette and watched her freshen herself up in front of the mirror. After she was done reapplying her mascara, I walked her out of the bar.
As I laid in bed that night, the mistakes from the past two weeks flooded my mind like the red blood rushing down the hall in the scene from “The Shining”. With each consequence came a question. Why do I allow myself to listen to Iddy? Why is it that Iddy controls me? Why cant the three of us work together in balanced harmony? Why do we have to argue about each others existence? I make up this body. Why cant it just be me? felt like a little child. Life seemed worthless not being able to be myself, I stared at the gun, loading it and unloading it, over and over again.
“Hank. You don’t have to listen to him, ” Sego said. The compassion in her voice startled me. I put the gun down in my lap. “He is such a bad influence on us.”
Part of me knew that Sego was right. Actually, it was probably Sego who was telling me she was right. Iddy was causing a lot of harm in my life and there was something I needed to do about it.
“Sego, do you think i can get rid of Iddy?” I picked up the gun again and twirled it in my hands.
Sego paused for a brief moment, “You mean kill him?!” There was a hesitation in her
voice that made this idea sound catastrophic. “Killing is never the answer. We need to talk it through with him. Maybe he will come around.”
I did not want to hear that answer come out of Sega. I hated to say it but as much as I disliked Iddy, I despised Sego. Being the perfect one all of the time gets infuriating. It was so hard to be caught in between the characters of sociopathic freak and an innocent coward. I didn’t want to run around town offering my penis to any woman that moved, but at the same time I wanted to have some fun. Sacrifices were going to have to be made and I was going to have to be the one to make them. The night grew cold and I laid there, drawing out the possibilities in my head.
The next morning I woke up and did my normal routine. I showered, got dressed and made my way to the kitchen to make breakfast.
“Good morning Sego,” I smirked and set the plate on the table directly on my right side. “Good morning Iddy.” I set a plate to my left with some bacon and eggs on it. I grabbed the breakfast rolls out of the oven and set them in the middle of the table. “Eat them while they are warm.” I smiled at the two vacant chairs where the plates for Iddy and Sego lie, and went into the kitchen drawer, the third from the bottom and pulled out a boning knife.
“I hope you enjoy breakfast. I have a special dessert for you,” I was smiling from ear to ear, holding the knife tip up behind my back.
“I sure love bacon. Thank you Hank,” said Sego.
“I wanted a ham omelet with green onions and mushrooms,” Iddy barked at me.
“You will both get what you deserve. Eat up.” I said, still smiling.
I tucked the knife into my belt and turned to the hot stove. “Does anybody want seconds?” I stood there for a moment, still facing the stove and finishing the final arrangements of my plan in my head. I reached for a drink of my orange juice and I made my way over to the table to join my fellow two “mind mates”. Somewhere between the last two steps to the table, my eye sight blurred and I fell to the ground. Right before I closed my eyes into a deep sleep, I saw Iddy.
“You have been out for hours, master,” Iddy’s voice rang through my ears. I slightly opened my eyes and saw Iddy sitting in the chair eating Sego’s bacon. There was blood on his shirt and he was laughing hysterically. “I was getting worried about you.”
“Where is Sego?” I asked. I tried to move my hands to reach for the knife but it was missing.
“Looking for this?” said Iddy. He dangled the bloody knife over my head. “Ha. Ha. Ha. Doesn’t look like you are in control now.” He ran the blade across my cheek, leaving behind a tiny streak of red.
“What have you done with Sego?”
“I killed her! You should have seen the look on her face when i stabbed that knife through her throat.” Iddy was laughing and smiling at the thought. “That bitch couldn’t even speak her last words. And now it is your turn.”
“Hank. Hank. Are you there? 3.2.1”
I open my eyes and Doctor Gemy is sitting across from me. I feel my face to make sure it was still here. “What happened?”
“You were facing your demons. I’m so proud of you for taking this step.”
“I had the strangest dream,” I said, rubbing my head. I looked over at Doctor Gemy sitting in his chair waiting for me to speak my feelings. “I had three personalities. They were all out to get one another.”
“What happened?” said the Doctor.
A wave of relief came over me and I took a deep breath, “I guess I do exist after all.” I shook the Doctor’s hand and thanked him for his guidance. “Tell me one thing though” I asked right before I was about to leave his office.
“What is that?”
“Why do you have a P226 on your desk?”
*BANG. BANG.*
Misunderstood InSaNiTy 