Chapter 39 - HARPER-RAYN #2
Amelia and I chat for a little while, and I’m grateful when she doesn’t push me for details about what went down to land me in a psych ward, and soon enough her pager sounds, dragging her away.
“Ahh shit,” she mutters, scooping up what’s left of her lunch.
“Gotta run, but if you’re still here tomorrow, I’ll check in. ”
She barely has a chance to say goodbye before she’s racing out the door, needing to get all the way back down to the trauma center to do her thing.
The door has barely finished swinging closed behind her when somebody else gently pushes it back open, a soft knock sounding on the door frame as they enter.
My gaze snaps back to the door to find the head of psych striding into my room, a clipboard braced in her hand, and a too cheery smile on her face.
Dr. Carzy, or as she’s better known among the residents, Dr. Crazy.
She’s the best of the best, top of her field, and it’s an honor to have her looking over my case, but I can’t help but wonder why they feel they need to send in the big wigs. Am I that messed up?
As if sensing that this is a private moment, Knight gets to his feet and offers me a small smile. “I’ll grab you some lunch.”
“Thanks.”
He disappears a moment later, leaving me alone with Dr. Carzy.
“Dr. Madden,” she says, making her way over to the end of the bed. “How’re you doing? It’s been a long time since I’ve had you on my service.”
I smile politely. There’s a good reason for that. I like to cut, and up here in the psych ward, we’re specifically encouraging people not to play with sharp objects. “Yeah, I’m doing my residency in forensic pathology, so when I’m not vacationing in the psych ward, I’m usually in the morgue.”
She immediately writes something down and it makes my stomach sink. “I see,” she says.
“That . . . uhhh, that was a joke,” I clarify, slightly panicked.
“Yes,” she says, offering another forced smile before shifting on her feet.
“I wanted to let you know how this was going to go and what you can expect. You’ve been placed on a seventy-two-hour hold where we are monitoring the state of your mental health and whether you are a danger to yourself or to others. ”
Seventy-two hours? More like a whole lifetime.
I shake my head. “I’m not suicidal, if that’s what you’re getting at,” I tell her. “So feel free to sign whatever forms you need to sign, and I’ll be on my way.”
Dr. Carzy watches me for a moment before her lips pull into a tight line.
“Wishful thinking. However, I’ll be the judge of that,” she eventually says.
“For today, we’ll mostly be monitoring you to make sure you don’t slip back into any of these psychotic episodes, and then you’ll meet with me again for a full psych evaluation to determine how your treatment plan will look moving forward. ”
“You make it sound so serious.”
“It is serious, Dr. Madden. The brain, while beautifully powerful, is also very complex, and it’s in your best interest to care for it properly,” she explains before walking around the side of my bed and lowering herself into one of the chairs.
“Now, I’ve heard reports on the events that have brought us here, but I’d like to hear your version of events. ”
My eyes widen. “All of it?”
“Yes, right from the beginning. And please,” she adds. “Don’t hold anything back. In order for me to assess you sufficiently, I need to know exactly what we’re dealing with and what the nature of these episodes have been.”
Crap. If she didn’t think I was insane before, she’s about to have a very rapid change of heart.
Taking a breath, I prepare myself to tell this woman, this colleague, that my subconscious has somehow developed a murderous fear kink that appears in the form of a sexy-as-sin stalker in a satanic mask who rails me while I try not to scream.
Fun times.
Knowing that holding back isn’t going to do me any favors, I dive straight into it, giving her every sordid detail of my moments with my stalker, starting right at the very beginning from when it was just a feeling of being watched.
I tell her about the carvings in the bodies, the words left on the heart, the black roses, and the unfortunate sexual encounter at the club.
I even pull up the side of my hospital gown and show her the letters carved into my skin, the very letters I somehow put there myself.
I don’t skip a single detail, telling her how I allowed him to touch me, how I welcomed it, even provoked it at times.
How when his hand closed around my throat, it excited me.
How the pain on the blade carving into my skin was alleviated by the feel of his fingers on my clit, and how despite having the clear image of Laith’s dead body circling my mind, I never told him no.
“How long ago did this begin?” she asks. “Has it been slowly building for months, or is this all very recent?”
I shrug and try to remember exactly when the first shiver ran down my spine. “It started the day before my mom’s anniversary dinner, so about four weeks ago,” I tell her.
“And has there been any other significant changes in your life? Work related? Relationships?”
My gaze flicks to the empty chair that Knight vacated as the doctor walked in.
“I mean, all that is new,” I tell her as she follows my gaze to Knight’s chair.
“He’s kinda my step-uncle, and if anyone finds out, it would throw both our worlds into chaos.
But having said that, I don’t think it’s related.
These episodes started happening before Knight and I got together. ”
Dr. Carzy nods. “I see, but as your relationship progressed, so did these episodes. They have escalated, become more volatile. Physical to the point of turning a blade on yourself. Now, I’m not saying that this may be the cause, or trigger, that has provoked these episodes.
I believe this is more of a sexual fantasy that is manifesting.
However, stress often plays a much bigger role in our mental health, no matter how big or little that stress may be. Anything can be a trigger.”
I give her a blank stare. “Are you telling me that screwing my step-uncle is literally sending me insane?”
“No, not in the slightest, Dr. Madden,” she says. “Just that the undue stress of maintaining a sexual relationship with a partner who might not be deemed appropriate may have aided in how quickly the manifestation of this stalker came on.”
“Well shit. Do I have to stop sleeping with him?”
“I cannot help you with that,” she tells me. “However, off the record, if you feel that you have a real future with this man, that he is ticking all your boxes and bringing you happiness and love, then you should hold on to that with everything you’ve got.”
I nod as I let out a heavy breath, my cheeks puffing out in the process. I know she’s right.
“Now,” Dr. Carzy says, getting right back on track. “Tell me how the masked stalker would appear to you.”
We talk for almost an hour when she finally decides that I won’t be a danger to myself or to anybody else and hands me a notebook along with a pencil.
“Now, I know us doctors aren’t always the best artists, however, I’d like you to draw your stalker, more specifically, his mask,” she tells me.
“In the meantime, I’m going to leave you be.
At this stage, you’re presenting with a mild case of psychosis.
I don’t believe we’re looking at anything long-term with regard to treatment.
However, I would like to get you started on some meds.
The good news is that you can recover from this.
With the right support system, regular therapy, and medication, you could be looking at a full recovery, but it is not easy.
It is not a short road. You will need to put in the work. You will need to show up for yourself.”
I nod, seeing that recovery far in the distance and wanting to grab it with both hands. “Whatever it takes,” I tell her. “I want to put this behind me.”
“Good. Now, over the next few days, I’ll check in and see how you’re doing and see if we can match you up with a therapist you gel with.”
“Oh,” I say, my eyes widening. “Don’t give me Dr. Manning. He’s a pretentious, cocky prick with an ego problem. Dr. Preston would be alright, I suppose. I don’t know much about her, but she’s always smiling. Actually, that might be an issue. Nobody is that happy.”
Dr. Carzy laughs and jots down a note. “Okay, I’ll reach out to Dr. Preston and see what her schedule is like. I don’t foresee any issues though.”
“Great.”
“Alright, I’ll leave you to your drawing,” she says, getting up from the chair and striding to the end of the bed before offering me one last smile.
“You don’t need to be scared, Harper. You’re in good hands here.
However, if you’re feeling anxious or have any questions, I’m only one call away.
You’ll have another psych assessment at the end of your seventy-two-hour hold, and following that, you’ll be free to go home. ”
“Thank you,” I say, feeling a weight lift off my shoulders at finally getting some answers.
Having the head of the psych ward confirm that you’re actually mentally unstable isn’t exactly the best news, but knowing for sure that the masked stalker never existed and that all that fear and grief he put me through wasn’t real is a relief.
Nobody died because of me. Nobody was hurt.
No lives ruined at my expense. Only my own, but with the right medication and therapy, I should be okay.
It didn’t go unnoticed that she never mentioned anything about how soon I can get back to normal life.
Is this like when you’re recovering from surgery and you’re stuck on the couch for six to eight weeks?
Or is it more like fill me up with meds and send me straight on my way with a smack to my ass?
Not wanting to dwell, I drop my attention to the notebook in my hands before turning to a new page.
I’m really not an artist. My drawing skills peaked in kindergarten, but nonetheless, I grip the pencil and bring it to the paper and start putting down on paper every line of his mask, every slight detail, the depth of his eyes beneath and hauntingly terrifying vampire fangs that would stare back at me.
Chills sail down my spine, and yet as I pluck the details straight out of my brain, peace settles over me.
He’s no longer just a figment of my imagination, he’s a shitty drawing in a random page of a notebook.
He’s nothing. He holds no weight. No purpose, and more than that, he will never be able to hurt me again.