Chapter 3
Felix
My father has a Napoleon Complex—which is a polite way of saying small-dick syndrome.
Like my bedroom, his office is plastered in gold leaf with gaudy chandeliers and lighting fixtures.
The entire mansion looks like an Elvis-themed wedding chapel with a dash of Marie Antoinette.
When he was elected Mayor, a fortune was spent redecorating the Mayor’s Mansion to compensate for his fragile ego.
He drums his fingers against his oversized desk while looking at me with disdain.
The feeling is very mutual.
A team of psychiatrists sits on either side of him, bracing themselves for our bi-weekly check-in because nobody ever knows how to start these meetings.
After I found my mother, I spent the two weeks following oscillating from hysterics to full-throated rage. It was when I wandered into the garden and dug a six-by-six-foot hole that a cavalry of doctors was summoned.
Yes, I admit, the spectacle was a bit on the nose, and I regret my lack of originality, but it wasn’t like I was at my creative best, for God’s sake.
I remember the house staff slowly exiting the mansion and watching me fulfill my mission. I can’t tell you why digging a giant hole in the backyard felt correct, but it just did. The pain and rage were boiling within, and I knew if I didn’t do something with it, I’d end up exploding.
My father blew a gasket. The only words I could make out from the hole, which I’d hopped into by the time he came barreling out of the house, were, “The media!”
Naturally, he’d be more worried about the story getting out than the fact that his son was literally digging his own grave.
The groundskeeper lifted me from the hole, and twenty-four hours later, the team of doctors that sits before me was summoned.
“How are you feeling today, Felix?”
Doctor Franklin speaks slowly, as if speaking at a normal pace would startle me into a Victorian fainting spell.
Fetch the smelling salts!
“I’m feeling much better, thank you.”
Lies. I feel fucking awful, but that won’t get me out of this meeting any faster.
Father looks on with cold annoyance. He wants this meeting to end as much as I do, but he also wants to ensure I’m not a liability.
Especially with an election just months away.
We stare at each other, a nonverbal standoff between two men who were probably mortal enemies in a past life.
Doctor Franklin continues, “And the medication? How are they making you feel?”
Fine, because I’m not taking them. “They make me feel a little fuzzy, but I think that’s normal, right?” I ask.
After my gripping performance as grave digger 1, I was put on a slew of meds. When I said I wanted to take a year off from school, I was put on even more.
The first batch made me feel really bad, and the additional pills made me feel downright deranged. My dreams became horrifying, and I started hallucinating. Doctor Franklin assured me that it was normal for the first few weeks.
I just couldn’t take it, though. So, I spit them out and do the emotional equivalent of bareback sex, I guess.
Just raw-doggin’ these feelings here.
Another doctor named Doctor Brighton? I don’t remember, honestly. They all have generic, nondescript names that blur together. Anyway, that doctor asks, “Are you still having vivid dreams? Last time we met, you spoke about the nightmares you were having.”
Boy, am I ever, babe. “No, they’ve gone away. I think the dreams were just a byproduct of the shock.”
Generic doctor number three asks, “How about impulse control? Are you feeling… Well, are you feeling…”
His voice trails off, trying to decide which term is best to use at this moment.
“I feel fine,” I assure them.
Let’s get this over with.
It’s all a farce anyway. It’s not about me; this is to ensure that I don’t become a nuisance for my father’s re-election campaign.
“Are you sure you’re not feeling any discomfort? Thoughts of dread? Suicide?”
The last word cuts like a knife, and my hackles rise. “No,” I say more pointedly than I mean to. I’ve learned the hard way that snark doesn’t end these meetings any faster.
“We just want to make sure that you’re feeling alright, Felix.” Doctor Franklin speaks in a tone that is equal parts placating and patronizing.
My father continues looking at me like I’m nothing, lower than dirt, and I snap. “If you care so much about how I’m feeling, then why can’t I actually talk to a therapist? Why do you keep shoveling medication down my throat rather than letting me talk to someone?”
Father slams his fist against the desk and yells, “And how would you know what would help? Are you a doctor now?”
“Are you?” I scream back at him. When I asked to do talk therapy, my father lost his mind. He was convinced that everything I told the therapist would get leaked. I told him about patient confidentiality, but he wouldn’t hear of it.
I think he was just ashamed. Taking pills is one thing, but actually talking about feelings is just beyond the pale for a toxic piece of shit like him.
Father’s face turns crimson, and his fists clench. “There’s nothing to talk about. You don’t need to talk to anybody. You need to take your medication and move on. Once the drugs settle, you’ll be okay.”
“Mother wasn’t okay! She took all of those pills and look what she did!”
“Well, your mother was weak,” he bellows, rising to stand. “No son of mine would do something that pathetic.”
I stand as well, and almost lunge across the table, but fear takes over. All my life, I’ve wanted to pummel this man, but I’m also terrified of him.
My father and I stand there, face-to-face, each one of us shaking with rage. I can’t do it. I can’t be in this house with him anymore. “I’m taking my pills. I’m doing everything that you want. May I leave now?”
The doctors turn toward my father. Another mini stare-off ensues, followed by his hand waving my dismissal.
I can’t leave fast enough, and I emerge from the mansion and stumble into the front courtyard.
Once I’m outside, I take a deep breath before whisper-screaming.
If I really scream, the asshole might come out.
The sky is grey, matching my soul, and I decide to walk.
My body feels invisible, like a specter who’s just meandering about, waiting to arrive at some unknown destination.
My feet move, but my mind is somewhere else. I just walk and walk and walk.
Before long—it could have been hours for all I know—I realize I’m in the Patch, staring at a red sign that reads Maggie’s Diner.