3. Chapter 2
Chapter 2
Leon Aldon
I have wasted the last 20 minutes of my life in some fucked up staring contest with one of my patients.
His eyes haven't left me once as he babbles on about his antipsychotics not working anymore and the visions getting worse.
I can explain why, he stopped taking them.
He was warned by someone that his medication was tampered with and that someone had switched his prescription with poison.
That man doesn't exist.
It's a figment of his fucked up imagination, likely a man from a suppressed memory, someone who'd traumatized him as a kid, and he's never dealt with it.
Either way, we've been going in circles since he walked in, and I'm at a loss for what else I can say to him.
Normally I would have given up arguing with him. Clearly, he's not himself and he's bordering on being a threat to himself and society, but I fucking hate doing that.
Nothing ruins my day like having to commit someone.
I've seen those types of places; I've lived that life.
I've woken up to the painful and loud fluorescent lights shining in my face so harshly that my head felt like it was going to explode. I've dealt with the 30-minute bed checks to ensure you haven't somehow hung yourself despite wearing paper pants and not having a real blanket.
I've been pushed drugs that I didn't want or need just to dilute myself enough that the nurses didn't have to deal with me.
I hate putting people through that unless it's the only choice I'm given.
So, that means I'm stuck trying to reason with him to start taking his medication again.
That's just how I wanted my day to go: arguing with a paranoid schizophrenic.
“Lucas, I can assure you that your medication is safe. I have checked every single pill, nothing has been switched out.” I promise him, although I know my reassurance won't be enough for him.
That's the thing with paranoid schizophrenia, they're paranoid.
“Reed warned me you'd say that! I'm not allowed to trust you!” Lucas shouts.
A large part of me wants to shout back, to tell Lucas that Reed isn't real; he's a figment of his broken imagination, but that's not constructive and will crumble even more of the trust he has in me.
I let out the quietest of sighs, resting my ankle on the opposite knee so I could rest my notepad in my lap. "Would you feel safer if your medication was individually packaged? It would guarantee that nothing has been tampered with." I ask.
If I had thought about that in the first place, I wouldn't be dealing with this argument right now. I don't know how I forgot something so simple.
I went to college for 12 years, for fuck sake. I pride myself on being the best in the area, and I didn't give myself that title.
No, some uppity Houston magazine crowned me with not only the best psychiatrist in Texas, but also one of the hottest 35 under 35 in Texas.
Whatever the fuck that means.
All I know is that once the article came out, my books were flooded with consultations for kids.
Even if I worked with kids, I wouldn't have worked with these kids. They don't have problems; their mothers just want a chance with me that they'll never get.
Lucas stands up, pulling roughly at the hair on his head as he paces my office. “How am I supposed to trust you? You could put anything in the bottle!” He shouts.
Fuck.
I hate committing people, but it seems like it's where we are.
I wish I could say that my day only went up from there, but I'd be lying if I did.
My next patient, an intelligent young girl, ruined her own life with her distorted body image. She allowed the opinions of others to destroy her self-confidence until she felt as if her only option was to starve herself to be viewed as beautiful.
Even worse, her mother enabled this behavior. She allowed it to happen until her daughter reached the point of hospitalization and her father finally stepped in, but I'll help her.
Before leaving for the day, I followed my usual checklist: I set my office phone to forward emergency calls to my cell phone, double-checked all of my appointments for tomorrow, and checked with my receptionist to make sure she hadn't received any mail or calls that weren't forwarded to me.
I don't even know why I check with her every day. She's been my assistant for four years and has never once disappointed me.
Even when I was a nobody, she was there. When I was a small psychiatrist in a shitty office building on the wrong side of town, she was there and just as cheery as she is now that I'm the most sought-after psychiatrist in all of Texas.
I went from almost begging for patients to being so good that I owned my practice and employed four other doctors and countless therapists.
I've worked harder than most people my age, sacrificing my personal life to make myself a success, but the money is worth it.
Plus, I don't hate being alone.
On nights like tonight, when my brain and body are exhausted, I'd hate to come home and cook a meal for myself and a partner.
No, on nights like tonight, I'm grateful that I can just order takeout and eat it on my front porch with a large glass of bourbon.
I usually prefer to cook, I don't keep the physique I have by living on takeout and liquor, but when all your day does is get progressively worse, it's inevitable.
I wonder if I have a frozen pizza at home?
No. Fuck. I ate that last week when I heard about my new patient killing herself.
She and I had yet to get a single appointment in, she'd rescheduled me twice.
It worried me that something was wrong, so I called her and begged her to come in and see me. I even offered to do a house call if being outside scared her.
She agreed to come in, but she never made it to the office. Someone or something triggered her PTSD, it sent her down a spiral that led her to her death.
Even though she was never technically my patient, I feel as if failed her. If I could've gotten to her sooner, if I could've talked to her more, or made a house call rather than had her come to me.
All the what-ifs are sitting in my mind, but I can't think like that, not in my line of work.
It will do nothing but haunt me if I obsess over every patient who doesn't survive.
Fuck it, I'm stopping for takeout.
I wanted to wait until I at least got off campus, but I'm starving and something smells fantastic.
Still, it's not really worth dealing with college kids.
I didn't even attend this school, yet I hate these kids. I attended college in Austin, but all college kids are the same. Loud, disruptive, entitled, and naive.
But the food is always good. Campus restaurants usually have the cheapest and most unusual options.
I park at one of the meters and head inside, forcing myself to ignore how busy and loud this place is.
Most of the kids are on their computers, typing away without a care in the world while the rest of them are sitting in groups talking, laughing, and fucking off.
Either my tolerance for kids is pretty high today, or they're not actually that bad right now.
Whatever, I just want to get out of here.
I head to the counter, waiting in a line behind at least five people. That's fine; it gives me time to check the emails that I neglected this morning.
Nothing major, a few consultation requests, a few requests for me to evaluate criminals trying to claim insanity, and a ton of spam messages.
The usual shit, but it gives me something to focus on rather than all the young adults surrounding me or the crappy music playing a little too loudly.
I scan the menu when I am the second one in line, vowing to try something new. It's the only reason I go to places like this.
They have all kinds of shit that I never would have put together.
It seems like almost anything can go on top of macaroni and cheese or a baked potato, and everything can be made into a grilled cheese.
Kids eat weird.
But I guess so do I since I drove here.
When it's my turn, I decide on an order of pulled pork mac and cheese. Based on the picture, it's loaded with slow-roasted pork, house-made BBQ sauce, crispy fried onions, fried jalapenos, and spicy queso.
I also ordered a pimento cheeseburger with bacon and onion rings on top.
It’s not my usual menu, I prefer to eat healthy enough to maintain my physique with regular trips to the gym, but, like I said, this wasn't a regular day.
This hadn't been a regular week.
I want to binge out on my front porch with a few shots of bourbon until I can't feel my face.
While I wait for my food, I feel the woosh of air from the door opening.
Of course, it had opened about a dozen times, but this time, I felt the overwhelming need to turn around and look. My body was acting on its own before I could even register why I cared.
And fuck I'm glad I did.
This goddess of a young woman walks in as I spin around. I don't know if it's her or the setting sun behind her, but she looks angelic.
Long honey-brown hair hangs down her back in some sort of thick braid, but a few pieces have fallen out to frame her slender and tanned face.
Her skin looks flawless, perfectly tan, and littered with gorgeous sun-kissed freckles like some sort of beach goddess.
Even from here, I can see her warm honey eyes shining bright in the sun and highlighting a range of browns.
While she may look thin, she has a slight curve to her waist and her legs seem to go on for miles. Even her small, perky breasts seem to fit her body perfectly.
Fuck, she looks amazing.
She looks like she doesn't belong here just as badly as me, just for a whole different reason.
She's wearing a pair of ripped-up jean shorts, suede ankle boots, a white tank top with some older band written on the front, and an almost bohemian-style long-sleeve cover made of lace that hangs down past her shorts.
She looks like someone who would've been at a festival in the '70s or someone you'd find in the woods casting a spell to the moon or something like that.
Nothing like my usual type of woman. I prefer women in formal clothes, business attire, high profile women that have to pencil you in for dates but fuck you in the back of their fancy car.
So why can't I stop staring at this young woman?
Not only is she far too young for me, but she's not my type. She looks like she's the type of girl to grill me about eating a steak because of how cute cows are. She looks like the type to have a house full of plants and candles, probably one who would yell at me for not driving a hybrid car.
I wish that would deter me, but it doesn't. I can't stop staring.
She's captivating.
Even when she's doing just about everything in her power not to make eye contact with anyone, most of the guys in this shithole are staring at her, and I doubt the girl even notices that they're tracing their eyes up her mile-long legs until they're practically drooling over her ass in those fucking shorts.
I shouldn't even be surprised when this girl gets up to the counter and starts telling the cashier about cross-contamination or something.
I'm trying so hard not to listen in, but she orders stir-fried vegetables with rice noodles. She specifies no meat, no eggs, no gluten.
So she's one of those types. I knew she wasn't my type, but I still want to talk to her.
I want to ask her name and her number or just drag her out to my car before either one of us gets the chance to eat. I want to pull her out of this cafe before any other man has the chance to stare at her for too long.
But I know that's a terrible idea. This woman would drive me absolutely mad, in the best and worst ways.
Luckily, some stereotypical southern girl in fucking cowboy boots comes over and drags this bombshell away from me before I crack and talk to her.
It's for the best. I don't need the distraction, and that gorgeous woman would definitely cost me a few hours of sleep.