Chapter 20
chapter
twenty
“They ask if I'm hearing voices. I am. They're just my own, screaming at me to run.” – Cyrus
CYRUS
This room smells like antiseptic and loneliness, but under that is an odd hint of something obnoxiously sweet like frosting on a cake. The chair beneath my ass is just uncomfortable enough to remind me I’m not here by choice.
But if I want out of this jail of white walls, then I need to talk to the psychiatrist. Mandatory BS. Bunch of idiots. If I want to take my life, I’ll just swallow the entire bottle of pills and then chug a bottle of whiskey before locking myself in the bathroom when no one is looking for me.
Why fuck around with one pill when I’ll be on stage, and everyone is looking for me? I’m not a cry for help, stupid or suicidal. But alas…here I sit.
I’ve been here for five minutes alone with a table, two chairs, no windows, and blank walls meant to help me focus.
Instead, they only make my brain feel like there is a squirrel on ecstasy spinning around inside my skull.
Apparently, Dr. Stevens is running behind, that, or he doesn’t give a shit that every second alone in here makes my heart race and my palms sweat as terror grabs me by the throat.
My knee bounces, and I could really go for a smoke right about now.
Fuck I hate these rooms. Calming? Sure, and I’m the Easter Bunny.
It’s like they’ve dumped me in the movie Cube.
It’s too clean, industrial flat white walls.
I’m as imprisoned as the people in the film, and answering one question wrong is the worst kind of trap.
Unlocking my phone, I send Haven a text.
Cyrus: Hey
Haven: Hey?
Cyrus: What are you doing?
Haven: Jello fighting, it’s my new pastime.
I smirk.
Cyrus: What flavor?
Haven: Raspberry, of course.
Cyrus: I will give up my very last dime to see that.
Haven: Ha! You can’t afford the price of admission.
Cyrus: LOL. Sure, I can. I have secret inside help.
Haven: Oh, really? And who is that?
Cyrus: Really, and I can’t say, or it won’t be a secret anymore.
Haven: I assume that Declan told you that you’re still on tonight?
I sigh, feeling the weight of my life pressing in on me.
Cyrus: Yeah, he told me. Guess I’ll see what the shrink says.
Haven: Speaking of which, why are you texting? Aren’t you in evaluation?
Cyrus: He’s running late. Want to help me escape? They say I’m really good at pretending to be dead. You can just wheel me out with a sheet covering me.
Haven: Not funny, Cy. Really not funny.
Cyrus: Come on, that was a little funny.
Haven: No, it’s not. I was scared out of my mind.
It’s terrible of me, but I’m happy she was scared.
It means that, as much as she denies it, there is still that thing between us.
That pull…charge…cosmic whatever the hell it is.
From the first day we met, it’s been sitting there, simmering under the surface.
Always drawing us together, no matter how hard we fight.
If I believed in destiny, then I might say some shit like “It’s all God’s plan,” or “Everything happens for a reason.” But I don’t. You can’t tell me that God killed my father and Haven’s mother so that we could meet…nope. If he did…I never want to meet him.
Cyrus: Fine, it’s not funny. Is my mother gone?
Haven: No. The She-Devil is staying here with my father until tomorrow night. So, prepare thyself for yet another round of Dodge the Witch.
I can’t help the snort that comes out. It’s sad, but true.
Half of our problems stem from my mother, and the rest…
well, the rest is all me. It has taken me a long time to accept that my mother is not a good person.
I will always love her because she is my mother, but that doesn’t mean I have to like her.
Cyrus: LOL! Hey, that’s my mother.
Haven: And??? It’s still true. She is…a…lot.
Cyrus: She is that. I’m actually surprised you didn’t say bitch.
Haven: I was tempted but trying to be nice.
Man, it feels good just to be. Haven makes me feel normal.
Fuck this Charles guy. I will have Haven.
The first step is acknowledging the problem.
In this case, I’ve always known the problem is Haven, or I guess my screwed-up emotions.
Nothing like a little near-death experience to give me a slap upside the head.
The next step is commitment. And I’m fucking committed to getting back what’s mine.
Cyrus: Listen, we need to talk. Specifically, about when I woke up.
Haven: Don’t worry about it. It has been really stressful, and you were confused and scared. Totally understandable. It’s already forgotten.
I press my lips together. That’s not what I want to say. I don’t want her to forget that I almost told her I fucking love her. My thumbs hover over the letters…shit.
The door opens, and Dr. Stevens walks in holding a folder, obviously filled with notes all about me and how I’m a screw-up.
Cyrus: The doctor is here. TTYL
Stevens looks at me while pushing his glasses back up his nose. I cross my arms and return the stare.
“Thanks for finally showing up,” I say as he sits down.
“There are other patients in the hospital, Mr. Johnson.”
I cringe at the name.
“Well, we’re off to a terrible start. Don’t call me that. Call me Cyrus, Vale, Mr. Vale, or Asshole. But not Johnson. Never Johnson.”
He sets the folder down and places his hands on it as if it’s top-secret material.
“Interesting.”
“Oh, great…here we go with the interesting. That was record time. I’m not your lab rat. Can we get on with the eval? This patient has somewhere else to be.”
His expression remains neutral as he opens the file, never taking his eyes off of me. I hate when they do this. It’s like they are watching every single move I make, just waiting for me to fuck up.
“Well, you’ve answered my first question. You do, in fact, remember your name.”
“That is your lead in question? Weak,” I say, and settle back into my chair.
“Do you know where you are or what day it is?”
I blink at him.
“Are you serious?” He nods. “Those are the stupidest questions I’ve ever been asked, and that is saying a lot, considering.”
“Why do you feel the appropriate response is to be angry about the question, instead of just answering it?”
“Because you’re wasting my time. I don’t appreciate it when people do that.” He continues to stare at me. “Reno, hospital, and I never know what day of the week it is. But if I have to guess, it’s the weekend since I was singing last night. If I did know, then I’d be faking it.”
“Cyrus, can you tell me why you’re here?”
“Because hospitals love making money, and someone thought I tried to off myself with pills and a mic drop.”
He makes a note. Probably underlined it twice.
“I’m hearing frustration,” Stevens says.
“You think? Wow, you are good. No fooling you, doc.”
He’ll write me off as some head case and hand me more pills. It’s already there in his eyes. The automatic assumption is what pisses me off. The blatant disregard for the fact that I said from day one that I don’t think my issue is my addiction.
But, oh no, they know better. The doctors are the ones with the fancy piece of paper on the wall that says they do.
Doesn’t matter that I tell them I remember symptoms before I got myself into trouble with party drugs and landed in rehab.
Doesn’t matter that I know my body better than they do.
All they care about is being right. Finding a box to shove me in so they can check me off their list and move on with their day.
I’m a number, a dollar sign, and nothing more.
“Cyrus, you took medication and not the way it was prescribed. If you had, then you wouldn’t be in this situation.”
“You don’t know that,” I say, shaking my head at him
“What I know is that if you don’t start taking this seriously, you’ll end up with a complimentary psychiatric forty-eight-hour hold. Then, I can get to know you better.”
Fear races down my spine, my body instantly breaking out in a cold sweat. The last thing I want, or need, is to stay here in this hospital, locked up in a cell. No. Not happening.
I sigh and give in.
“What do you want to know?”
“Did you take any of your morning medications with your evening medications?”
“No,” I say. “And yes, I’m sure.”
“Did you take anything with your medication that wasn’t prescribed?”
“Like what,” I ask, pinching the bridge of my nose.
“Over-the-counter meds, alcohol, or recreational drugs?”
I smile and push myself up to pace the small room. I just want out.
“Cyrus? You have a history. This is not an unreasonable question.”
My jaw ticks.
“History is the keyword in that sentence. I haven’t touched any hardcore party drug since I was released. I occasionally smoke, have a beer, and yes, I’ve smoked a joint from time to time. But I don’t make it a habit to do any of that with my meds.”
He makes another note. The sound of the pen scribbling across the paper is annoying me. I want to know what he’s writing down.
“Did you take your medication as directed?”
“Yes. I had a small meal and took my meds with the food an hour before I went on stage.”
“Any alcohol?”
“Half a beer with my meal.”
“You’re not supposed to have any.”
“What part of being a rockstar don’t you understand?” He glares at me. “Fine, I won’t do it again. But you wanted the truth, and I’m giving it to you. I had half a beer with dinner.”
“Please sit.”
I’m about to argue, but instead I walk over and drop down onto the hard chair.
“Thank you. Are you getting eight hours of sleep a night?”
I burst out laughing, but his expression doesn’t change.
“Oh, you’re serious? I haven’t slept through the night or had more than four hours at a time since I was ten.”
He scribbles again.
“You seem to have been through multiple diagnoses since you left rehab. Can you tell me about your recent diagnosis?”
The walls feel like they are closing in, and I stand up to pace again.
“You have my file, read it for yourself,” I growl.