Husk
Psychiatry was my last resort.
I was tired of being followed.
I entered Dr. Lowman’s office, late for my appointment.
It had been one of those days, they seemed more frequent lately; the
kind of day where people stare you down like a wound. Even the secretary
treated me this way, not looking me in the eye, but past me - as if
I was a vagrant unworthy of common pleasantries. She was reluctant to
admit me into the doctor’s study, where I sit now, on a large,
fake and cold leather couch.
An antique door opens off to the right, too old and out of place for
a contemporary office like this.
“Good afternoon!” Dr. Lowman strides briskly into the room,
resembling a T.V. lifeguard more than a psychiatrist. He looks past
me. A frown comes over his well-chiseled face.
“Jonathan Bigby, correct?”
“Yes.” I say, trying to look him square in the eyes. Perhaps
I have something embarrassing on my face.
The doctor sits down, sifting through a variety of papers in a wood-colored
envelope. He seems nervous, too nervous for a shrink.
“Ah, ok then, why don’t you just lie back and relax?”
I do, preferring to sit a bit more upright than the doctor seems accustomed
to.
“So what’s the problem, Mr. Bigby?”
“I feel like I’m being followed, or going crazy, hopefully
you can…”
“Hold on, lets start at the beginning. I want you to relax.”
I do so the best I can, more a mental adjustment than a physical one.
“Good.” He takes an obnoxiously long deep breath. “Now,
tell me your oldest memory, Jonathan.”
I think back, way back. I see images through stained glass. I hear wind
blowing through wooden holes.
I wait. The doctor scribbles in his notepad with ferocious intensity,
odd considering I haven’t said anything for a minute or two. Finally
it came to me.
“It began when I started speaking. Before that it’s just
images and sounds.”
“That’s very common, Jonathan. Tell me about it,”
the doctor says, his eyes grow more concerned each minute.
I focus as hard as I can, gathering the details.
“It was a show,” I say, “a performance, everyone was
clapping.”
The doctor leans forward, his scribbling continues without the aid of
his eyes. “Perhaps it was a school play?”
I frown.
This didn’t seem right. No, it was something else. I change the
subject.
“For as long as I can remember, my voice has always been changing.
Not the prepubescent switch that others talk about, but it really changes.”
The doctor smiles a condescending smirk.
“When was the first time you noticed this?”
“It was after an accident. I awoke, and my voice was much higher
in pitch.” As I talk, my memory seems to be in overdrive, able
to remember more each second.
“Car accident?” the doctor ventures, his scribbles ongoing,
the smirk gone.
“A fall,” I reply. “I was young. I think it was my
father. He dropped me.”
“Was it serious?” Dr. Lowman shifts uneasily in his chair.
“I mean, were you hospitalized?”
I wait to respond, feeling an odd sense of power over the doctor’s
uneasiness.
Finally I say, “I don’t know. I woke up after a long sleep,
in a new house. It was then that I noticed my voice change.”
The doctor squirms as if he’d just been threatened.
I’m growing angry; he refuses to look me in the eyes. Finally
I say something.
“Why won’t you look at me? Is it a client-patient breach,
some doctor’s rule?” I’m shouting. It startles us
both.
More scribbles.
I wait.
He changes the subject as well as his position on the chair.
“So you fear you’re being followed?”
Idiot.
This must be part of the game. He’s marking his mental territory
as the terrier did to me earlier. I’m sure I still stank of dog
urine.
I’m here to get help, I remind myself. Playing mind games with
doc isn’t going to make me feel any better. I should see where
this is going.
“Jonathan?”
“Yes,” my mouth closes fast in response, sounding like the
meeting of two wooden blocks.
“Yes,” I say again, “being followed.”
The doctor leans back, more in control.
“Do you recognize the person?”
“I can’t focus on him. I think it’s a man.”
The doctor smiles. “Is he here now?”
I had hoped it wouldn’t come to this. I hate checking for the
presence behind me. Each time I do, I fall further from reality.
Play the game, Jonnie. I look back, using my eyes, due to my neck not
working well after the accident.
“Yes.” I whisper. “He’s directly behind me.
He always is.”
Scribbles.
A long time passes. The scribbles continue.
Finally the doctor stops and stares at me.
Directly at me.
His eyes suddenly dart to where they had been all morning, then quickly
back to me; again and again he does this - prompting me to look at the
presence behind me.
I do not. I shake my head, unwilling to play the game any further.
Dr. Lowman sighs. He bends toward his desk and opens a drawer. When
he straightens in his chair, he’s holding a mirror in one hand
and a phone in the other.
“Suzie,” he calls to the receiver, “restraints, please.”
His voice is cold and removed. He hangs up and walks around his desk,
still holding the mirror, tapping his shoulder with it gently. He leans
back, sitting on the front of the oak desk sarcophagus while biting
his lower lip.
A door behind me opens, and before I can react, I feel a pressure similar
to being held under water. Something is very wrong. I feel trapped,
confined to a prison I cannot see but can definitely feel.
“I hoped it wouldn’t come to this, Jonathan, but your stubbornness
leaves me no choice.”
I try to run, to bolt upright and flee, but my body will not respond.
Realities shift. My vision blends from two perspectives. Nausea sweeps
through me and then…
Infinite stillness.
I fall down hard. It takes a long time to hit the wooden floor beneath
me. Something big falls on me, crushing my neck, my head askew.
I see my back.
I see a filthy, ragged man pulling on my spine.
No.
It isn’t my spine.
It is his arm.
I crumble like a bellows.
As the life withdraws from me, Dr. Lowman kneels down, holding a mirror
to my face. His hand feels so warm.
Time slows. He gazes down, his smile eternal.
Horror consumes my last sight: a pale, stiff visage of porcelain, eyes
empty and cold. I stare back from within the mirror.
The end.
