“Can you see it Michael? Is it with us now?” came the soft voice of The Woman.
Across from her, in a reasonable brown leather chair, sat a tired-looking middle-aged man. He hunched down, avoiding eye contact and picked at the hem of his plain yellow shirt. “Do you think I'm crazy?”
The Woman was younger than him, with red horn-rimmed glasses and an expression of empathy that she steam-rolled onto her face a few minutes before he entered the room. “Do you think you're crazy?”
Mike shrugged. “I already know what I think. And I asked first.” Childish is the word that popped immediately into his mind, but then he corrected himself – it's only considered childish by people who find themselves on the opposing end and don't want to answer. He only half believed that.
“Fair enough.” The Woman leaned back in her chair, clicked her tongue gently against her teeth, and then spoke with a practiced caution, “I think crazy is relative. If half the population of the country suddenly started seeing monsters, then it would make more sense for something bigger to be going on. When it's just one individual, then it becomes more of a concern with the safety of that individual and the people around them.”
“Like that individual's child,” Mike returned bitterly, before he could catch himself.
The Woman nodded, “We don't want to hurt you, Michael. You're here to help you and to help Stacey. That's part of why we began your medication. How is that going for you, by the way?”
Mike resisted the urge to make a face, reminded of the revolting powder-blue tablets that he had sucked down three times a day for the past four months. Instead, he offered a small placating smile, “Going fine.”
The Woman returned the smile through thin auburn lips, and Mike could feel a tiny swell of pride at gaining her approval, then an immediate feeling of disgust at himself. As far as he was concerned, she was an empty corporate face, paid to fake care while placing judgment on him.
“So,” she continued, “As I asked earlier, can you see it? Is it with us now?”
Mike contemplated, then regarded the large catapiller-like creature that rested on the ceiling above her head. It moved with a lnguid slither, light reflecting off of it's green and orange scales, like the foil of a cheap glittery banner, and coiled itself into a better napping position. Several razor-tip spine-needles crackled as they
pressed together, moving like humans doing The Wave at a hockey game.
Without a term to call it by, Mike had hap-haphazardly named the creature Meredith – after his grandmother, who used to spit a lot and threaten to beat him with a ladle. She was dead now, frail body not measuring up to her wildfire personality and succumbing to Parkinson's related issues at the age of 74. There was no love lost between the two. Mike attended the funeral out of social obligation and the opportunity to sneak his grandmother's ladle into her coffin, amused at the idea of her using it to beat little demons over the head with it in hell.
“No.” Mike's word seemed to echo off the walls of the small office and reverberate back to his own ears, as if the room was offended and trying to throw the lie back into his face. “The pills are amazing. I haven't seen the monster in weeks.”
You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.
The Woman nodded, and scribbled out notes onto her yellow-papered writing pad. “I'm glad,” she stated, and it was sincere – if not for Mike's sake, but for the sake of progress and winning, as if she held some personal investment in the powder-blue pill.
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“Your clothes.” The Large Man shoved a grocery bag toward Mike, who didn't mind the force or disassociated attitude. Mike was being set free and the feeling made him so giddy that even if the Large Man
threw the bag and scattered underpants in tiny scraps all around the foyer like so much discarded confetti, Mike would happily dance to the far corners to fetch it.
He took his precious bundle to the changing area- the special change area for outpatients, he reminded himself with glee -and had an arm out of the shirt before he even closed the door to privacy.
The shirt was a pale yellow scrub shirt and the equally pale yellow scrub pants came off just as fast. Jeans were the first on, and Mike didn't realize how much he missed them until he pulled the scratchy-soft
denim up around his waist and did the button. He was surprised how well they still fit.
The shirt was less of a glorious experience, since the material was similar to the scrub clothing, but it was softer and the black color was a welcome comfort. It was a conscious decision to not clean the scrub clothes from the change room floor. As soon as they were discarded, Mike made a self-promise that he'd never touch them again.
Beyond clothing, he had a green plastic wallet with IDs and Driver's License, all expired. All with renewals on their way through the mail to his forwarding address. He had a few hundred in cash, but declined to count it and the spare key to an SUV that hadn't been his in years.
“Can I use the phone?” Mike asked the Large Man. “For a drive.”
Without even a glance, the Large Man replied, “Phone isn't for public use.”
Mike nodded. He didn't even care, the denial was lost in the infinite echo of the word public and Mike reveled in how he was now again, a member of that. The public. The people on the outside, who weren't here. Who got to live their lives beyond white walls and yellow note paper and blue powder pills.
“There's a payphone outside the entrance.” The Large Man was kind enough to exchange a fiver for some change that included quarters and Mike took his first step outside Wentworth Valley Mental Institution in three and a half years.
The air was heavy and humid, and the pollen from the changing of the seasons made Mike's nose begin to leak, and it was glorious.
The payphone was where the Large Man had promised. Mike practically ripped the reciever off, shoving it into place between his jaw and shoulder, fed the box a pair of quarters and punched in the number.
It was almost seven rings before Lana Greaves answered the phone, with a wobbly, “Yes, hello?” And a short sniffle, which Mike marked down to the cost of seasonal allergies. It was one of the many things they used to have in common.
The words took a moment and then melted out of Mike's mouth like fine chocolate. “Lana. It's Mike.”
The phone was dead silent.
And then a flurry of words so quick that Mike was startled and almost dropped the phone receiver. “Oh my God, Mike! That's today? Are you let out today? I thought it was still going to be a week or two, and I haven't...” Lana's words trailed away, as her brain caught up with her mouth and the next words were so full of dread that it gave him chills. “Oh, Mike.”
“What's the matter?”
“Mike, I'm so sorry.”
“It's no big deal,” Mike didn't even try to keep the smile out of his voice. “How is Stacey? Can I see her? I wanna see her. I want to go straight from here and see her, first thing. Put her on the phone, I want to say hi, to tell her that Daddy is coming to see her. At her house. Right now.”
“I can't.”
“Why not?”
The phone cracked, but maybe that was Lana's voice instead, “Tell you what. I'll drive over and pick you up. Then I'll take you over to see her, yeah?”
“That's perfect. That's great. I'll see you soon.”
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