Trish fiddled with her fingers and pulled on a hangnail with her teeth. “I told you last week, no.”
Dr. Hughes sighed and took her glasses off. “We both know that you have a history of not taking your medication. You’ve been home for six months now and seeing me twice a week every week. You need to not only start being honest with me but also yourself.”
Trish sighed and ripped off her hangnail, staring at the small pool of blood. “I don’t know what you want me to say. I thought you were supposed to be helping me here, not attacking me.”
“I’m not attacking you, Patricia. My job is to help you to be a productive member of society. I want to enable you to make your own decisions, live on your home, and be relatively happy. You need to be honest with me to feel better,” Dr. Hughes said; she stared at Trish.
Trish looked away from her, “I am being honest. I don’t know what you want me to say…” Trish trailed off; breathing quickly. Her head spun, and she felt dizzy. It felt as if she wasn’t getting any oxygen, her lungs fully depleted of air.
“Remember those breathing exercises I taught you a while back? We’re going to do them now. Breathe in deeply, hold for ten seconds, and release,” Dr. Hughes commanded as Trish hyperventilated.
“Breathe in, hold it, breathe out.”
Trish tried to comply. She held her breath for six seconds and released.
“Good. Again, breathe in, hold it, breathe out.” Dr. Hughes ordered.
Trish obliged and her breathing returned to normal.
“Good, thank you, Patricia. You did excellently. I want you to say anything that comes to your mind. How about we talk about something different? Have you gotten used to your arm yet?” Dr. Hughes asked as she smiled sweetly. Trish looked back over at her therapist and nodded as she eyed the jar of sweets on her desk.
Trish glanced down at the nub of her right arm, and she wiggled it. It was amputated right above the elbow, the scars light pink in tone. “It’s fine. I have gotten used to using my left hand for everything now. Instead of writing like a kindergartener, I can now right like a fifth grader!” Trish chuckled to herself.
Dr. Hughes smiled, “Have you made a decision yet on if you are going to allow the state to purchase you an artificial arm? I’ve heard they have become more comfortable and easier to use.”
Trish shrugged, “I know, but I’m not sure if I want to deal with it, ya know? I’d rather get used to just having one working arm. I don’t want to have to rely on a piece of metal to make my life easier. I want to rely only on myself.”
Dr. Hughes nodded and sighed. She put her brown rectangular glasses back on, fiddling with a fancy black pen that had her name engraved into it. “Is that why you won’t take your medicine? There is nothing wrong with taking medication, you know. You have been through a traumatic experience. You are a survivor. There is no shame in needing help.”
Trish rolled her eyes, “Dr. Hughes, please stop. You know I’m taking my medications, and you know that I do not hear any voices anymore. Can’t I heal on my own? Why is everyone telling me what I need to be doing instead of just listening to me?” She sniffled and used her nub to wipe a warm tear from her cheek. Trish knew that Dr. Hughes was just doing her best, but Trish didn’t care. She didn’t need her medication, so didn’t see the point in takin it. She knew she was being haunted and that she wasn’t schizophrenic. Sure, she may have had post-traumatic stress disorder with a hint of anxiety and depression, but that didn’t make her crazy.
“I do not want you to feel as though I am attacking you or pressuring you, Patricia. I just worry about you, and as your therapist, I have to make sure you’re following the directions that I give you, like taking your medication. I am here to help you get back on the road to lead a normal life. I’m not here to judge or pressure you,” Dr. Hughes said with disappointment written across her face.
“You and my mother are always against me. Shoving pills down my throat, running to my psychiatrist when you don’t believe me. I’m getting really tired of it. I don’t know how much longer I can deal with this.”
Dr. Hughes stared down at Trish. “Trish, are you thinking about stopping treatment?”
“I don’t have to tell you. You’ll know when I decide that my treatment is over,” she bit back.
“I think you could greatly benefit from my services as well as listening to your parents. What we all want is for you to be happy, healthy, and self-sufficient. We just have different ways of going about it,” Dr. Hughes said, her hands shook.
“I know that. But I want to do it my way for once. If that doesn’t work, then I’ll do it your way.” Trish said with finality.
Dr. Hughes nodded. “Alright, we will try it your way. I will no longer pressure you to use a mechanical arm, or anything else you may feel is pushing you in a direction that you do not want to go. But you will continue to take your medication. How does that sound? Do we have a deal?”
“Thank you, Dr. Hughes.”
Dr. Hughes smiled, “We still have thirty minutes on the clock. Tell me what all has happened since we met last week.”
“Well, I tried to call Katherine again, and she ignored my call. I have taken more walks outside. My mom has me volunteering at my old job since I’m not ready to go back to being a vet tech yet,” Trish coughed into her elbow.
“Let’s go through these one by one. Why did you call Katherine?”
“I know I told you last time that I was ready to let her go, but one night I got really…lonely. I just needed someone to talk to.” Trish answered as she fiddled with the hem of her hoodie.
“Did Katherine call you back?” Dr. Hughes quizzed.
“No, she didn’t. She ignored me as always,” Trish stated with a hint of agitation in her voice.
“Now, Patricia, I know you want Katherine to be there for you and possibly more, but I think that she has moved on. It was hard on her what happened to you, and she may not have enough emotional capacity or maturity to be able to be there for you in the way that you need.” Dr. Hughes explained gently, her voice softened into a whisper.
“I know, that’s what everyone says. But I am lonely, and I need someone to talk to,” Trish retorted.
“I understand, Patricia, I really do. Maybe right now isn’t the best time for you to be in a romantic relationship. Have you tried to make any friends?” Dr. Hughes rolled the candy around in her mouth.
“Yes, I have. I made a friend in the survivor’s support group you wanted me to join. I don’t go every Thursday, but I do go at least once a month. His name is James, and he’s pretty cool. We’ve been friends for a couple of months now. We went out to a Mexican restaurant last night,” Trish responded, a smile spreading across her face.
“That’s wonderful! I’m glad you’re making friends now. It is good to get out of the house sometimes. Now you said your mother made you start volunteering with animals, how do you feel about that?”
“I actually love it. Animals have always been my life, and you know how I feel about people versus animals. I think it might be a good thing for me to work with them again. They might help to clear my head,” Trish said as her mood elevated significantly. “I’m just not sure if I’m ready to return to my job as a full-time veterinary technician.”
“That’s fantastic. Go ahead and keep hanging out with James and volunteering. We will discuss how it went at your next session.” Dr. Hughes glanced at the red numbered clock hanging on the wall above Trish’s head. “It looks like our time is up. See you Thursday?” Dr. Hughes stood up. She smoothed her red-colored blouse and walked over to the door.
“Yes, I’ll be here,” Trish said as she gathered her leather frayed purse, and she slung it over her shoulder. She walked out of the office as Dr. Hughes quietly closed the door behind her. Trish knew that she couldn’t speak about what actually happened with anyone besides James. She tried when she was in the hospital and a little while afterward, but no one believed her, and it debatably ruined her life. They thoug
ht she was delirious with post-traumatic stress disorder or schizophrenia and just medicated her with anti-depressants and anti-psychotics, which she no longer took.
Trish hadn’t been on any medication for about three months now. She picked up her refills so that it would look like she was still taking the pills. She has been selling her anti-depressants for a little cash or trading them with James for weed.
Chapter Thirteen
S
he drove home, skipping lunch for the third time this week, and pulled into the garage. Her parent’s car was gone, so she knew they wouldn’t be home for a while. The house was your standard middle-America three-bedroom, two-bathroom home. The outside had faded white paint and a plastic-covered window from the last time she had an episode. Her family couldn’t afford to fix the window, so now Trish was stuck with either a frozen or hot bedroom, depending on the season.
Trish unlocked the garage door and entered the kitchen as she placed her purse and car keys on the counter. She pulled her cell out of her back pocket and found James’s name in her contact list. She dialed. After a few rings, he picked up.
“Yo.”
“Hey, you wanna come over?”
“Of course. You want me to bring some?” James asked.
“Yup. I got a refill this morning. Also, can you bring some snacks? I’m starved.” Trish answered excitedly.
“Sweet, on the way,” James said as he hung up on her.
Trish walked into the living room, kicked her black tennis shoes off her feet, and sat down on the cigarette-burned floral loveseat. She turned on the television with a flick of the remote. After scrolling through some movie options, she just decided to put on a rerun of her favorite show. The doorbell rang with a high-pitched ding. She stood up and answered the door, pulling it open with a grunt as the old wooden door was heavy.
“What up?” Trish welcomed as she stepped aside to let James in. James stood a good foot taller than Trish, his brown curly hair and dark eyes a contrast to his pale skin. He was lanky and probably weighed less than her. She closed the door behind them and walked over to the couch. James went straight for the kitchen and pulled out a bag of chips and a tray of chocolate-chip cookies, then sat next to Trish on the grimy loveseat. James had a plastic bag of pork rinds and Cheetos with him.
“Here ya go,” Trish said as she handed him two of her pills. James smirked; his yellowed teeth sparkled in the light as he pulled out his dime-bag. He smacked the bag into Trish’s hand.
“Finally. I’ve needed this shit for a week. I need to calm down and zone out for a bit,” Trish said as she pulled out papers and swiftly rolled a joint. James gave her his favorite lighter, the black one with yellow stars, and she lit up. She sucked in a deep breath and let the marijuana do its job: relax her, calm her nerves, and hopefully block out Xavier.
“Do you wonder if there is more to life than this?” Trish asked James as she closed her eyes.
“What? Getting high and relaxing with friends?” James asked as he opened the bag of Cheetos. The smell of fake cheese wafted around the room.
“No. I mean more to life than my excruciating pain and living with a demon,” Trish whispered as she let her mind wander.
“There is definitely more to life than that. You know I told you that I’d help you get rid of it,” James popped a few chips into his mouth as Trish opened her eyes and reached for the cookies.
“I know, but you’re the only one who at least pretends to believe me. I don’t want you involved in it. It’s something I have to do alone.” Trish took a bite of a cookie as her eyes grew heavy and her mind floated.
“Have you come up with a plan yet?”
“Yes,” Trish stated.
“Let’s hear it!”
“You know I can’t tell you until the time is right,” Trish took another bite of the chocolaty-goodness, “I have to do it on my own.” She said as she placed her palm on his chest and gently pushed him away.
“Yeah, I know. Just remember that I’m always here for you,” James said with a crumb on the corner of his mouth. He smiled and pulled another handful of chips out of the bag.
Trish laughed, “I know.” She finished her cookie and stared at the television, and let the weed relax her.
They sat in silence as they watched television and munched on snacks. After a couple of hours, James fell asleep, covered in crumbs. It would be another couple of hours before her parents get home. Trish rolled another joint and took a drag. She blew the smoke up toward the ceiling as she exhaled in contentment. Trish stood up and stretched. She placed the joint in her mouth as she picked up the cookies and chips to carry them back into the kitchen. As she rounded the corner into the kitchen, she felt what she always felt: absolute fear. She spat the joint out and dropped the snacks as she took a few steps back out of the kitchen.
“Where do you think you are going, Patricia?” Xavier asked.
“Just to the living room,” She whispered. Trish leaned over to pick up the snacks; the last thing she needed was James figuring out what was happening.
“Self-medicating will not keep me away. You should know that by now,” Xavier stated.
“I know,” Trish whispered again as she tried to not wake James up. She felt the air around her shift while the light in the kitchen burnt out. Trish heard a low hum, the same hum from that night six months ago, and closed her eyes. The melodic hum enveloped her entire being. It filled her mind with absolute nothingness. It made her stare up at the ceiling, unable to move her body, unable to think her own thoughts. The humming grew louder as the entity made her sway back and forth to the beat of the music.
“Please don’t,” Trish whimpered as her arm, uncontrolled by her, opened a kitchen drawer and picked up a knife. The entity forced her to lift her shirt and slash her stomach next to recently scabbed over cuts and older scars. Blood poured out like spilt wine, but sticky like molten chocolate. The air filled with a rankness of the scent of her own blood, freshly laid tar, and spoilt milk.
“Bow.” The entity commanded. She felt her hand drop the knife and immediately fell to her knees. Her body bowed with a quickness; her hand smacked the floor loudly and reverberated throughout the house. Trish felt sticky from the blood, which was now also spotting on the floor. She kept bowing, in a trance, and thought of nothing. She stared up at the ceiling as she did, where the black cloud was.
“What the absolute fuck?!” James screamed, which broke the dead silence of the kitchen. Trish regained the use of her body and mind right as James scream. Xavier released her, and the heavyweight dissipated.
“James?” Trish coughed as she tried to sit up.
“Did you just stab yourself? Why is your nose bleeding?” James cried as he leaned over to help her up.
“I—” Trish started, but James cut her off.
“I’m calling an ambulance,” James pulled his cell out and started to dial.
“Please, don’t do that! I’m fine! I just need some band-aids and some water,” Trish wailed and used her bloody hand to try to pull the phone out of James’s hand. He smacked her hand and pushed her away from him.
“I’m getting you help.”
~~~
James had Trish pinned to the ground while they waited for the cops and paramedics to show up. James had taken the knife away from her and flung it into the living room. Her heart pounded with the fear of being committed again, and she was going to do whatever it took to avoid it.
You should escape and stab him in the eye with a steak knife. Munch on the eyeball, you can see what he sees if you eat it, Xavier’s voice commanded. Trish squealed and convulsed underneath James.
“Please don’t do this, James! I trusted you,” Trish cried. Her body convulsed on the ground; the blood from her abdomen continued to seep out of her and onto the ground. Her shirt was covered in blood, her face in pain, and with James’s weight against it, it was hard to breathe.
“I know you did, and I’m not hurting you. You need help, Trish,” Jam
es said.
Trish struggled beneath him, thrashing around and trying to bite him. “You told me you believed me!”
“And I did. Until I saw this. There’s no way that a demon was doing that to you. You’re cutting yourself, Trish. You need to be seen by a doctor and get your mental health fixed.”
Trish growled loudly. “Oh yeah? And where was your mother’s mental health help you piece of shit!”
James sighed and chose not to respond. He kept a hold of her and caressed her gently, wiping the dark matted hair out of her face. “Please stop talking; I’m only trying to help you. You don’t mean what you’re saying. I care about you, Trish,” James said.
“No, you fucking don’t! You’re dead to me. If you really believed me and cared about me, you wouldn’t be doing this! And yes, as a matter of fact, I do mean what I said. Fuck you and your mother! Maybe your mother just killed herself because she had a son like you!” Trish screamed at the top of her lungs. She bucked her hips upward, trying to get him off of her. It was futile, however, as he was far stronger than her.
Ten minutes passed and the doorbell rang. James released Trish and stood up, walking over to the door. When James turned his back, Trish jumped up off the ground onto his back, biting him the shoulder. She drew blood and ripped a chunk of flesh off of him; she spat it onto his neck.
“What the fuck?” James screamed as he flung her off of him. She fell against an old, dust-covered lamp. It fell to the ground with a loud crash.
“What’s going on?!” a police officer yelled. They opened the door and walked inside. Trish laid on the ground crying and covered in blood. The glass from the lamp shattered, and shards are now sprinkled over her skin.
“Officers, she went nuts! She was in the kitchen cutting herself, and then after I called ya’ll, she jumped on my back and bit me!” James said, his eyes firing back and forth between Trish and the officers. His hands shook, and his breathing escalated. “I swear, she attacked me first!” He yelled, throwing his hands into the air above his head.
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