He waited five minutes, picked up his laptop, and went to meet his first client.
“Mr. DeSantis, I’m Dr. Bates.” He stuck out his hand, giving the man a quick once-over as his palm was taken in a moist grasp.
Messy but not slovenly, his patient looked like he’d just risen and hastily dressed even though it was approaching noon. Decent hygiene, combed hair, and no overt body odor, but certainly, a wary look in the eyes not quite meeting his.
“Nice place,” the man grunted. “Better than the last one.”
Hutch chuckled in a comforting way. “The city facilities are state budgeted, and depending on current policies are often pretty bare-boned.” He pointed to an oversized chair and then to the couch. “You can have a seat wherever you feel most comfortable.”
The man took the chair, his eyes narrowing. “How old are you?” he asked pointedly.
Hutch sat opposite his new patient. “Mr. DeSantis, we’re not here to talk about me. This is your session. Why don’t you tell me a little bit about yourself?”
“You’re pretty young to have such a fancy office,” he continued as if Hutch hadn’t spoken. “This room is bigger than my whole shitty apartment.”
Again, Hutch tried to steer things back into neutral territory. “Do you know why you’ve been referred to me, Mr. DeSantis?”
“Because the other assholes didn’t like me,” he spit back. “They were tired of seeing my face and said they were happy some fancy doctor agreed to take me on for free.”
“I’m sure that’s not the case. They clearly thought it was in your best interest to see me, pro bono or not,” he answered mildly.
“Pro bono,” the man growled. “That means you don’t need the fucking money. Fancy office, fancy clothes. I bet you never worked for it. Got it all handed to you, right?” He spewed in a long, angry breath. “Nobody ever gave me nothing.”
Hoping to guide the man down that disgruntled road, Hutch asked. “Would you like to talk about where you came from? Your family?”
“My family’s shit.” The tone was unforgiving.
“Tell me about them.”
Once again, the man turned the tables. “Why don’t you tell me about yours? Upper class, cocktail parties, fancy cars. Sent their little boy to an Ivy League college,” he mocked. His face grew darker.
Clearly, the man had issues around money. Hutch made a note and recalled something from the man’s file that might lead back into safer territory. “You have a girlfriend. She lives with you.”
Another growl. “Fucking cunt took off two weeks ago. Said she couldn’t be with me anymore.” He grew increasingly agitated.
“Did you two discuss her dissatisfaction prior to her leaving?”
The man’s eyes twitched around the room again, and his fingers began to strum nervously on his pantleg. “What do you care? You probably have some fucking bitch at home who sucks your cock every time you take her shopping,” he sneered, not answering the question.
Hutch sat up straighter and kept his face neutral, not revealing that until this point in life he’d been solely focused on advancing his career. He’d never taken time to date.
But this wasn’t about him.
Something was off with his patient. Hutch suspected he might have taken something non-prescription before his appointment. He needed to approach that, cautiously. “Are you on any medications right now, Mr. DeSantis?”
“That’s what I’m here for, douchebag. So you can give me drugs. I ran out of the shit I was taking.”
Hutch recalled those being a mood stabilizer and an antidepressant. “I can write your prescriptions. But first, tell me how they worked for you when you were taking them.”
“Like shit,” DeSantis seethed between clenched teeth. He’d started to sweat profusely and his twitching increased.
It was obvious they weren’t getting anywhere. “Mr. DeSantis, I don’t believe you’re in the right frame of mind for your appointment today. I’m going to write a prescription for your meds, then you’ll see my receptionist to make another date for when you’re feeling better.”
The guy leaped to his feet. “You fucking telling me to go?” he snarled, his color going from red to nearly purple. He spun and without warning, picked up a glass paperweight from the table beside him, turned, and hurled it at Hutch’s head.
The projectile hit his temple, momentarily stunning him. He reached up, touching the spot, then heard his own shaky voice as if from far away. “Mr. DeSantis, I believe it’s time for you to leave.”
“You fucking rich prick doctors. Think you’re better than the rest of us.” He flipped the coffee table and kicked in the top, smashing it.
“Ben!” Hutch yelled, unsteady on his feet while his patient railed and attacked another piece of furniture. “Help!”
His receptionist rushed in, obviously having heard the noise. “Are you okay Doctor Bates?” He eyed the ranting man, warily. “I dialed 911.”
Hutch got a grip on himself, knowing if they waited for the police, his entire office would be destroyed and their well-being in danger. He shouted over the noise. “Can you help me stop him?”
Their eyes met and Ben nodded.
It took both of them, big men, to subdue the irate patient, clearly high on something that had augmented his normal strength. After ten minutes of struggling with him beneath them on the floor, the authorities finally arrived.
They lifted and cuffed him, the man now quiet.
“You’ll need stitches for that,” one of the officers pointed at his head. “You want me to call an ambulance, or can you make it to the ER on your own?”
“I… I’m good,” he answered.
When he and Ben were finally alone, they surveyed the damage, and Hutch was surprised when his voice emerged as an uncertain whisper.
“Cancel the rest of my patients this afternoon. And if you can order some new furniture…”
“I’ll take care of it. Just go get stitched up.”
Hutch nodded absently, stunned by what had happened. “Okay. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Present Day
He reached up and stroked the fine, silver line on his skin. The doctor had done a great job, though he’d thwarted his parents and refused to follow up with a plastic surgeon.
The scar was superficial, but not everything turned out that way. A switch deep inside his head turned off that day. One minute he was ready to cure the world of mental illness, the next, he’d tumbled into an abyss, completely losing faith in his abilities and in the system.
The office had been put back to rights, his patient roster increased, and business eventually thrived, albeit differently than Hutch had imagined.
Ben had left after the first year, replaced by someone new. Then others had taken over until Hutch could no longer remember their names. He wasn’t a bad boss. He wasn’t a bad therapist. But the fire in his gut that had fueled him during twelve years of enthusiastic preparation had been snuffed out.
He didn’t care.
Everything for his clients from that critical moment on had been accomplished by rote…with prescription drugs. Lots and lots of drugs.
It’s easier to solve people’s problems with a pill than to dig too deeply. When patients complain they still don’t feel better…up their dosage.
When his parents chastised that he wasn’t dating…pick a random woman for a quick lay.
Did his life seem empty? Not really. He had a nice, penthouse condo, a personal kickboxing trainer who came every morning, an office to run and an occasional bed-mate. He hadn’t noticed anything missing.
Until now.
He swept an angry hand across the sand, obliterating the name of the man responsible for his personal apathy; the one who’d fomented his disregard toward the mental health of every person who’d walked through his door thereafter.
“Is that why I’m here?” he cried out into the void above. “Because I stopped giving a damn?”
He scrambled to his feet and s
tarted running laps again. Angry laps. He ran until he should have been tired. He ran until he was bored, then forced himself to stop and take a seat on a boulder.
“Steak and baked potatoes,” he said aloud, and held up his hands as if cradling a plate and wielding a fork. Closing his eyes, he did some slow, circular breathing then imagined consuming the food. “Delicious,” he stated, moving his jaws.
Giving over to the fantasy, once he deemed the meal consumed, he placed the invisible tableware on the ground and brushed his hands over his dress slacks before looking at his watch. “Nine P.M.” He stretched. “Guess I could use some shut-eye. Busy day tomorrow, right?” he mocked the nothingness.
Hoping for a dream to stimulate his frontal lobe, he lay on his side in the sand and went to sleep.
The Underworld
Office of Special Projects
“That list? Thank you. I vetted them.” The dark-haired goddess leaned forward, long hair swinging around her intent face. “The first…recruit has been engaged.”
“Which means it’s time to enlist the help of Nusku,” her mentor prompted.
Visiting the god of night, the bringer of dark’s demons was the next step, but she’d been putting it off. The deity was…distasteful, and selective, granting pleasant dreams where he wished, while allowing others to suffer nightmares.
She sighed. “Does he know I’m coming?”
“Yes. And I’ve told him to be accommodating. If he’s not, let me know.”
CHAPTER THREE
Barely able to put one foot in front of the other, Darby Peltor shuffled to the coffee pot, cursing the timer that hadn’t functioned properly. Again. The machine had run hours ago, and the sludgy liquid previously produced was stone cold.
Without energy to make more, she pulled a glass from her cupboard and threw in cubes. Iced coffee, despite the near-freezing temperatures outside, would have to suffice.
She sat wearily at the kitchen table, pounding head cradled in her hands. Another night, another nightmare. How much longer could she take it without losing her mind? The answer would come, eventually, and then what? An insane asylum? Did such things exist anymore?
Unimportant. Because until that day, she had rent to pay and food to buy. Which meant going to work. In public. The panic that threatened to overwhelm her every morning crept in. She raised her hand to the scar on her head, reminding herself she’d lived. Still, there could be a repeat of the incident. It was likely. And she’d have to survive all over again. Small comfort when the greater danger were the nightmares that haunted her every time she slept.
Reaching for the aspirin bottle that lived on her table, she downed three with a gulp of coffee and struggled to her feet. Shower, dress, walk the frigid block to the convenience store where she worked, and toil through another day.
What had the over-solicitous therapist at the public health center downtown told her? Take these pills. You’ll get over it.
Three prescriptions. Anti-anxiety, antidepressants, and a sleep aid. The first two made her jittery, the opposite of what they were supposed to do. The third worked okay. It made her sleep, but also made it nearly impossible to wake up when the nightmares took over.
The bottles lay, mostly unused, at the bottom of a drawer in her bedside table. Eighty dollars in co-pays, and completely useless.
Oh, yeah. She’d also been given coping tools. Breathe deeply when a panic attack strikes. Recognize that trouble such as she’d encountered wasn’t likely to occur twice in the same place.
Bullshit.
She’d googled statistics and found that six percent of all robberies in the US occurred in convenience stores, and “…convenience stores in particular locations can be vulnerable to repeat victimization, especially those types of retailers that have large amounts of cash, low security, and few staff…”
That described her place of employment to a T.
She’d gladly take a job at one of the big box-stores on the outskirts of town, but the busses didn’t run there regularly enough to accommodate a full-time schedule, and she couldn’t afford a ride-service.
She’d worked at Arkie’s Convenience for nearly five years, put away small amounts of money each month after rent, utilities, food, and shitty health insurance. She’d saved enough to buy a cheap car, but when she found out how much insurance and excise tax cost, she cut that dream loose. It was way beyond her means. Tears threatened.
Shut the waterworks, Darby. You’re alive, you’re healthy, and you have a roof over your head. There are lots of people worse off. Grow a pair and get the fuck to work.
She dragged herself to the shower, went through the motions, dried, dressed in her warmest sweater, jeans and boots, then pulled her hair back into a tight ponytail. The whole, familiar routine took twenty minutes. She slipped on her jacket, headed out the door and down three flights to brave the morning darkness.
Damn. She hunched against a relentless wind. It got colder every day, and it was only January. Not that months mattered. Every day was like the last…except for the weather.
She couldn’t remember the last time she’d varied her routine.
Monday through Thursday, get up before dawn, work seven hours, buy food, go home, read a book, cook, eat, go to bed, have nightmares and wake up tangled in sweaty sheets.
On Friday she worked two hours before most of the rest of the world stirred. Four to six. Thirty hours total because her shitty job didn’t pay benefits that came with full time employment. After the short shift on Friday, she walked to the animal rescue down the street and put in eight hours, paid. On Saturday and Sunday, she volunteered at the same shelter—a full day Saturday and four hours Sunday—because the place didn’t have a big budget. Still, it made her feel like she was doing something with her life, something completely under her control.
She loved cleaning the cages and feeding the animals, receiving furry, unconditional adoration. The animals’ complete lack of judgment was a bonus.
But today was Tuesday.
Pushing through the crazed, ad-plastered glass door of Arkie’s Convenience, it felt like it always did. Comforting and terrifying. Comforting because it was as familiar as her own apartment. Terrifying because it had been only three months, twelve days, and five hours since the robbery.
“Hey, Darby.” Her boss, a large man named Arkie greeted her from behind the register. He wasn’t a bad guy. Like everyone else in the run-down neighborhood, he was trying to make a living to survive. He wasn’t the warmest person she knew, but he worked the overnight shift. He’d learned to be wary.
“Morning, Arkie.” She immediately eyed the coffee station and saw that, per usual, the pots were dry. “I’ll fill these, then you can take off.”
There were three customers in the small shop. One looked over the prepackaged donut selection, one grabbed a six-pack of beer from the reach-in fridge, and the third was busy studying the rolls of lottery tickets hanging behind Arkie’s head.
She was familiar with all three.
“Morning, Darby,” the donut buyer mumbled. Giving him a chin lift, she hauled the empty pots out back.
Three minutes later she was back on the floor. The smell of cheap coffee began filling the air while she entered the code to buzz herself behind the register. The safety measure was a huge fucking joke. Anybody who wanted could, and had jumped the counter to get to the day’s receipts. Been there, had the scars to prove it.
“Gonna snow today,” Arkie told her. “Probably be a rush later.” He grunted. “Call me if you need me.”
She wouldn’t, and he knew it. She preferred to work alone, and never had trouble handling a line. She could only imagine that’s why she’d lasted so long. Arkie’s other employees worked an average of two months before they pissed him off with their incompetence, their lack of regard for customers, or their liberal use of unpaid sick days.
He grunted to get her attention. “You’ll be training a new kid tomorrow,” he supplied while putting on his coat and wrapp
ing an old, pilled scarf around his neck. “Name’s Seth.”
She nodded, knowing he didn’t expect her agreement. Seth would replace Bob, who’d been caught stealing rolling papers. Dumb ass.
Her boss pushed out the door and uncharacteristically, she called out behind him. “Arkie, have a good day.”
Another grunt confirmed he heard.
Once he’d gone, her second task of the day, after coffee, was to put out the day’s papers. There were fewer delivered now than when she’d started, the demise of print news, but there were still two city editions, one local paper, and one fat, daily pamphlet compiled by a few shopkeepers attempting to gentrify the neighborhood. Good luck to them. The only thing new business brought to the area was increased crime-rates due to addicts sniffing fresh money.
“I’ll take six, ten-dollar, Fast Cash scratchers.” Mr. Hammoty finally made his decision. He came in once a month after receiving his social security check, and spent sixty bucks. Not a lottery junkie, like so many she saw, but one with a purpose. He’d retire to the coffee station to scratch his tickets. If he won a small amount, which he did every third month or so, he’d immediately “invest” in more tickets. If he won big…which he never did—and neither did the hundreds of others who bought tickets each week—she didn’t know what he’d do.
It hadn’t taken long for the lesson to sink in with her. When she started out, she’d tried her luck. Until she’d seen the odds, up close. Now that money, just under fifty bucks a week from her paychecks after expenses, didn’t get wasted on useless paper. A bunch disappeared on clothes and sundries, even though she bought all she could at the local thrift, and she made sure to bank at least twenty-five. Her savings sat at a whopping $6, 324.87. Not a lot, but not too shabby.
“You know, if you saved that money, Mr. Hammoty, you’d have a nice little nest egg by now,” she said as he turned a ten-dollar win into another ticket.
“Ahh, Darby, with Mrs. Hammoty gone, God rest her soul, what do I need it for? My rent’s subsidized, and the cat and I don’t eat much.”
Hutch Nightmare Men Page 2