I can't figure out the size of the doctor's office. This mid-century leather chair is just ridiculous. Why would they put mental patients in such an expensive piece of furniture? It's swallowing and uncomfortable. This place is a prison and no fancy chair will minimize that. There was a guy defecating in the common hall. They lock me in as if I was a nutcase like him. This chair makes me feel too small and too large at the same time, like a cornered cockroach. Where the hell is the doctor? Ah.
Dr. Goudber entered the office swiftly, his piercing eyes as earnest as the daylight streaming through his window.
"Mr. Roberto, sorry about the wait. How are you doing?" His tone was warm. I felt a flare of annoyance.
"What do you think?"
"Well, I understand this is not a vacation."
I could only grunt.
"Do you want to share more about what brought you here a few days ago?"
"My wife. She did that."
"Your wife brought you here?"
"I don't know."
"Do you remember what happened?"
I was still trying to think when a few words rolled off my tongue on their own: "Not completely..."
He was ready to extract a confession from me with forceps. "Okay. Let's start with what you remember. Tell me about it."
"We had an altercation."
"Yes..."
I paused and suddenly there was nothing I wanted to say. I lowered my head and stared at the slippers on my wrinkled feet. I started listening to the old-fashioned wall clock ticking softly. Its predictable sound echoed nostalgically, like a lullaby.
Dr. Goudber decided to continue, unfazed. "Something happened with a butcher's knife, Mr. Roberto. The report here mentions..."
I cut him off, "I didn't contribute to this report. They could put anything in it. The fact it is written doesn't make it true." I raised my face to him, pursing my shaky lips, a fierce hatred just barely hiding the tightrope of fear I was walking on within.
"Do you remember hurting her?"
I scoffed. "Maybe I gave her a few slaps. Couples argue..."
Dr. Goudber's eyes didn't waver. "Mr. Roberto, it's important that you share with me what you truly remember. In order to assess you correctly, I need to understand how much awareness you have of what happened..."
I interrupted, my voice rising. "What do you want me to say? That I'm a monster? It was nothing much... Just the heat of the moment..."
The doctor sighed, his patience seeming to stretch thin. "This is why you are here, Mr. Roberto. In the heat of the moment, something very serious ended up happening. Why do you think the situation escalated to such physical violence?"
I bristled at the question. "Escalated? You're making it sound terrible. I got upset. I was pretty sure she was cheating on me. Maybe I saw it. But it wasn't like what you are saying."
"Then how was it, Mr. Roberto?" Dr. Goudber asked, his tone still calm, but insistent.
I paused, my mind racing. Admitting to anything more felt like stepping into a trap. "I might have lost my temper a bit, but I didn't do any real harm, did I?"
"Your wife had her head cut off, Mr. Roberto," he said gently and matter-of-factly.
I bit back, feigning surprise. My head was fuzzy. Under the haze, I kind of remembered something along these lines, but admitting it felt just undoable, an insurmountable wall. "Maybe I overreacted," I conceded, the words tasting bitter. "But she was also not innocent."
Dr. Goudber nodded, writing something down. "Understanding our actions is the first step in the journey, Mr. Roberto."
The journey. The word echoed in my mind. To where? The only journey I wanted was out of this place, holding a stiff drink. Downing fast a few fat warm gulps and starting to feel the sweet abandon from the tightening noose of reality. But I was where I didn't want to be and knew I had to tread carefully, say what he wanted to hear.
"Maybe," I murmured, a half-hearted nothing, my thoughts still drifting to the caress of vodka in my throat, a beautiful escape.
The doctor sighed, his gaze on me starting to grate.
"I am here to help you, but you need to help me understand you better."
I didn't need help. I needed freedom. But I was nailed down and had to play the game. So, I leaned forward, offering some truth wrapped in a few layers of my best bullshit.
"Well, doc," I began, my voice a docile whisper of hopelessness, "maybe we can start with why the bottle feels like the only friend I've got."
Image Credits
Live Medusa, DALL-E, Open AI.
Saturn Devouring his Son, 1823, Francisco Goya, Museo Nacional del Prado.