Day 06
By brighteyes
- 903 reads
Dr. N. Quellar M.D.
Well anyway, Tommy was brought in to see me because his mother said she was worried about him. Mentioned personality problems and fears for his mental health prompted by odd behaviour. I had an idea in my mind of the sort of young man I would encounter, but nothing prepared me for the boy's visit to my practice.
Mrs N, as we will refer to her, entered my consultation room before her son: a picture of suburban normality. She wore a cotton suit and looked for all the world like she was going to church. I could tell immediately from her face that she had not slept at least last night, and possibly several nights before. The circles under her eyes were pronounced and her make-up looked to have been over-applied in a compensatory gesture. There was a hope in her eyes that I desperately wanted to justify, and I bade her come in and take a seat. She chose the chair normally selected by paranoiacs and serial bedwetters.
Tommy entered; at five feet ten inches a tall fifteen year old. He wore a knocked-about bomber jacket, torn jeans and a very distinctive silver ID bracelet. I knew it seemed familiar, and I couldn't place the reference until I remembered seeing it on the wrist of the protagonist in a film I had seen at the local multiplex the previous week: "Die In Fire. My initial reaction was shockingly closed, I confess, for someone who claims to practice psychiatry at this level. By the time he had crossed my line of vision into the full of the room, I had sewn him up as a confused Pollen fan, possibly to the point of hero-worship, with the odd homoerotic urge ' fairly harmless. As the boy sat down, however, (blue far corner chair ' coprophiliacs, pyromaniacs and compulsive liars), I noticed that the thumb of his right hand was missing.
"Hello Tommy, I began.
No response. The boy was staring out of the window dreamily.
"How are you today?
Mrs N, who had been latticing her fingers anxiously, broke in. "This is all we can get out of him. He won't even look at us.
"What happened to your thumb Tommy?
At this, Mrs N burst into tears and I suggested she wait outside. After she had gone, accompanied by a nurse offering tea, I tried again.
"Was it an accident?
At this, Tommy smiled a little to himself, as if remembering a first kiss, but said nothing.
" So do you like films? I ventured. "Lots of good films out at the moment. What's your favourite?
He stood up and pointed out of the window. I walked across to the glass and followed his finger. An immense billboard of "Die In Fire greeted my gaze, depicting Casey Pollen sneering out of a wall of flame, a machete cradled in his arms like a child. My patient sighed contentedly and sat back down.
"Did you cut off your thumb Tommy?
A pause, then he giggled, the sound cold and alien.
"Tommy's dead.
"I'm sorry?
He looked me straight in the eye, and I noticed the mischievous grin had been widened slightly at the corners by a tiny blade, the skin soft and baby pink where small attempts at healing had taken place.
"Tommy's dead.
"I¦I don't think I understand¦ I began to say, attempting to level my voice back to its professional timbre, but the boy was on his feet, and in his hand, I saw the blade in question.
"I said Tommy's dead, baby! he shrieked, brandishing the razor like a flag he was about to plant in a summit. Eyes alight, his giggle widened into a breathless heekheek, spit rocketing from the corners of his artificial smile. "Tommy's de-heh-heh-ead! There's a new captain aboard!
Schick. The blade flashed in the soft light and for a second, I thought he had cut his throat, but in the second before the blood, free of its fleshy dam, gushed forth, I saw he had neatly bisected his left eyebrow with an inch-deep cut.
And then, as I say, the blood. He stood, one foot on the masturbation chair, one on the schizophrenic stool, swaying and bleeding and laughing like a baby at a fireworks display.
"Breathe it in! he cried. "Suck it up and drive on, you bunch of straightened, dyed, bespoke-suited fucking swineherds!
Visions of the film, of a bloody hero stood upon wrecked cars, bruised, knifed, victorious and hollering the same command.
I had been pressing the buzzer for assistance without realising, as I gaped at the cranberry-coloured monster in front of me. Two nurses rushed in and intervened, taking the razor before the boy, and soon all that was left was the abbatoir of a floor, a giant scarlet Rorschach butterfly.
I'll tell you what I tell many of my patients' next of kin. This is an extreme example, but left unchecked, there's no telling how far this sort of obsessive parroting behaviour could extend. Well, I would consider allowing us to examine Cadderine for a more prolonged period. Meanwhile, my advice is to keep her away from her chosen, well, we nickname them honeypots. Mrs Harver, your daughter is ill, but she's going to be all right now.