Of course she does. Dr Farsi has been my psychiatrist for eighteen months, ever since the last incident that put me in hospital. There’s little about the worst of me she doesn’t know.
The surgeon pokes around at my plastered arm. “Sorry if it’s a bit sore. I’m nearly done.”
“It’s fine,” I say absently. “I like the pain.”
I don’t look at Dr Farsi again.
After extending my confinement to the ward, the doctors leave, walking close together.They’re either shagging or talking about you.Paranoia licks my brain, but for once, the ghouls dancing through my consciousness aren’t my primary concern. Another doctor exits the bay opposite. He seems familiar, though I can’t say why, and I don’t care. Doctors are doctors. After a while, they’re all the same.
I return my attention to Aidan’s bed. The departing doctor has left the curtain open and my breath catches.He’s awake.It’s the first time I’ve seen him not sleeping. Or so sick he can’t open his eyes.
Sometimes my thoughts seem so loud I wonder if I’ve shouted them. This is one of those moments. Aidan shifts slightly, staring across the aisle in the kind of daze I miss when the sleeping pills wear off, leaving nothing but a metallic taste on my tongue.
I swallow to dislodge the sensation of something stuck in my throat.They’ve poisoned you.But as hard as I try to give a fuck, I just... don’t. If they’ve poisoned me, I’ll die, and death equals freedom. Right?
Wrong. You’re okay, remember? You’re safe. And you promised Rita you’d see her next week. No dying before then.
I swallow again and curl my hands into fists, chasing my thoughts one by one in an attempt to rationalise them. Some days it’s easier than others, but being cooped up in hospital has triggered bad habits, and the temptation to run with my favourite catastrophic scenarios is strong.
“The fuck are you staring at?”
It takes me a moment to realise the question has come from the opposite bed and even longer to figure out it’s directed at me. “What?”
“You’re staring,” Aidan repeats. “You want to piss off with that?”
I sit up, unmoved by the harshness lacing his morphine-heavy words. Irritation is an emotion I can deal with. Confrontation doesn’t scare me if it’s honest. “I’m thinking. Not staring. Are you okay?”
“What do you care?”
“Gives me something to do.”
Aidan frowns. “Can you walk?”
“Um... yeah. Why?”
“Come closer. I can’t hear you properly.”
I glance at the nurses’ station and slide carefully off my bed. My socked feet make no sound as I pad closer to Aidan’s bed and slip behind the curtain. “Can you hear me now?”
“It was you.”
“What was?”
“I was sick on you.”
“Oh.” Damn. I assumed he wouldn’t remember that; he seemed so far gone. “Actually, you weren’t sick on me. I got the bowl to you in time.”
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why was it you?”
I shrug. “There was no one about and you’d lost your morphine pump. I figured you needed it... that’s why you were moving around.”
“I can’t really remember.”
“Fair enough.” I start to back off, but Aidan holds his hand up to stop me.
