Page 70 of Toxic Kiss

“Thanks for finally showing up,” I say as he sits down.

“There are other patients in the hospital, Mr. Johnson.”

I cringe at the name.

“Well, we’re off to a terrible start. Don’t call me that. Call me Cyrus, Vale, Mr. Vale, or Asshole. But not Johnson. Never Johnson.”

He sets the folder down and places his hands on it as if it’s top-secret material.

“Interesting.”

“Oh, great…here we go with the interesting. That was record time. I’m not your lab rat. Can we get on with the eval? This patient has somewhere else to be.”

His expression remains neutral as he opens the file, never taking his eyes off of me. I hate when they do this. It’s like they are watching every single move I make, just waiting for me to fuck up.

“Well, you’ve answered my first question. You do, in fact, remember your name.”

“That is your lead in question? Weak,” I say, and settle back into my chair.

“Do you know where you are or what day it is?”

I blink at him.

“Are you serious?” He nods. “Those are the stupidest questions I’ve ever been asked, and that is saying a lot, considering.”

“Why do you feel the appropriate response is to be angry about the question, instead of just answering it?”

“Because you’re wasting my time. I don’t appreciate it when people do that.” He continues to stare at me. “Reno, hospital, and I never know what day of the week it is. But if I have to guess, it’s the weekend since I was singing last night. If I did know, then I’d be faking it.”

“Cyrus, can you tell me why you’re here?”

“Because hospitals love making money, and someone thought I tried to off myself with pills and a mic drop.”

He makes a note. Probably underlined it twice.

“I’m hearing frustration,” Stevens says.

“You think? Wow, you are good. No fooling you, doc.”

He’ll write me off as some head case and hand me more pills. It’s already there in his eyes. The automatic assumption is what pisses me off. The blatant disregard for the fact that I said from day one that I don’t think my issue is my addiction.

But, oh no, they know better. The doctors are the ones with the fancy piece of paper on the wall that says they do. Doesn’t matter that I tell them I remember symptoms before I got myself into trouble with party drugs and landed in rehab. Doesn’t matter that I know my body better than they do. All they care about is being right. Finding a box to shove me in so they can check me off their list and move on with their day.

I’m a number, a dollar sign, and nothing more.

“Cyrus, you took medication and not the way it was prescribed. If you had, then you wouldn’t be in this situation.”

“You don’t know that,” I say, shaking my head at him

“What I know is that if you don’t start taking this seriously, you’ll end up with a complimentary psychiatric forty-eight-hour hold. Then, I can get to know you better.”

Fear races down my spine, my body instantly breaking out in a cold sweat. The last thing I want, or need, is to stay here in this hospital, locked up in a cell. No. Not happening.

I sigh and give in.

“What do you want to know?”

“Did you take any of your morning medications with your evening medications?”