Total pages in book: 100
Estimated words: 98992 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 495(@200wpm)___ 396(@250wpm)___ 330(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98992 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 495(@200wpm)___ 396(@250wpm)___ 330(@300wpm)
I’ll admit it.
I did indulge in one last look from where I was working out in the recreational yard the day they fired her.
She was dressed like she’d been filming porn.
And I later jerked off in the shower like I had repeatedly watched it.
Without explanation or warning, he grabs the edge of a nearby gray chair with his free hand and begins to drag it away from the table. “You’ll call me Doc.”
That wasn’t a suggestion.
Much like keeping the furniture where it is wasn’t an option.
Dumbfounded with his choice of action, I wordlessly continue watching. He moves it to face the bare wall space that’s beside me, which is the exact fucking opposite direction of the luxury couch I should sit on.
Over there I can keep looking out into the garden at the overly green terrain and the stubborn leaves, mocking me by refusing to change in spite of the fact it’s time. Refusing to shift. Refusing to begin the next season. The next phase. Funny thing about those stubborn bastards? They’re the only reason I actually know everything is changing. In here, there aren't clocks – because they don’t want you to count the minutes but simply savor the “moments”. If it weren’t for the rotations of faces between the varying employees – those that only work weekends or those that are off every Wednesday –, it’d be easy to believe that every day is the exact same day like we’re living in a darker version of Groundhog Day.
Doc slowly descends into the seat once he’s satisfied, takes in a large breath, and positions the clipboard to its final destination in his lap. Afterward, he takes out a small, recognizable packet and places it on top of the object. For the first moment since his arrival, he looks up at me. Attempts to make eye contact. Too bad for him mine are on the little white treasure chest I haven’t been this close to in a long, long fucking time.
Doc motions his large hand to the wall opposite of him and his chair. “Sit.”
Like an obedient pup, ready to please the man holding the treat bag, I gradually move my way over to the spot he wants, but I don’t sit.
Not yet anyway.
I simply continue to leer at the little, white, rolled up cylinder of nicotine playing fucking peek-a-boo, calling to my mouth, my tongue, my taste buds, to let it inside for just a moment…to lower my jaw further and let it soothe every fucking nerve ending that can stomach it.
Fuck…I wanna smoke.
A cigarette.
A blunt.
At this point, I’d even toke hookah just to take the edge off.
Doc’s dark brown eyes wander back down to the clipboard as if the little temptress isn’t even there. “You haven't had one of these in twelve weeks, three days, and sixteen hours.”
Impressive.
He’s read more than just the fucking basics.
I mean I highly doubt that shit is on the top page.
“You refuse the patch.”
Makes my arm itchy.
Aggravates my tattoos.
“You,” he scoots the box just an inch over causing my tongue to wet my lips once more in anticipation, “threw the pack of gum offered by the orderly at said orderly for offering.”
I didn’t want fucking gum.
I wanted a goddamn cigarette.
“One of your only emotional outbursts since you’ve been here.” Doc meets my eyes again. “Or at least the only one someone fucking bothered to document.”
There’s no stopping my arms from bracing themselves defensively across my white t-shirt covered chest.
“My guess is the former given you have little to no interaction with any other prisoners.”
“Patients.”
“Are you?”
The tossed back question takes me off guard.
“Or are you simply prisoners being held incarcerated by previous addictions, self-destructive behaviors, and inescapable past demons you looked to outside resources in order to help slay?”
Well, this motherfucker didn’t come to play, did he?
Doc nonchalantly opens the package and pulls out a long white stick.
Spoke too soon.
That’s exactly what the fuck he wants if he thinks I can’t tell the difference between real shit and fake shit.
And this is exactly why I didn’t fucking sit.
I fucking knew better.
Every one of these white coat, tie wearing bastards has some new trick up their sleeve to try to help us get “to the other side”. Bora banging her patients wasn’t the only unorthodox therapist or counselor or mouthpiece that’s ever walked the halls of this place. I had one who tried to blind fold me. Said I would feel “safer” if I couldn’t see him. If I couldn’t see someone judging me. Which is exactly what all these fucking people do who sit in these seats and stare at us. They don’t really fucking listen. Some can barely even fucking pretend. They sit, soak up a couple words, and judge. And then they write down that judgment regarding how fucked up you are on a little white or green note pad, give you some run of the mill big-word diagnosis that means nothing to you and release you back into the very society that threw your ass out for making a mistake to begin with.