Page 4 of Petite Fleur

Leon Aldon

I have wasted the last 20 minutes of my life in some fucked up staring contest with one of my patients.

His eyes haven't left me once as he babbles on about his antipsychotics not working anymore and the visions getting worse.

I can explain why, he stopped taking them.

He was warned by someone that his medication was tampered with and that someone had switched his prescription with poison.

That man doesn't exist.

It's a figment of his fucked up imagination, likely a man from a suppressed memory, someone who'd traumatized him as a kid, and he's never dealt with it.

Either way, we've been going in circles since he walked in, and I'm at a loss for what else I can say to him.

Normally I would have given up arguing with him. Clearly, he's not himself and he's bordering on being a threat to himself and society, but I fucking hate doing that.

Nothing ruins my day like having to commit someone.

I've seen those types of places; I've lived that life.

I've woken up to the painful and loud fluorescent lights shining in my face so harshly that my head felt like it was going to explode. I've dealt with the 30-minute bed checks to ensure you haven't somehow hung yourself despite wearing paper pants and not having a real blanket.

I've been pushed drugs that I didn't want or need just to dilute myself enough that the nurses didn't have to deal with me.

I hate putting people through that unless it's the only choice I'm given.

So, that means I'm stuck trying to reason with him to start taking his medication again.

That's just how I wanted my day to go: arguing with a paranoid schizophrenic.

“Lucas, I can assure you that your medication is safe. I have checked every single pill, nothing has been switched out.” I promise him, although I know my reassurance won't be enough for him.

That's the thing with paranoid schizophrenia, they're paranoid.

“Reed warned me you'd say that! I'm not allowed to trust you!” Lucas shouts.

A large part of me wants to shout back, to tell Lucas that Reed isn't real; he's a figment of his broken imagination, but that's not constructive and will crumble even more of the trust he has in me.

I let out the quietest of sighs, resting my ankle on the opposite knee so I could rest my notepad in my lap. "Would you feel safer if your medication was individually packaged? It would guarantee that nothing has been tampered with." I ask.

If I had thought about that in the first place, I wouldn't be dealing with this argument right now. I don't know how I forgot something so simple.

I went to college for 12 years, for fuck sake. I pride myself on being the best in the area, and I didn't give myself that title.

No, some uppity Houston magazine crowned me with not only the best psychiatrist in Texas, but also one of the hottest 35 under 35 in Texas.

Whatever the fuck that means.

All I know is that once the article came out, my books were flooded with consultations for kids.

Even if I worked with kids, I wouldn't have worked with these kids. They don't have problems; their mothers just want a chance with me that they'll never get.

Lucas stands up, pulling roughly at the hair on his head as he paces my office. “How am I supposed to trust you? You could put anything in the bottle!” He shouts.

Fuck.

I hate committing people, but it seems like it's where we are.

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