Page 29 of My Best Friend Is Broken
“I’m Dr. Hassan,” she says gently. “You’re in St. Mary’s Hospital. Do you remember what happened?”
I try to speak but my throat feels like I’ve been screaming for hours. Maybe I have. The memory comes back in flashes, the security guard’s hand on my shoulder, the weight of his body pressing me down, the way the world had tilted sideways and become a cell, became Brixton, became every nightmare I’ve carried for five years.
“I hit someone,” I whisper finally, the words scraping my throat raw.
“You had a panic attack,” Dr. Hassan corrects gently. “A severe one. You struck out because you felt threatened. It’s a normal trauma response.”
Normal. The word sits wrong in my mouth, tastes like lies. Nothing about me is normal anymore.
“Where’s Nicky?” I ask, because suddenly I’m terrified he’s gone, that he’s finally seen too much and decided I’m not worth the trouble.
“Your friend is in the waiting room. He’s been here all night, he wouldn’t leave even when visiting hours ended. He’s very worried about you.”
All night. I look toward the window and see pale morning light filtering through the blinds. How long was I out? How long did I lose this time? Did my mind shut down or was it aided by sedatives?
Not that it matters. It is not an important question. It’s not what I should be asking.
“The man I hit… is he pressing charges?”
Dr. Hassan’s expression softens even further. “The security guard is fine. He’s not pursuing any action. He... well, once he understood your situation, he felt quite bad about the whole thing.”
My situation. Such a clinical way to describe being fundamentally broken. So very pathetic that a security guard doesn’t want to press charges.
“I need to ask you some questions, Liam. Is that alright?”
I nod, though the movement makes my head throb. There’s a bandage at the back of my head where I must have hit the wall, and when I lift my hand to touch it, I notice the hospital bracelet around my wrist. My name, date of birth, and some codes that probably translate to “psychiatric risk” or “flight hazard” or “handle with extreme caution.”
“Have you been experiencing panic attacks regularly since your release?”
“Sometimes.” The lie comes automatically, protective. If I tell her the truth, that I can barely function most days, that leaving the apartment feels like stepping into enemy territory, that sometimes I wake up screaming and don’t know where I am… If I say any of that, she’ll want to keep me here. Or worse, send me somewhere else. Somewhere with locked doors and men in uniforms who think they know what’s best for me.
She writes something on her clipboard, and I wonder if she can tell I’m lying. Probably. People in her profession are trained to spot the gaps between what patients say and what they mean.
“What about flashbacks? Intrusive memories?”
This time I just nod. There’s no point lying about that, she would have seen the evidence yesterday, watched me relive five years of horror in the space of a heartbeat.
“Sleep disturbances?”
Another nod.
“Hypervigilance? Feeling like you’re always watching for threats?”
“Yes.”
“Avoidance behaviors? Staying away from places or situations that might trigger memories?”
I think about the spare key sitting unused on my bedside table, about all the times Nicky has suggested going out and I’ve found excuses to stay home. “Yes.”
She writes more notes, and I can see her building a picture of me in neat clinical terms. PTSD, severe. Adjustment disorder. Depression, probably. A whole catalog of broken parts that used to be a person.
“Liam, I want you to know that what you’re experiencing is treatable. With the right support, therapy and medication, you can get better.”
Can I? Or is this just something she says to everyone who ends up on her ward, the professional equivalent of “it’ll be fine” when everyone knows it won’t be?
“I’d like to keep you here for observation for another day or two. The head injury isn’t serious, but I’m concerned about your mental state. You dissociated for several hours yesterday, and that’s not something we can just send you home with.”
“I want to go home.” The words come out sharper than I intended, edged with panic. I can’t stay here. Can’t be trapped in another institution with people making decisions about my life without consulting me.
