“Not killing Jack when they had the chance.”
From the place
Term
Vulnerable.
– Romanian saying
I had the usual professionals come and, as the Americans say, visit. They had the obligatory psychologist who, I shit thee not, said,
“This will require a period of readjustment.”
I was like a bastard, they’d cut back on my painkillers. I asked,
“For us both?”
He’d obviously been clued in as to what I was like, gave that tolerant smile, said,
“Anger is part of the process.”
So I said,
“Then you won’t be surprised at my next line.”
He continued with that emphatic smile, asked,
“Yes?”
“Fuck off.”
Was he delighted?
Yeah, I think so.
He continued in that soothing tone they use for Musak interludes,
“You’ve been through a traumatic experience and time is needed.. .”
I cut him off, asked,
“How would you know?”
He had doe eyes, and a mop of hair that he continually flicked back, annoying the hell out of me. He said,
“Believe me, Mr. Taylor, I’ve worked in this field for many years.” I asked,
“They’ve a field for Stanley knives?”
Lost him for a sec but he rallied,
“We have many modules for coming to terms with such events.”
I said,
“Cutting your balls off, which module would that come under?”
He stared at me. I continued,
“That’s what I thought they were going to do.”
He stood up, said,
“Perhaps another day when you’re less…”
He reached for the euphemistic adjective, settled for,
“Stressed.”
I sat up in the bed, asked,
“What’s your name again?”
Like I could give a flying fuck.
He said,
“Dr. Ryan.”
I held up my bandaged right hand, said,
“See this? They sliced off my fingers. How many days you figure for me to de-stress every time I look at it?”
He fucked off.
Next up was the woman who spoke about the wonderful strides in artificial aids. I let her yammer on and she took my silence for interest, finally wound down, asked,
“Which appendage do you think you might most be interested in?”
I said,
“The one that allows me to swing a hurley.”
Threw her. She said,
“I don’t follow?”