Page 38 of The Chemist

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DIESEL

Give it your best shot, Doc. You’ll never get a word out of me.

The ticking of the clock was the only sound that filled the space that used to contain a two-sided conversation. That all ended when the nosy bitch decided to ask him that stupid question.

“Mr. Pratt? Did you hear my question?”

Of course he heard her stupid question. It didn’t mean that he had to provide her with an answer. She was thequack doc—she could figure out the answer on her own. Didn’t she go to school to learn all about this stuff? Why did he have to do all the hard work for her?

“Why do you think it is that you go on these multi-day benders?”

Leaning back on the sofa, he pulled his hoodie down even further and began playing with the string around the end.

Time was ticking. Twenty more minutes until this stupid therapy session ended. Why did he ever agree to see this nut job? She had already spent the last two sessions trying to get him tospeak about his childhood. If that didn’t work, what made her think talking about his present was going to be any different?

Matteo said he needed to see a shrink; he didn’t say that he needed to speak.

“Mr. Pratt. I know that digging into your past and getting to the root of your own personal trauma can be daunting and uncomfortable, but unless you are willing to face your demons, you’re never going to be able to grow and heal.”

She was persistent. He had to give her that.

“Let me start off with something a bit easier. How do you feel about Matteo?”

Her question caught him off guard, and he wasn’t sure why she was asking.

Diesel shrugged. “He’s a good guy. Generous, loving. What does it matter?”

Dr. Bloom pulled her silver-rimmed glasses from her face and placed them down on the table next to her chair.

“And why is he generous and loving?”

Diesel shrugged his shoulders again. “He likes to help people and never asks for anything in return.”

“And has he helped you?” Diesel nodded. “How so?”

He stared at the inquisitive doctor and wondered how pissed off Matteo would be if he continued to ignore all of her questions going forward.

Matteo’s trying to help you, that voice deep inside him said.

This voice was different than the other voice. The other voice liked to remind him how worthless and trashy he really was.

Straight from the trailer park. Now you’re nothing more than a glorified stripper.

There he was. He wondered when that voice might appear during one of his sessions.

“Mr. Pratt?”

Jesus. Why did she insist on calling him by an old-man name? He was fucking twenty-five, not forty-five.

Deciding that it was easier to just end this nightmare of idiotic questions, he finally answered.

“M found me unconscious in a park in South London. I had mixed a bunch of party drugs and didn’t remember even walking to the park. Three days later, I woke up in the hospital with all my medical bills paid and no idea what my next move was going to be. I had been living on the streets for the past six months and was turning tricks to make money for food and drugs. Matteo offered me a safe place to stay while I recovered and got myself back on my feet.”

The doc nodded in agreement as if she understood everything that he had just said, but she didn’t.

No one did.

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