Page 1 of Demonic Cage
“I would like to ask about the scars on your wrist, Lotte.”
I lower my gaze, unwilling to respond to her interrogation, even though I know that I have to. In the fifty-minute session, I’ve successfully sidestepped the topic for half an hour, avoiding it in every way I can. But Dr. Michel is not the type of psychiatrist you can manipulate.
Her tactics are not bad either; she patiently listens while I bite my lower lip, staring sternly at the cream-colored carpet. What else can I do? Should I lie, something we both know would be a feeble attempt at deflection? Should I say I fell?
“Doctor, yesterday I slipped in the bathroom while brushing my teeth, and a protruding tile cut me.”
That would be good, but I mustn’t forget to break a tile once I get home to make my parents believe it too.
I shift uncomfortably in the antique leather wingback chair. Its armrest has been clasped by several patients’ nails, including mine. Still with my head down, I glance at the psychiatrist from the corner of my eye, who could almost make me trust her with her calm gaze. If she would only believe me.
What if I told her the truth?
“Doctor, a monster attacked me yesterday, and its sharp claws tore through my soft skin.”
I sigh and toss my head back, then turn my gaze toward the cracked ceiling, which seems to flatten me as more memoriessurface. I remember staring for too long at the harsh fluorescent lights. My nails dig deeper into the leather, and I feel the need to move my wrist to accept there are no straps on me.
They will never lock me in here again.
The ticking of the clock creeps into my ear, reminding me how urgent it is to get this over with. If I catch the bus, I can still make it to Bengt on time. I look at the mahogany bookshelf and crack my neck, keeping my eyes on a yellow book, hoping to alleviate my frustration. I feel as if a monster, similar to last night’s, is lurking under my skin and could break loose from me at any moment. I bite my lip again and swallow hard, trying to prevent my anger from bursting out.
I’ve never learned to properly control my anger. I had a thin grasp on it with the aid of my medication, but after yesterday’s decision, even that is gone.
And it’s not enough to worry that, since last night, I haven’t taken any of the medication I’ve been on for fifteen years. Yet another thing I have to confess to my psychiatrist. Here, in the institution I hate most in all the world, where I came this morning at my parents’ request like a fucking teenager.
“I cut my wrists,” I finally say. I glance at the clock. Five minutes of the session remain. I’ve been successfully raging with myself for ten minutes.
Dr. Michel sighs deeply, carefully assessing me. For a moment, I saw a hint of surrender in her gaze, but it passes quickly. Why isn’t she happy? She got the answer she always wants. Here you go: I’m not telling what really happened, not saying that monsters come out of my bedroom walls every night. I’m playing along with her diagnosis.
Depressed.
Anxious.
Schizophrenic.
“And why did you hurt yourself?” I bite the inside of my mouth as I look at the middle-aged woman. She waits so patiently and still that there’s no doubt she’ll prolong this miserable session if I don’t answer.
“This is what you wanted to hear, isn’t it?” I reply harshly. I feel that if I can’t escape soon, I’ll break out of here and slam that damn yellow book against the wall, the color of which burns into my retinas, and…
“I want to hear the truth, Lotte, not what you think makes me happy. Were the monsters involved again?”
I don’t answer. I just take a deep breath and lock eyes with the doctor, turning fully toward her. She glances at the designer watch on her wrist and tightens her lips.
“Are you taking your medication regularly?”
I have to swallow as saliva pools in my mouth, and my hand trembles as I think about the pills. I’m sure my pupils have dilated at the prospect of taking them. I must look like a child who’s been offered a trip to Disneyland. But I’m an adult, so my big eyes probably just make me seem like a frightened rabbit.
I wish I could take a pill, it would make dealing with these feelings much easier.
The ticking of the clock signals the end of the session, and I merely nod, afraid that if I speak, I might plead for another dose of antidepressants.
I never had to spend money on drugs – antidepressants and antipsychotics lift me higher than even LSD could.
A faint tapping breaks the silence. I’m so immersed in my own thoughts that I startle at the sound. Dr. Michel lets out a soft sigh, finishes jotting down notes in her black notebook, then walks to the door and opens it slightly.
“Monsieur Yjiang? I still have a patient with me, please wait a few minutes.”
“Of course, Doctor,” replies the cleaner on the other side of the door, who, despite being of Chinese origin, speaks French fluently. “Bitch.”
