Page 177 of Pucking Them
“Don’t diagnose me.”
“Another order.” When Olivia writes something down on the notepad, which she is shielding from my view on her lap, I stiffen.
What is she writing? Is she marking me?Assessing me?
Why do I feel like I am failing an exam that I didn’t know I had been entered into?
I point at her. “What are you…?”
“Does it distress you not to know? To not be in charge?”
“What distresses me is how I’ve been feeling since I met with you.”
“Because I’ve been challenging you?”
Olivia’s eyes flick down to the page. She adds another line. The pen scratches obnoxiously.
She’s doing that on purpose.
I tap the face of my Rolex three times, agitatedly.
She adds another line.
“Because I’ve been having vivid nightmares.” My stomach tightens. “Nausea. Dizziness. I feel wired.”
Finally, Olivia glances up at me.
Her eyes gleam with a sudden eager interest. “Hmm.”
I lean back in my chair; the muscles of my leg twitch. “No need to look at me like I’m a fascinating lab rat in an experiment. Your mad scientist face is showing.”
“You’re the one who sees himself like that. Why are you acting like I’m dangerous?”
I struggle to focus on Olivia, as hard as I’m trying not to vomit all over the bottles of water that are ranked on her table.
My head feels fuzzy. I shake it, trying not to slip back into the shadows of my past.
The pain.
I grimace. “Aren’t you?”
Olivia doesn’t reply, instead pushing a bottle of water to me. “You’re looking pale. Drink.”
“I don’t take orders. Haven’t you at least worked that out about me yet?”
She makes another note, while I stare at her challengingly.
Then she crosses her legs. “I’m concerned. It is my job.”
“Then help me with these side effects.”
“Is that what you believe they are? Shall we discuss these dreams? Were you the devil in them?”
Is she fucking with me?
“Look,” I wrap my arms around my waist, as my stomach heaves, “this isn’t some romcom where we’re bantering back and forth before we fall into bed. And don’t do some kind of Freudian analysis on that. You already believe that I’m a playboy, right? A BDSM obsessed deviant? I’ve heard it all before. Fuck you. I only met with you again, rather than recovering at home where I am desperate to be right now, because I need to find out about the new meds you put me on. Are you a fellow Catholic? Because I understand the Lucifer and Hell imagery. It never leaves you, huh? Maybeyouneed some help with that.”
Rage flashes across Olivia’s face, before she can hide it.
