While I Was Sleeping

Chapter 1

A bit early for death wishes, I thought as the knocking finally broke my slumber. The day felt sticky and humid like the hotboxed sauna Atlanta was. I peeked through a crusted eyelid. It's too bright. Too early. Three p.m, according to my cracked phone screen. Like I said, it's too early. Metallic dog tags stuck to my chest. My head slipped through the first piece of fabric I could snatch from the cluttered bedroom. I threw back the last swig of whiskey from my nightstand and grabbed my pistol.

There it was again. Loud and audacious banging. So close now, I felt as though they were tapping directly on my temple. Begging me to pull this trigger. I slid the safety back and swung the door open ready for my aggressor.

"Put that damn thing down!" Dr. Samantha scolded.

"Still deciding on that part," I muttered but lowered the gun anyways.

"Morgan, you haven't lost your mind yet!" she shouted as she pushed past me into the apartment.

"Of course, I have. Why else would you be here?" I commented.

"You aren't answering your phone. And why the hell is it so hot in here?" she observed.

"AC is for guests," I informed her.

"Well, I'm here," Dr. Samantha announced, making room for herself on the lopsided couch. She used her cane to swat away the empty beer bottles that filled the sunken cushions of the sofa.

"You're not a guest. You're my psychiatrist making a wellness check. I'm well. Thanks for checking. See you next week," I said, dryly.

"You're not well, Morgan. You're waving a gun around with no pants on. By the look of this place alone, I could have you institutionalized," she opened her leather messenger bag and retrieved her file on me. Ah, there it was. One, two, three pen clicks and she was scrawling her concerns into a report.

"So, is there a valid reason that you missed your session?" she asked, her pen waiting for my answer.

"Dr. Sam, I'm sorry if I missed some bogus grace period because we all know your meetings never start when they're supposed to," I snapped. She notated this before addressing me.

"Mmhm...Morgan, do you know what day it is?" she asked, pushing her thick tortoiseshell glasses on her nose.

"It's...what kind of question is that?" I asked.

"The kind that requires an answer. What day is it?"

"It's Tuesday. Duh. Why else would you be here?" I mocked.

"Mmhm...," she commented as she made another scribble about me in her report.

"Here we go," I sighed and plopped down in the distressed LazyBoy across from her.

"What did you eat for lunch yesterday, Morgan?" Dr. Samantha asked in a voice most patients knew as conversational rather than patronizing. But I knew better.

"A southwest cobb salad with lime vinaigrette and a slice of cheesecake but don't tell my nutritionist," I winked.

"Don't lie to me, Morgan. We don't get anywhere when you lie to me," she removed her glasses to rub the bridge of her nose. I rolled my eyes.

"Go ahead, Doc. Tell me what I had for lunch, then," I said, spinning the gun around my finger. Dr. Samantha wasn't phased.

"First of all, today is Sunday. You missed our last scheduled session a week ago. By your appearance, the only thing you've consumed recently is Jack Daniels. You'd never order a cobb salad unless it came with just the eggs and bacon."