Don't Talk! (Freddie Mercury / Queen)

20. "Bitter Would Have Me Taste; My Taste Was Me."

A/N- Two warnings, (i) this chapter contains some heavy stuff so read with caution*
(ii) I also apologise if this chapter bores you to tears😂.

H.G
Knightsbridge, England
December, 19th

You won't often catch me quoting Sigmund Freud, but even a broken clock is right twice a day. When I first read that "Unexpressed emotions will never die. They are buried alive, and will come forth later, in uglier ways," I probably should have passed some heed. Perhaps today's emotional breakdown could have been avoided if I had taken such a statement seriously.

But I am getting ahead of myself.

"Oh darling, are you feeling a little better now?" My mother lingered by the door, and peaked her head in.

I had fled home in the hopes I would receive a shred of comfort, which really was naive of me. Posh parents don't concern themselves with such nonsense.

"I already told you that I'm feeling much better." I rasped, and sat up in the bed. "If I could just get a glass of water—"

"You were throwing up all morning."  She commented, "I will phone Doctor Morris!"

"Oh please don't." I exclaimed with horror.

Doctor Morris was a man who had to be at least seventy when I was a boy, so god only knows what age he is now. I went to him before when I was younger and suffering from a similar bout of nausea and insomnia. He told me that I was suffering from an excess of black bile, and that I was melancholic as a result. I wasn't too shocked considering Dr Morris was probably there when Hippocrates defined the bodily humours and Galen developed his theory of personality.

The doctor poked and prodded, proceeded to ask me about my sex life, and recommended seeing a psychiatrist by the end of the session because he claimed all my symptoms were manifestations of my ailing mind. All with my father in the room because I was only seventeen. It was bloody traumatic.

'Melancholy? Psychiatrist? Those bloody thieving doctors are scam artists! Hayes, you better pull yourself together and sharpen up. There's nothing wrong with you.'

So at seventeen I did indeed pull myself together, and didn't unravel again until four years ago when I first fled to New York. That was most likely the bleakest period in my life, until once again I somehow managed to piece myself back together. And now I don't know if I had it in me to do it again.

"Well if you won't see Doctor Morris" my mother began, "I'm afraid I will have to send you over to George and Annie."

"What?" I asked groggily, "Why?"

"I have guests popping over dear, I hope you understand."

"But I'll be in my room—"

"Please understand Hayes," she finally entered the room, "I don't want to risk anyone getting your bug." She briefly touched my forehead and left once again, "I'll have cook bring you up some water before you go."

I think I may have hit rock bottom, because I pulled on some grey trousers (that I think were for leisure wear based on the fabric), and a jersey from my days of playing soccer at school. I even wore 'sandals' because the effort of tying laces seemed far too much hassle today.

George and Anne looked at me as though I had lost it when I shuffled through the door of their Knightsbridge townhouse. My brother considered me with considerable concern as he ushered me in. I probably shouldn't have driven myself over because it completely took the rest of my energy away from me, but here we are.