Peroxide (Peterick)

I love peroxide patrick more than I love myself

"All right, Patrick, you know the drill," Dr. Saporta says, his eyes fixed on the report that I have to fill out every time I visit him.

"The drill"? Is that some sort of PTSD joke? Make sure he recognizes it, Patrick, that lots of people who have PTSD served in the army, and do you know what's in an army? Drills. Call him out. Do it.

"The drill?" I stammer.

Dr. Saporta glances up from his paper briefly to restate, "Yeah, the drill. Like, what's going on in your head, Patrick?"

My jaw clenches. "Nothing."

"We both know that's not quite accurate," he laughs. "Tell the truth."

"What makes you think there's something going on?" I shift uncomfortably in the plush seat across from my psychologist's, but nothing is suitable for my restlessness.

"I know for a fact that there are voices conversing with you right now. Maybe it's a one-sided conversation, but they're present nevertheless." Satisfaction sails across his face, and I curse him for being so cocky, a curse manifesting in denial.

"That's a lie, sir."

Dr. Saporta holds up the report, waving it around in the air; I want to tell him to quit it, for the material is crinkling, but I refrain from doing so, because he'd use it against me — so much for versatile, Mother.

Command that man to stop.

"I'm the one with the diagnostic sheet, kid," Dr. Saporta parries, lenses stooping to read it. "Obsessive-compulsive disorder, psychosis, social anxiety, autism, and post-traumatic stress disorder."

So condescending. Why don't you fire him?

"Well it seems like you did the drill for me, so there's no use and no outcome, except that you're a total cunt." I frown, counting off the items spoken from the diagnostic sheet without waiting for my psychologist's reaction. "Three anxiety disorders, one psychotic disorder, and the one people always resent. Fantastic. I hope you understand that I turn away from listing them for a reason, Doctor."

Silence that lasts a few minutes.

"Anything unusual happen since the last time we chatted, Patrick?" Dr. Saporta ushers out of his previously quiet form, intrigue dwelling in his mahogany irises, an intrigue that puts me off.

Without severing the eye contact between myself and my lap, I respond, "I met a new friend."

Dr. Saporta is taken aback, his brows scrunching in his labor to decipher my unusual words. "A new friend, you say? How...odd. I find you to be very anti-social, because, well..."

"You mean asocial, not anti-social," I correct. "You, of all people, should know this."

My psychologist chuckles. "Right, yes."

"I don't appreciate being compared to a psychopath or a sociopath," I cut him off. "Not because I don't have respect for the dilemma that is their personality disorder, but because it's imprecise, and I thought you would value my perfectionism, Dr. Saporta. Why would you say such a thing?"

"Forgive me, Patrick, for being so inconsiderate," the man replies sardonically, sarcastic eyes circling. "But it seems like you're regretting sharing the news about your friend with me, for you're diverting the subject."

My arms cross, right one on top to prevent the concussion of the other limb and the ethereal mark. "Only because you deplore the idea of me making companions."