In the Lion's Teeth: Second Edition

Chapter One

It's been three years since you've arrived in the United States. Two and a half since you started seeing Dr. Kimball. Six of improperly treated symptoms.

You give up.

Your name is Pascal Al-Nassar, and this is your last appointment with your psychiatrist, ever. What happens next, you don't know. But nothing can get worse. It won't get better, but nothing was getting better anyway.

Psychotropic medication that left you semi-catatonic. Mood stabilizers as useful as sugar pills. Alternative medicine - acupuncture, acupressure, weird herbs that smelled like feet, which mostly just left you a little sleepy but otherwise, unchanged.

You sit, silently, across from Dr. Kimball. Her face is sad, resigned. You swallow and wipe your hand over your eyes, as if to clear your vision, to clear your mind. You hesitate when you hear the whisper, sharp and growling, like wolves far enough away to be unseen but close enough to catch you no matter how fast you start to run.

You're mine, now.

Mineminemine

Ours!

She couldn't help you because nobody can.

Crackling and hissing like a poorly tuned radio, a tangible, tactile static in your skull, snapping and popping between the synapses of your brain. You don't acknowledge it. You can't. Not here. When you're back in your car where it's silent, private, safe.

"I'm sorry we weren't able to successfully treat your symptoms," she says, and you jump, looking up as you slide your fingers down to your mouth.

"Yeah," you say. "Well." You don't continue, because what is there to say?

"I..."she pauses. "I know you're still struggling, and I... I wish I had something else for you to try," she says. "You're brilliant, Pascal, one of the most intelligent and creative people I've ever met. And I worry that your symptoms may eventually get in the way of you being able to accomplish all your goals. But..."

You slide your hand down to your arm, hugging yourself because oh, god, how you need it, and nobody else will. "But right now you seem to have them mostly under control," she continues. "As well as someone with a case like yours can be."

You half smile and huff out a half-laugh, not amused, really. Dejected. Accepting.

"I would feel comfortable agreeing to letting you go, as long as you allow me to call you twice a month to check in and make sure you're still stable."

"I can call you," you murmur.

"You can right now," she says gently, but firmly. "But we both know how quickly schizoaffective sufferers can detach from reality. If that happens, calling me will be the last thing on your mind."

You breathe in, slow, deep, and you wish it were a drag off a cigarette because even though it's not much, it's comforting, at least. "Yeah," you finally agree. "You're right." And if it does get worse, and she does intervene, and she does try to hospitalize you, it could potentially ruin your career, but... it's better than being homeless because you can't keep a job or dead under a bridge somewhere.

"Well," she says, "Goodbye for now, then, Pascal." She stands and so do you, taking an awkward, stumbling half step forward to shake her hand. Hers is soft but firm, like your mom's were, back when you still had a mom.

"Good luck," she says. "And if you need anything, don't hesitate to call. I'm not sending you away, okay?"

"Yeah," you nod. Ending your treatment here was your idea in the first place. But it still feels like abandonment. Like she's giving up on you, even though you're the one giving up on yourself. "Thank you," you say, as your hands part and you slide your jacket on. "For everything. Even if it didn't work."