Mack (King #4)(5)
No. You don’t require help. You’re still Ted Valentine. You’re in control. Capable. You can deal with this.
Of course, those were all just empty words because I had zero explanation for what was happening.
Thinking that a well-rested mind might help, I went to bed early. That night I dreamed of running down a steep dirt hill, the sun burning my back while I was chased by a man with a gleaming silver sword, his face covered in blood. When I was unable to run any further, I looked down at my muddy burlap dress. I was already bleeding from a deep wound. I then looked up at the approaching man, and all I could see were two stunning blue eyes framed by a face covered in deep crimson.
Then it all faded away.
~~~
The next morning I craved sausage. Sausage and eggs and cheese. I felt ravenous—like a person who hadn’t eaten in weeks.
I shuffled through my freezer, wondering why all of my food was so healthy and bland. Frozen chicken, peas, and some plain spaghetti Lean Cuisines. Inside my refrigerator were bags of prepared salad, bottled water, turkey, and bread. No mayo, dressings, hot sauces, or anything fatty or spicy.
“Who is this person?” I said under my breath, running my hands over the top of my head and catching a glimpse of Bentley sitting there staring at me judgmentally.
“For f*ck’s sake! What are you looking at? Haven’t you ever seen a person go crazy?”
He continued staring as if to say, “No. You’re my first, you crazy bitch.”
“Yeah, well…f*ck you back, Bentley!”
He practically rolled his eyes at me and headed for the little grassy side yard through his doggy door, seeking better company outside. Tree. Squirrel. Hermit crab. Whatever.
I went back into my depressingly sterile-looking bedroom—white comforter, white armchair, reading lamp, a white dresser, and a clock—slipped on my jeans and a tee and grabbed my car keys, heading straight for the drive-thru. I purchased two breakfast croissanwiches and a mocha with extra whipped cream and chocolate syrup. I inhaled everything, noticing how each bite of the salty fat tasted like an orgasm in my mouth, born from some dark delicious world and better than any sex. Yes, I’d had sex. And I’d had orgasms, too. They were pleasant when I was lucky enough to achieve one, but I’d never understood why so many people obsessed over getting off. I much preferred a good jog or a hot bath. Those were beneficial to my health. But this morning, my taste buds felt like they were connected to every part of my body. I’d even caught myself moaning at a stoplight while I chewed a piece of gooey melted cheese.
Crap. What’s happening to me? The cheese wasn’t even real.
I found myself heading for the center, desperately needing to see Mr. Room Twenty-Five one more time.
~~~
My black BMW came to a screeching halt in my parking space. I turned off the engine, jumped out, and rushed inside, doing a crazy-speed walk toward the residents’ wing. Somewhere inside the mental chaos, I heard the weekend staff greeting me as I walked the long corridor, but I could only focus on one thing: him.
When I got to his door and stared at the small rectangular window absent of light, a cold shiver swept through my body.
Ohmygod. I couldn’t believe it, but I felt genuinely frightened.
Doesn’t matter. I need to see him. I twisted the handle and pushed. My breath immediately caught as I spotted my mystery man sitting in the corner, facing the doorway as if expecting me.
“Hello,” I said, my voice full of pathetic and unfamiliar quivers. “Do you remember me from yesterday?”
He didn’t reply, nor did that seductively muscular silhouette flinch an inch.
“I’m going to assu-u-umme that you do,” I stuttered, pushing a lock of my hair behind my ear. “This will sound crazy—and the fact that a psychologist is saying that is humorous, I get that—but I need to know who you are.”
“Why?” he said in a jarringly deep voice that filled the room.
I stepped back but stopped myself from running out the door as I had yesterday. Instead, I focused on his question. I wanted to tell him the truth. I wanted to share with someone what had happened to me. And somewhere in the back of my discombobulated head, I believed him to be the only person on the planet who might comprehend. Nevertheless, telling a patient that they’ve triggered a possible psychotic break in their doctor wasn’t wise. (A) It would not instill confidence. (B) It might make them feel guilt over something they truly weren’t responsible for. (C) They were not here to help me; it was the other way around.
I straightened my back. “Well, I ru-run this facility, and it’s my job to know who we’re treating. I have to ensure you’re getting the right help.” I balled my hands into tight fists, hoping he wouldn’t notice them shaking.
A long moment passed, and I watched the shadows of his menacingly thick arms rise up as he laced his fingers behind his head and leaned back in the chair.
I was getting the impression that this man wasn’t sick and that something else was going on.
Either way, he hadn’t answered my question. Either way, I needed to know. Either way, it felt like my life depended on the answer.
“Who the hell are you?” I asked again, my voice filled with false bravado.
A stiff-drink-worthy moment passed, and I felt his blue, blue eyes burning into me, though I couldn’t see them.
“My name is Mack.”