Descent of The Lamb

2. Vocation

I found comfort in how normal and real my hospital bed felt. I spent many hours waiting, with no one to give me company. My phone was destroyed in the fire, so I couldn't text or call anyone. I was happy I had it insured, but that was for a later time. Nowadays everyone gets their own room in a hospital, but when there is no one to visit you, you begin to wish you had the awkward stranger sharing a room with you.

It was true; I hadn't been stabbed. Not only that, but both my parents and sister died from smoke inhalation. Nothing that I experienced was real. But for me, it was. For some reason the fact that none of it was "real" made it feel more "real" to me. Those obviously weren't normal home intruders, and their effect on everything disappearing just seemed to fit.

Obviously they all thought I had lost my mind. "An effect of PTSD" they said. But that would imply that everything I experienced happened after the trauma. It didn't. The psych questioned me endlessly, almost insisting I had to be completely insane.

"Now really think hard. Have you ever had murderous impulses, possibly associated with scissors?" He asked. What kind of question was that? He stared back at me with a blinding glare from the lights reflecting off of his glasses.

"No, never. Why would you ask that?" It felt like the longer our sessions, the psych drove himself more and more insane, and I just got annoyed.

"Well, your dream could have been a manifestation of a fantasy. You said there was an element of sexual tension in your conversation with the man who supposedly killed you. Do you have any fetishes regarding violence, possibly associated with scissors?" You could tell he was an old school guy by how he said "fetish" trying to sound as professional as possible. It resulted in him just sounding uncomfortable with his own question.

"Yes, absolutely. I have a huge fetish for guys to take apart scissors and put them back together, over and over and over. It really gets me going. Is that possibly associated with scissors enough for you?"

"Mr. Gower, this is not a matter to be joking around with. You have been through a very traumatic event and I fell a thorough psychological evaluation will shed light on some very useful information that can aide in your treatment. If you're not able to take this seriously I may have to request your admittance to a mental hospital due to the possibility of you being socio or psychopathic."

Is he serious? He can't be serious. As if everything that's happened wasn't enough, I just have to get a psychologist that threatens to send me to a mental hospital.

I stared back at him blankly, showing how ridiculous I thought he was.

"Well this session has obviously been long enough for you. I'll be back tomorrow, Lucien."

"Goodbye," I replied. His shoes that had been expensive when he bought them 40 years ago made large thuds as he walked out of my room, finally giving me a chance to get rid of the headache he gave me. He asked the most ridiculous questions. "Possibly associated with scissors" was practically his tagline.

I fell asleep fairly soon after he left. With nothing to do but lie in bed and watch TV, which I don't like to do, I spent a lot of time sleeping. Of course, I couldn't sleep for an extended amount of time.

After a strong knock on the door, the policeman that was assigned to my houses arsine case walked in and took the seat against the wall that was closest to me. I woke up from the door knock, and watched him walk to the chair.

"Hello Mr. Gower. How are you feeling today?" He was a pleasant man, with a calming smile.

"The psych gave me a headache but other than that I feel fine." The headache the psych gave me was more metaphoric than real, but I wanted to complain about him in some way.
"I'm sorry. Is he causing you any trouble?" I was slightly stunned he cared enough to ask me about it.