Pushing Up Daisies

Chapter 31 : The Past Serves the Present

A Year Later : Untitled 2020
KIM BONA

"Have you really taken the pills that I sorted for you last month, Miss? I truly see nothing better in your records."
I give an odd same boring therapist an unenthusiastic shrug, rawly throwing hands in the airs.

"What can I say? I took them all deliberately. My own psychologists take care of everything in my physical and mental, and I've been definitely obedient," I tell her, feeling too irritated to be here every damn two weeks. "Maybe your stupid pills are the problem," I add.

Her little eye-rolling occurs and it doesn't even bother me that much. I know I'm stirring her. But she keeps asking the same questions, giving me the same crappy medicine that it absolutely doesn't work on me, even though I take them all properly and so neatly. I'm so sick of meeting her already, and I can tell she is, too.

"In my opinion, I'd rather see you get more attention towards your mental, Miss. You ought to pause your job and apply the full treatment. You've been in this state for many years. The last time you really got better was around five years ago. That's not a really good record at all."

"I dunno." I sarcastically grimace, crossing legs, and begin to rest my elbow onto her desk between us. "Like I said; maybe it's your lame process. If you've properly learned your degrees and run your issues good enough, my case wouldn't have taken that long, you know?" I rudely protest, sound like a complete moron. "Who knows...maybe I certainly should switch the hospital. Yours keep eating my money too much for nothing."

And I can see she's a bit angry now, the way her jaw twisting obviously.

"We do what we're supposed to do, and it's the best. Maybe it's you who doesn't even admit yourself that you're sick and also behaving badly to your own therapist." She sounds way sarcastically irritated, I can tell.

"I behave, Mrs. Swift. I've been a great patient. I constantly devote taking your shitty pills." I feel like I keep repeating the same words, the same goddamned platform; as if crawling in the odd loop, days by days.

"I'm Smith," she impatiently corrects, gritting her teeth.

"Whatever. Does it even matter to me?" This is not me. This is my evil version. And I can tell it's disturbing for me to hurt her feelings, too.

She's been doing her best to heal my lame mentality. I'm grateful for what she's done to me. Being horrible is just the way I want to resign from this treatment. It won't work for me anymore. Totally ineffectual. It gives me feel like I could jump off the high roof by now without any regrets at all. I'm tired of tolerating it as hell.

"Miss. I need you to mellow out now. You're way too awful. This is why you have to take—."

"You know what?" I interrupt, pulling my chair backwards standing over her. "I'm so done being here. Good bye forever, Mrs. Stitch." And I leave myself out of the room without caring about her calling behind.

I'm sorry, Mrs. Smith. You're too good to waste your time with my unfixable health. It can't be fixed anything anymore.

Even Band-Aids can't heal them, either.

When I got out into the corridor of the hospital, Macro even spots me first before I do. He rushes from the waiting bench and approaches to my way with the extremely careful look.

"What did she say? Do you really have to take the full treatment?" he worriedly mutters through the choir of emergency patients behind.

"I resigned," I rawly reply, walking past him.

"What do you mean? You can't do that. You need help!" He hurriedly walks along with me, lowering his voice on the mid-track himself.

"I am independent, Marc," I snap as quicken my footsteps. I need to get out of here, that's all I know.