Bridges to Bradford

Part Two: Trevor's Trials

9 Months Earlier...

Ordinarily, Trevor would have attributed the feeling of his brain melting inside his aching skull to the nearly 100 degree heat index on an all too typical Summer day like this one. For the past few weeks he had been able to convince himself that it was only the sweltering humidity that was causing him to go all loopy in the head. On any other Summer he probably would have been right, but this year it had become overwhelmingly apparent that there was something very seriously wrong.
That was why despite all of his extreme prejudices against it he had finally broken down and decided to drive himself to the hospital. The county psychiatric hospital.
He figured he may as well go in and at least have some sort of mental assessment done by either a psychiatrist or a nurse practitioner with a notepad. With any luck, after listening to miseries they might swap out the first notepad for a prescription pad.
Alright, so he felt a little like a drug seeker. He hadn't wanted that, but he didn't give a damn anymore. The anxiety and depression had gotten so intense that he had wondered if he might be slipping into some form of full-blown psychosis.
Furthermore, he couldn't afford to miss another day of work at a job he had only started a few months earlier. At least he had forced himself to go in that morning like a good, reliable employee, even if he did just sit there staring at his computer screen for hours.
His work productivity numbers over the past month had to look like shit, and everything undoubtedly being tracked technologically at the insurance company office he worked in, there was no way in hell his supervisor hadn't noticed his decline.
To make matters more stressful, today hadn't been the first day he had informed his supervisor that he wasn't feeling well and needed to leave work early. He would have much preferred to just slip out of the office doors without a word, and ask for forgiveness later. However, asking for forgiveness after the fact rather than for permission before was against company policy, and therefore fair grounds for termination.
That morning he had tried notifying his supervisor that he needed to go via instant messenger, but predictably she had deemed it necessary for him to come over and have a little face to face chat with her first.
He obliged, and sluggishly made his way across across the bustling office to the supervisors desk. She sat in a corner of the office next to a window, a perfect perch for her to watch all the comings and goings of her employees. Rumor had it that she never missed an opportunity to do just that.
As he approached, he could see her aging frame hunch over her desk, focused intently on her double-monitors. She didn't bother looking up at him until he close enough to bump shoulders.
“Tell me what's going on,” she said in her overused, falsely warm tone.
She looked and often behaved like someone's unsuspecting, kindly old granny, but Trevor knew better. Beneath that soft, crookedly wigged, slightly hunched exterior lie a hungry predator just waiting to pounce.
Unfortunately, he really wasn't feeling well enough to make 100% certain that he kept the caged beast within docile and empathetic to his ails. All he could do was to be honest. He hated being honest. Somehow it always seemed to bring about trouble.

“So tell me what's going on,” she demanded of him too cordially to be threatening, and too sternly not to be.
Trevor swayed on the balls of his feet, trying to come up with an explanation. He didn't know how in the hell he was supposed to clarify his reasoning for having to leave work early yet again when he wasn't completely sure himself.
Nevertheless, she had him cornered, watching him expectantly.
“I'm just still not feeling well,” he offered up the only logical excuse. “I thought I was in better shape before I came in today, but I still feel very off.”
To his mild surprise his supervisor's eyes didn't glaze over at hearing his weak excuse. Instead she glanced at her computer screens and then back at him.
“You've been here for just over two hours,” she noted.
“I know,” he said, as sheepishly as he could muster. “I just don't think it would be in my best interest health-wise to stay here and finish out the day. I'm barely holding up over there at my desk as it is.”
She nodded and made a soft humming noise as if pondering the value of his fate.
“Make sure you bring me a doctor's note upon your return,” she finally relented. “I hope you feel better soon.”
Trevor nodded and thanked her before turning and scurrying away. There was no good reason to chance any further investigation into his recent absences.
As he hurried down the three flights of stairs that he knew would be his best shot at avoiding nosy co-workers and their predictably unhelpful questions, he breathed a sigh a relief in knowing that the solid hour he had spent that morning staring off into space in a bathroom stall had seemingly gone unnoticed. Of course, it seemed that most of what he did went unnoticed. If he hadn't feared the repercussions awaiting him when he returned to work, he would have much rather have chanced slipping out of the office without a word.
He needed this job, though. He needed it just as badly as he had needed the other twelve he hadn't been able to hold onto over the past ten years. With him barely swinging into month three at the insurance company, he had to admit to himself that he was already off to a shaky start.
Perhaps if he had believed in psychics and called one instead of the half dozen therapist and psychiatrists who had mostly never bothered to call him back, then maybe he would been aware of the futility of it all.
The job, for all intents and purposes, was already D.O.A., and by the time his mother rushed him to the emergency room that very next night, so nearly was he.