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Rei
The kid is not doing well.
That much is obvious. The mother isn’t wrong in her assessment. She looks worried, dark shadows under her eyes, perfectly coiffed brown hair brushed away from her face.
The interior of the house is nothing like the exterior. There’s nothing breezy or bright about being inside. All the blinds are drawn, and the place smells like heavy lime-scented floor cleaner, the tile floor scrubbed clean to the point that my eyes burn the moment I step into the house. I take notice of the way the mother is dressed. From the way her hair is styled and the hastily applied mascara, I can tell that this is uncomfortable for her. She’s wearing dark jeans and a large, flowing brown shirt with a floral stamp over her chest.
She pointed out where Tom’s bedroom is and stays in the living room after being prompted to by the guys.
Tom’s bedroom is downstairs, his door deep into a recessed hallway. I knock on the door, which is ajar, but there’s no response. And when I open the door, I realize that my suspicions are right.
Tom Souter is really not doing well.
It’s hard to discern his features in the darkness. He’s tall; I know that because he’s taking up most of the bed, one of his legs almost hanging off the foot of the mattress. He’d thrashed in his sleep enough that half the quilt, which was a dark blue, had been thrown off the bed.
I can see why the mother had cleaned the house so thoroughly. Even through the lime, I can smell something rotten. I resist the urge to clasp my hand up to my nose. I don’t want to offend this kid if I can help it.
"Hi, Tom," I say.
He rolls to his side, glassy eyes looking right at me.
"My name is Rei Woods," I say, moving toward him. "I’m a doctor. Do you mind if we talk for a bit?"
He doesn’t answer me, he just…looks right past me. It’s a little unnerving. I’m already cataloguing his symptoms in my head, trying to keep mental notes of his physical and emotional reactions. It’ll be easier if I get closer to him. There’s a chance it could be a seizure. It’s hard to say.
I pad closer, trying to keep my footsteps light. "How about this?" I ask. He focuses on me. If he was having a seizure, it’s definitely passed now, but he might be disoriented. I’m trying to figure that out. "If you want me to go, you just say the word. Or, you know, a word. Any word. You’re still capable of speech, right?"
He laughs. He actually laughs—but it’s weak, so quiet I almost can’t hear him.
"Do you mind if I sit here?" I ask, edging close to the bed. There are a lot of pillows behind him, I assume to prop him up, but he’s on his back on the bed, barely looking at me. "There’s nowhere else to sit."
He laughs again, slowly sitting up. "Doctor," he says, his voice strained, quiet. It sounds like it’s hard for him to talk. "Whatkind?"
"Psychiatrist," I say.
I expect a little resistance, but he just rolls his eyes. He’s probably too tired to protest. Not a good sign. "It won’t help," he says. "You’re not going to be able to help me."
"Help you with what?" I ask.
He laughs, a little more loudly this time. "You know," he says, extending his arms. I see lacerations on his wrists, and they look new. Maybe over the past month or so. "I’m not…my mom tried to get me Baker-acted, but it didn’t work. Apparently I’m not an imminent threat to her or to myself."
I narrow my eyes in thought, remembering the Florida law; Mrs. Souter hadn’t told us she tried to have her son detained.
"Is that why you did this?" I ask, glancing at his wrists.
"No," he says. "I did this because I wanted it to end."
I wait for him to continue. He buries his face in his hands. I think he might cry, but he doesn’t. We don’t know each other that well. "What?" I ask him when he says nothing else. "What do you want to end?"
"I’m…there’s something wrong with me," he says. "Every time I close my eyes, I see something terrible."
"Can you describe it to me?" I ask him.
"It’s always different. Sometimes it’s…I don’t know, I’m surrounded by fire, and there’s a wall in front of me, and I’m trying to climb my way out but the brick keeps crumbling under my touch," he says. "And when I dig my fingernails into it, they peel and burn, and then…"
He opens his eyes, his gaze darting between my face and my hands. In a split second, and I’m not really sure why yet, he decides to trust me. He shows me his hand, his fingers splayed. "Touch my nails," he says. "I’m not contagious. I don’t think."
"Got it," I say. I believe him. I don’t think he’s contagious. I’m trying not to stare at his hands, because they really are in terrible condition. I can see dried blood under his fingernails, his fingers themselves blackened and bruised. They’re swollen too, about twice their normal size.
