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Dr Wong
I enter the room and find Dr Wong finishing up her notes from the last patient. “Hello, Carly,” she smiles. “Good to see you again. Please take a seat. I won’t be a minute.”
“Thanks.” I sit down opposite her and find a point on the floor to focus on.
“So, how are we doing with the Thurlax?”
I clench my jaw. “Great.”
“Have you noticed any improvement?”
“Yes, quite a bit.” I shift awkwardly. “Actually, I do have a couple of questions.”
“Fire away.”
“I don’t know where to start.”
Dr Wong looks at me. Her eyes shine with warmth and integrity. “Are you okay?” she asks softly.
“No, not really. I-I feel like everything’s getting on top of me again.” Tears stream down my cheeks. Dr Wong passes me a box of Kleenex. “Thank you.” I blow my nose. “I’m sorry for blubbering like this.”
“No worries; take as long as you need.” As I struggle to compose myself, Dr Wong’s voice adopts a more soothing tone. “So … do you want to talk about it?”
I wet my lips. “It’s lots of things. Basically, I’ve lost control of my life. My father had a stroke and I’ve been living in a nightmare ever since. I’ve been going up and down to the hospital every day, and the stress is killing me. I keep wondering if he’s going to make it.”
“I’m very sorry to hear that. It can’t be easy for you. Have you been getting any support from your family?”
“Yes, my mother and her husband have been great. But it’s still a lot for me to carry.” I blow my nose again.
“And what about your boyfriend?”
“My boyfriend?”
“Yes, the man you told me about on your last visit.”
“Oh, you mean Nick …”
“Has he been very supportive?”
“Um, he doesn’t actually know. We haven’t spoken since Saturday.”
“Why is that?”
Because he’s a vampire who may or may not have murdered an innocent woman.
No, I don’t say that, but I want to. Right now, I’d love nothing more than to open up to Dr Wong and just tell her the truth about everything. But I can’t, because I know she’ll think I’m nuts. And, quite honestly, I no longer know what the truth is myself. Do I seriously believe Nick’s a vampire? Even thinking it seems crazy.
Dr Wong continues to stare at me, awaiting my response. In the end, I just shrug and look at the floor. “We had a bit of an argument, that’s all.”
She begins scribbling something in her notebook. Then she lays down her pen, pulls out a large grey medical folder and spends a few moments leafing through various documents. Then she scratches the side of her mouth and says, “Okay, Carly, I’ll tell you where I am. Since your last appointment, I’ve managed to get full access to your medical records. Having read through them, I’m now in a better position to help, but first I just need to clarify some things.” She pauses. “It says here that between September 2004 and April 2005, you were a patient at St Ann’s Psychiatric Hospital. Is that true?”
“Yes,” I reply.
“And you were treated for a post-traumatic stress disorder?”
“Yes, that’s right.” I close my eyes. For a second, I’m back in the brightly lit hospital lounge with yellow wallpaper. Ronan and I are sitting in plastic bucket chairs arranged in a semi-circle. We’re watching horse racing on TV with the sound down. Suddenly, the doors open and a huge guy dressed in a dirty hospital gown appears. “They’re trying to kill us!” he bellows.
“Who’s trying to kill us?” Ronan frowns.
