Four - Lord, Just One More Day

Harry paced in his room. He despised this helpless feeling. At noon, an orderly came and traded his breakfast tray for a lunch tray. Although he yearned for a shot of whiskey, his jailers were merciless in their resolve to deny him this one small pleasure. He could smoke until his lungs blackened with tar in this miserable excuse for a health care facility, but he wasn’t allowed one tiny drop of even the mildest spirits. Not even mouthwash. At least his vice wouldn’t contribute to the demise of everyone around him like second-hand smoke would. He marveled at what a strange, backward philosophy they justified in this establishment.

Harry devoured his soup, sandwich and green beans. He ate like it had been weeks since he had last eaten. The food wasn’t great, but it was edible. When he finished, he sat back on his bed, and looked around his room. There were books on the side table. The Big Book. The Bible. An assortment of inspirational tomes. He sat back, definitely not in the mood to dive into any of those at the moment. Or ever, if he could help it.

The door clicked. Harry stood, ready to face his next challenge. His visitor this time was a counselor. The recovery phase of his visit was about to begin. Harry wasn’t the least bit interested. His life was in danger. He was a sitting duck. It was far too easy for that Dominican thug to enter his room at will. There was no telling when he would return to finish the job.

“Mr. Denby. Do you hear yourself? What would you say to a person in your interrogation room with a history of alcohol and cocaine abuse who just laid out a story like that?”

“I’d say, let’s see your neck injury.” Harry stuck his neck out so the counselor could see the wound.

“Mr. Denby, I’m sure you can understand my skepticism, especially since your breakfast dishes were left in here all morning. Can you see it from my perspective? You could easily have done that yourself with the butter knife.”

“Except for the fact there was no butter knife on the breakfast plate. And I doubt a spoon or a fork could make a clean cut like this. I’m not delusional. I’m not paranoid. I’m not hallucinating.”

“Okay, Mr. Denby. We’ve established you are quite familiar with the vocabulary of the mental health arena. How about this…why don’t we get started with our schedule today, and I’ll make sure Dr. Steinberg spends a few minutes with you before the day is out. We’ll monitor your visitors carefully so no more bad guys can get in to attack you. Fair enough?”

“Please, just check out my story. Hector. Write it down. The name of the orderly was Hector.”

“If I write it down, will you agree to come to group with me now?”