Holding On To Heartache

Chapter 2

Louis is sitting in one of the many chairs in the hallway of the psychiatric ward, nervously wriggling his leg and biting his fingernails. The tension for what the psychiatrist decides for him, is almost unbearable and he hopes he can lie well enough to be believed that it was just an accident. His stomach keeps contracting with nervousness and to distract himself he looks after the other patients who often walk down the hall with blank eyes. He doesn't want to be stuck here under any circumstances. If he knew for sure that he could be just a little bit better in the future, he might even give therapy a chance. But he's been through too many and why should this new one hold anything else in store for him? He can't imagine sneaking down these corridors with an empty stare or opening up again and reporting on everything he's experienced.

When a door opens, he looks up, startled, torn out of his thoughts. "Mr. Tomlinson?" an elderly man asks, looking at him expectantly. He responds with a nod, takes a deep breath and walks into the room.

The psychiatrist introduces himself with a handshake and points to the chair in front of his large desk.

He would have been spared all that if he had simply been left to die in peace.

Serious eyes watch him and Louis decides, for once in his life, to be more than friendly in order to get him released quickly. He forces himself to sit still and breathe controlled.

"Mr. Tomlinson, you attempted suicide, is that correct?" the psychiatrist asks, looking down at Louis's file on the desk in front of him. Louis forces the corners of his mouth up, hoping the smile doesn't turn out to be a weird grimace. He decides not to go with the excuse of an accident, because that already didn't work at the hospital.

"It was a short-circuit reaction. I'm glad it didn't work out," he says, playing cheerfully. The doctor looks up and gives him a long look which leaves Louis more nervous than he already is.

"How did this short-circuit reaction come about?" he asks and leans forward with interest, observing Louis very closely. Louis escapes a sigh but covers it up by quickly replying, "I was triggered by a screaming patron at the pub I work at and old memories came flooding up. Maybe my medication isn't working properly anymore?"

Louis hopes that his acting skills will work and eagerly awaits the reaction of the psychiatrist, who is leafing through his files again. He reads silently and then writes something in it. Louis hears the ticking of the clock and the scratching of the pen loudly and can't resist biting his lower lip tensely.

"Mmm, you've been taking medication for your PTSD since you were a young boy. Maybe we should try another one...," he murmurs to himself and then finally looks up at Louis again. He nods eagerly and hopes that's it. Again he looks at Louis for a long time and aggression starts to rise in him, what did he do to deserve all this? 

"I'm going to prescribe you a new medicine that you're going to start taking today. In addition, you come every day for outpatient therapy. One-on-one sessions are held with one of our psychiatrists. If I have even the slightest suspicion that you are abusing the advance of my trust, I will take you in a compulsory hospitalization. Do you understand that, Mr. Tomlinson?" the psychiatrist asks, looking serious, and Louis nods eagerly. This is better than he had hoped. He won't wait a moment longer once he gets home. This evening he starts the second attempt directly. As if he was actually doing outpatient therapy. It's not that hard to smile this time when he gets the prescription for his new pills and other papers from the psychiatrist. With springy steps and a lighter heart, he walks down the hallways and out of the building.

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When he unlocks the door to his apartment, he breathes a sigh of relief. He takes off his shoes and first goes to his fridge. It's empty except for several bottles of beer and two yogurts. But since Louis has no interest in continuing to live anyway, he no longer needs to worry about making an urgently needed purchase. He takes two bottles of beer with him and sits down on the mattress in his bedroom. He grabs his ashtray and the cigarettes lying on the floor and lights one up with relish. As he puffs hastily on his cigarette, he unlocks his phone and opens his playlist of sad songs, wanting to get in the mood for what he's up to. On the way home he got the new pills from the pharmacy and will later collect all his other leftovers. This time he will just do it in his apartment and thus it is also safe that nobody will find him.