The Bar

39. Interogation

Flint felt a fire in his chest, a sickness in his stomach, a pain in his head. It felt like someone had set him on fire.

He never in a million years thought he'd feel this pain from hearing Clara scream.

Her scream lasted a second, her crying lasted a few minutes but all of it had sent Flint down a spiral of pure hell.

She was in pain, deep, dark pain as the doctor set the break in her hand and wrapped it. Her pain meds wouldn't kick in for another twenty minutes and every minute that passed she cried and Flint felt the surging torture as he held her.

They sat lengthwise on the couch, the doctor facing Clara, Flint behind her, her back against his chest. Clara leaned against Flint, one of his legs planted on the floor the other curved on the couch. She tilted her head, nuzling his neck for comfort.

"It looks good now," doctor Philemon says. "Heres my card."

The doctor hands Flint his card, it was black with gold lettering.

"Call that number and set up an appointment for me to come by for a follow up, she may need a cast," Philemon explains.

Flint knew the consierge doctor would probably cost an arm and leg but Flint didn't care and it wasn't as if Flint was poor (in fact he was swimming in millions but no one knew that.)

"What about the pain?" Flint asked.

"I'll write a prescription for dilauded, a small dose, one that will get her by....hmm..."

Philemon looked at her more closely, tilting his head.

"No... I'll write a prescription for a low dose of morphine, maybe codene. She's too small for the hard core stuff," Philemon chuckles.

He tilts his head from one side to the other then hesitates to continue.

"How much do you eat? What is your appetite like?" He asks.

Clara doesn't say anything, she only nuzzles against Flint, the pain near unbearable. Her good hand grips his thigh, her nails digging into his jeans.

"I force her to eat breakfast and dinner, but she tends to skip lunch unless I force that on her too. She doesn't eat much but I try to get her to eat as much as she can," Flint explains.

"What about her sleep?"

"Nightmares cause her to wake up in the middle of the night but she's able to get around 8 hours a night."

"Nightmares? How is she with socializing with others? Friends?"

"She hasn't been much for socializing but she works here, talks to people all day. She has a friend but they haven't talked in a long time."

"Has it ever been difficult to get her out of bed?"

"Yes, but shes just tired."

Philemon waits a minute before assesing a diagnosis.

"I'm gonna write her a prescription for an anti-depressent. I'd like to see if they help."

"Anti-depressents? She has a heart condition, will that affect it at all, any side effects?"

"No, it'll be fine. It might help with it, allow her to get out of the house, exercise, not that she needs it," Philemon chuckles.

The doctor stand and goes to Flint's desk. Taking out a prescription pad, writing down two seperate prescriptions then ripping them off the pad.

"I'll leave these on your desk," Philemon says placing the prescriptions near the desk lamp.

Gathering his things, Philemon hums a tune, bobbing his head to whatever song he hummed. Soon he was gone, shutting the office door behind him, leaving the couple alone.