Disclaimer: you all know it's Mr. Larson's
Roger opened his eyes. The room was bright white and assaulted his eyes. He moaned and turned away from it.
"Good afternoon, Roger."
The voice was calm, smooth and haughty, and totally unfamiliar.
Huh? Roger blinked and looked around. A stranger sat in a chair near his bed. Roger tried to sit up, but his hands would not move. He tugged at them, but something restrained him. "What's wrong with my hands?" Roger asked. Panic welled in his chest. He needed his hands. He needed them. Suddenly a wave of cold revulsion washed over him. Was this some kind of punishment, for neglecting the guitar? Some karmic equation, solved?
Roger yanked and struggled but his hands would not move.
"You've been restrained," said the stranger. Roger really looked at him for the first time. He was probably in his thirties, Asian, clean-cut and smiling without emotion. Roger looked at him for a moment, then realized the meaning of the man's words. Restrained? No, that wasn't possible. Why would they do that to him?
…was he being arrested? Roger realized that it was wholly possible. He was in the hospital for a heroin overdose. The irony hurt. Years ago at any given time Roger had at least three hits on him. He was clean now—clean, and being arrested for heroin usage.
"One of the nurses reported hearing what she believed to be suicidal remarks, so we're keeping you as safe as possible."
Roger shook his head. "No," he said. "No, I'm not…" Talking to the ceiling was incredibly frustrating, but he had to look somewhere. "Okay, look, I did this to myself. Okay? But I'm not suicidal."
"The nurse reported hearing you remark that you should have died," the stranger prompted.
By now Roger understood what was happening. He knew a shrink's tones when he heard one. "Yes," he said. "I overdosed. I… you believe in God, Doc?" Roger asked. When no answer came, he continued, "Well, I don't know if I do. But I believe this: things sort themselves out. After everything I put my friends through in withdrawal, after every time I lost my temper with Mark when he tried to take care of me, here I am. Couldn't do it. So… karma, not suicide," Roger concluded. As much as he hated shrinks, babbling to them was easier than being evasive. Somehow they always found his weaknesses.
"Do you believe you deserve to die, Roger?" the shrink asked.
"Eventually, everyone dies," Roger retorted. The ceiling tiles had little dots. He began to count them.
"But do you believe you deserve to die now?" the shrink pressed.
Roger would have shrugged, if he could have. "I wrote the date of my death. Traded it for a few moments of pure happiness."
"Hm. You know, Roger, I think I'd like to meet with you again and if it seems helpful I can write you a prescription for something to help you feel better. Okay?"
Roger shook his head. "I don't have the money," he said.
"Well, your insurance should cover it."
Insurance. Right.
to be continued!
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