"…And how does that make you feel?"
"Come again?" I snap. I've been getting the third degree from the hospital-appointed psychiatrist for twenty minutes now, and I can't say that I've been enjoying it. The last time I saw a therapist I found myself digging into feelings that would be better off still buried, and there's no way in hell that I'm ready to make any more Dexter-related confessions any time soon.
"You mentioned that sometimes it feels like your world is going to come crashing down. How have you been dealing with that?" The older woman asks. Her bright blue eyes stare into mine, attempting to wrestle me into submission. What is it about these fucking doctors that makes them think that I want to spill my guts anyway?
I decide not to give in to the doctor's interrogation tactics. Nope, she isn't getting anything out of me. Instead, I hold up my bandaged wrist and wave it in her direction.
"Well, clearly there are better ways I could've been dealing with it." I answer.
The psychiatrist smirks and then scribbles something down on her notepad.
"Okay, Debra. It is my opinion that you have some deep-seeded issues that extend into your personal life. You appear to be a very dramatic person by nature, and you magnify every situation you find yourself in to near catastrophic levels. I believe that you should attend therapy regularly, but I don't think you're a danger to yourself. You had one moment of weakness, but I don't think suicide watch is a necessity for you at this point. I'll be signing off on your release from the hospital."
"Really?" I ask, wide-eyed. I'm relieved to be leaving this shit hole early, but I'd be lying if I said the woman's words didn't sting a little. Me? Dramatic? Please. This lady doesn't even know the first thing about me or what I have to deal with.
"There's a set of clothes in the closet that you can change into. Should I tell the staff to call anyone for you?"
"Yeah, my brother. He's my emergency contact." I reply.
When the psychiatrist leaves, I open the closet door and pull out the plain white t-shirt and gray sweat pants that were left for me. They're a bit over-sized. but it's not like i'm going to complain.
As I start to change, I think about Dexter. He told me yesterday that he would be back soon, but that was almost twenty-four hours ago. To be honest, I'm worried about him. I know I shouldn't be, but he told me that he would come back, and I believed him. Did he do something stupid and get himself killed? What other explanation could there be for him to just ignore me like this? No visit, no phone call, nothing.
But twenty-four hours isn't that long, right? Maybe I've gotten too attached to Dexter over the years. Maybe our relationship is too codependent. My old therapist used to throw that word around a lot.
The judgmental nurse who patched up my wrist on New Year's enters the room a few minutes later.
"Hello," she begins. "We called your brother but he says that he's unable to come and get you right now. He called you a cab, it should be here any minute."
"Asshole." I mumble, hoping the nurse won't hear me.
"What was that?" She asks. Oops.
"Nothing. I mean, uh, thanks. I guess I'll go wait outside now."
The taxi arrives fifteen minutes later. At first, when the drivers asks me "where to?" I'm unsure of what to tell him. I don't want to go home, but I don't want to go to Dexter's either. For some reason, the fucker clearly doesn't want to see me, and I'm not sure that showing up at his house right now would help anything. It's 6:45, and I know that he's probably eating dinner with Harrison.
I finally make up my mind and give the driver the address of one of my favorite bars not too far from here. Drinking has never really helped me solve any problems, but hey, how much damage can a beer or two do?
I don't have any money with me, but somehow I'm on my fifth drink. I told myself to accept nothing but beer, but of course I didn't keep that promise. I don't like the idea of trying to find a ride home after a night of hard drinking, but after my second beer, a creepy looking guy sitting next to me buys me a vodka (and another…and another…) and I'm not in the business of turning down free drinks.
This guy may not be a fairytale Prince Charming, but he is pretty confident, I'll give him that. He keeps leaning closer and closer to me, but I don't reciprocate. If he thinks he's going to get lucky, he's in for a disappointing evening.
"So what's your name, sexy?" The creep asks, rubbing my leg.
I shoot him my best death glare, but he fires back with a hideous, shit-eating grin. Great. This guy's picture is probably filed in the dictionary, right next to 'oblivious'.
"My name's Lisa." I lie. Sure, I could've just given him my real name, but the idea of being someone else for a while appeals to me. I would love to get out of my own head for even just a few minutes.
"Lisa? Mmm, that's hot. Ay, bartender. How about another vodka on the rocks for my girl Lisa?"
The bartender places a new drink in front of me and I down it embarrassingly fast before asking for another.
"You never told me your name, baby." I coo.
Deb would never be interested in this guy, but Lisa? Maybe Lisa likes the attention.
"Marvin, but you can call me big Marv, sugar." He replies, inching his hand further up my thigh.
Out of the corner of my eye I notice a woman with dark brown hair sitting alone at a nearby table. She's wearing a familiar looking blouse that is accessorized with gaudy jewelry.
"Maria…?" I whisper, turning my entire body to face her.
The woman smiles at me. It's a knowing smile, a challenging one. One that says "you're not going to get away with this Deb", and I know that she's right.
I fiercely rub my eyes, hoping that it'll make her go away. This can't be happening. Maria is dead. I know she is, I killed her myself.
Maybe this is my punishment. Maybe LaGuerta will haunt me now, like some modern version of the ghost of Christmas past showing me what my life will be like if I don't confess to my sins.
I blink rapidly and what I thought was Maria turns into a girl who looks almost nothing like her. I turn away from her quickly so I won't creep her out any more than I already have.
"Is something wrong? Come on, let big Marv know what's on your mind." Marvin comments, bringing me out of my daze.
I shake my head no and giggle uneasily. Marvin continues to flirt with me, and I decide to humor him and flirt back. When I hear myself starting to slur my words, I decide it's time to go home.
Marvin continues moving his hand further up my thigh until he reaches my crotch and starts to rub. I fidget, hoping that he'll catch on to the fact that I'm not interested. Of course, he does not. I swat his hand away and he looks up at me, a pained expression on his face.
"S-sorry." I begin. "Can I, uh, can I use your phone?"
"Yeah, sure." Marvin says, staring at my chest.
I look down and realize that I'm not wearing a bra. Shit.
Marvin hands me his phone and I stand up and make my way to the bathroom. I trip over my feet a few times and when I finally reach my destination, I fall to the floor. The bathroom is empty so I decide to just stay there. Getting up seems like too difficult a task right now. Ha, so much for not getting drunk.
I dial Dexter's number, silently hoping that he'll answer. He finally does, on the second to last ring.
"Dex, can you pick me up?" I whisper.
"Deb? Where are you? I thought I sent a cab a few hours ago?" He asks.
"Yeah, I'm at a bar and I'm kinda shit-faced. I'd just walk home but there's this creepy guy here and I think he wants to fuck me." I laugh.
"Jesus Deb, you were supposed to go straight home. What bar? I'll come get you."
I tell Dexter the name of the bar and before he hangs up, he tells me that he'll be here soon. I hope he's telling the truth this time.