A/N: Happy Mother's Day. If you're interested, there is a companion piece to this where Seb goes to visit him mom in France, called Mother's Love.
He rallies for the psych eval. The cinnamon roll helped, making him feel full, and vaguely peaceful. He thinks he can manage to lie his way through, and stay out of trouble. His mind is almost clear, exhaustion clouding things more than anything.
The psychologist on call is an older man, and with slicked-back hair. He wears a white muscle under his dress shirt, which has yellow stains under the armpits. The man is too sincere, and tries too hard to connect. He doesn't want to be left alone with this man.
The psychologist makes his father leave the room. Strike one.
It still hurts to move his arms. His fingers are cold and clumsy, and the IVs hurt his arm. But, his father slips the nurse call button into his hand, and whispered, "I'll be right outside."
The man pulls up a chair, and sits near his bed. He can smell the peanut butter on the psychologist's breath. It reminds him of the peanut butter crackers he ate for lunch, and then threw up. It makes him feel nauseated. Strike two.
"So, Sebastian," the man says without any pretense, his perfect white teeth flashing, "Why did you try to kill yourself?"
Strike Three.
He makes himself cold and hard and haughty. He's had years of practice, it shouldn't be hard. "I didn't try to kill myself, today." He says, his voice sharp. "I made a mistake."
He thinks about adding, "If I was trying, I would have succeeded." But, it will only get him in trouble.
The psychologist tries a different tactic. "Where the pills a mistake, too, Sebastian?"
He shrugs, trying to project nonchalant disinterest. "I had a headache. I only meant to take a few. They were Tylenol, not sleeping pills. I wouldn't have died from 5g of Tylenol." It had been lousy luck that he'd gone low and passed out in the bathroom at school, the pill bottle spilling around him. No one had believed him then. No one believes him now.
The truth is that, even though he thinks about it, he doesn't want to kill himself. He is afraid of dying. And, he cannot be a success if he's dead. Sometimes, he flirts with the idea of a break. Not permanent oblivion, just a temporary pause.
The man makes a note in his chart.
They talk for a while longer. He gives all the right answers to all the wrong questions.
Finally, the psychologist packs up his chart and pumps his hand. The man has no regard for the fact that he has two IVs.
He winces, and presses the nurse call button to summon his father, and someone to release him so he can go to the bathroom.
He's surprised when it's Dr. Blake who accompanies his father. He doesn't know a lot about emergency rooms, but he suspects the doctor should be attending other patients. He voices his request, and she checks his monitor. He peaked up to nearly 200, but has been dropping steadily, again. He's not falling so fast as before, and he's at a relatively safe 120.
As she leans over to unhook the IVs from his arms, the blue scrub top rides up, exposing an inch or two of hip and stomach. Someone else might have missed it, but the constellation of white scars is too familiar.
He wonders he's the only diabetic in the room with control issues.