He moves through the foyer like a ghost. Blink and you'll miss him.
She misses him.
She tries to goad him, but he doesn't look up at her. He keeps his eyes firmly on the desk. He tells her his team are all capable doctors. He tells her they all know their jobs. His hand incessantly rubs his right thigh.
Wilson asks him time and time again to come throw things off the balcony with him, but he says he has work to do then ignores him as he stares at some paperwork because paperwork is what normal better people do, his hand unconsciously rubbing away.
He goes home and sits on the couch. He doesn't bother to turn on the lights. He just gazes at the blank television set as he rubs his thigh. He doesn't see anything wrong with it. He's all better now. That's what they told him. This is what better people do. They watch the television. He's watching the television. Just like a normal better person.
He agrees with her. He agrees with everyone. She could tell him the sky was red and he would agree. A patient dies. He agrees with her when she calls him into her office and tells him it's a bad thing. He hangs his head and says he's sorry. He agrees with her when she tells him to do better next time, but she can see him, rubbing his thigh under the table.
He's useless now she tells Wilson callously. Good for nothing except clinic duty.
He stumbles out onto the balcony and lights a cigarette with fumbling hands. He draws the smoke into him and squeezes his eyes tight shut against the pain. He rubs hard and fast. It's nothing. It will go away. It's all in his mind. He's better now.
He doesn't want to go back there. If he's not better they'll send him back there and keep him there until they decide he is. That's what they said.
The cop watches him as he slowly makes his way around the clinic. He's slower now, cautious… afraid. If he went over there and tapped him on the shoulder he'd probably jump three feet. He smiles to himself. He knew he'd win in the end. It was just a matter of knowing how.
His heart clenches. It's been tight since the moment he woke up this morning. His hand shook as he shaved, trying not to look at the man in the mirror. His tie feels like it is a noose. He wants to loosen it, but he's too afraid. It's Thursday. He must look normal and better on a Thursday. He has to go there.
He hopes and prays he looks like a normal better person. He knows he has been a good boy, but they don't. Never trust an addict. Never turn your back on an addict or they'll be pawning your grandmother's wedding ring for their next hit. And he was just a filthy addict. That's what they had told him. You can't trust an addict. You can't trust him.
They'll look at him with their hard suspicious eyes and tell him what to do. And he'll drop his pants, pee in the cup and do exactly what they want because addicts don't get any say in the matter. They just do as they are told. They do exactly as they are told.
He can't put his foot down. It hurts so much. He stares at it like he's never laid eyes on it before. Silent tears leak from his eyes. He can't understand why it is betraying him. He leans over the piano and grips the sides in pain and frustration. They said he's better. Why doesn't his leg understand?