The Face Behind The Mask

21

In the basement, an after-school gaming session was winding down.

"Play again?" said Brick, slumped on the floor in front of the TV.

"Nah." Jonas tossed his game controller on the couch cushion beside him. He swiped his hand through the snack bowl digging out the last of the Doritos.

"Come on," Brick whined. "One more game."

"You're too good. I never win. It's frustrating."

"You won the first game." Brick knew it was too late. Jonas was in one of his moods.

"How come we never go over your house?" He licked the spicy orange powder from his fingertips. "Like it would be dope if we were hangin' at your house when Kelsey has a sleepover or something."

"What?" He gave Jonas a bewildered smile.

"When she has all her hot friends over."

"What're you talking about, dude? Kelsey hasn't had a sleepover since she was nine or something. High school girls don't have sleepovers."

"College girls have dorm parties."

"Maybe but she's still in high school."

"Don't any of her friends ever show up to do homework or anything?" He leaned back into the lumpy couch cushion.

"Nope. She's in lockdown."

Jonas removed his glasses, fogged the lenses with his breath, and cleaned them with the hem of his t-shirt. "Did the cops come back to your house?"

Brick shook his head.

"Kelsey is smokin' hot," said Jonas with fawning adoration. "For real." He put his glasses back on his face.

"You eat the last Doritos?"

"Sorry." Jonas wiped his fingers on his shirt. "Don't you think?"

"Think what?"

"Think Kelsey's smokin' hot."

"She's my sister, for God's sake."

"I wish she was my sister." Jonas lowered his chin to his chest and closed his eyes.

"You're a perv."

"Brick." Jonas' mom called from upstairs. "Your dad's here."

Brick checked his phone and saw the missed text from his dad. "Shit," he muttered. He stood and brushed chip crumbs from his shirt. "Later," he said to Jonas as he climbed the basement stairs.

........

The man chewed the inside of his mouth, tamping down his anger. The irony. His therapist had given him calming exercises to practice and yet nobody pissed him off like his therapist.

The therapist sat in his high-back chair, legs crossed so very casually at the knees. He made notes on his legal pad, looking at the man over the top of the rims of his stupid designer glasses. Glasses with large blue frames. Of all colors, blue. He probably thought the glasses made him look cool but he looked like a jackass. He should be embarrassed. The man wanted to tell him so but he continued chewing the inside of his mouth. He hated being there but if he didn't show up, if he missed his appointments, it would look bad, it would draw attention. This fat bastard would cause trouble. Better to suffer through the hour of talk, talk, talk, and get it over with. But this guy really got under his skin.

"You understand, don't you," said the therapist, "That we can't go back and do things differently. The past is the past." He gave a slight shrug and a small smile that pushed against his plump cheeks.

The man looked down at the fingers of his left hand where the skin had grown purple beneath his fingernails. What was he supposed to do? Sit there and nod? Impossible. "It makes perfect sense," he said. "If you go back to the beginning, go back and fix it, then everything after gets fixed, too. You know I'm right and they know I'm right."

"What do you mean by 'they?' Who are they?"

The man dropped his head, his eyes on his fingers. His chest ached, like something was squeezing his heart.

The therapist said, "We can't change what's already happened. We do, however, have the power to change how we think and feel about the past, and move forward."

"How we feel? Change how we feel? With pills?" He felt his face getting hotter. "Don't you ever listen to me? Stop talking and talking and listen to me for once."

"I am listening to you." He sat up a bit.

"I can fix it myself without the damn pills!"

"You need to take your medication. You know how important–"

"Those pills don't help. They don't do anything!"

"The medication takes time to build up in your system. If you stop taking the medication–"

"The only way I can make it all go the right way is to go back and fix it. That's the only way."

"Take a deep breath and let it out–"

The man sprung to his feet, the veins bulging in his neck, his fists clenched. The therapist leaned back in his chair, expecting an assault. With his chest heaving, the man rushed for the door and threw it open.

The therapist remained seated for a full minute, hoping the door wouldn't swing open before he could lock it. He drew a deep breath and, satisfied that the man was gone, he rose from his chair, crossed to the door, and locked it. He paced to his desk and made a phone call.

He tapped his pen against the desktop as the phone rang and then she answered. "I'm afraid he's not doing very well," he said. "In fact, he's regressing. Has he threatened to hurt anyone? Threatened to cause harm to himself?"

A woman replied quietly, "No, no. But when he isn't taking his medication he gets all mixed up. Confused."

The therapist sighed. "I think it's time we gave some serious consideration to him staying at the hospital for a while."

"Oh... I don't know."

"Nothing permanent. Just until we can regulate his meds. Get him balanced out. Can you talk to him about it?"

"He'll be mad. I know he'll be mad."

"It may be the only way we can keep him safe."