❝Bury the past so you can have a future!❝
Ice Age 2.
2 | Martin
TW: Mention of addiction
Martin politely declines the 'I'll Be Honest' cake (especially with his therapist) and doesn't even take a bite.
It's strange to be back here.
Although the room is not the same, the characteristic atmosphere of the psychiatric ward will haunt him for the rest of his life, like nightmares haunting a survivor. It's too bright. Huge windows with translucent curtains hanging, no blackout curtains. The room is only fifteen square meters; there's a single white bookshelf in the corner, floor-to-ceiling, filled with classics, with Yalom and Freud's books among them, like neglected trophies. He got a trophy too; his father just broke it.
"Well, if you're ready, we can get started," says Dr. Smith, his distinctive voice bringing him back to reality. "What should I call you?"
"Martin, at twenty-one I smoked weed for the first time, and I'm an Aries."
At the end of his statement, a playful smile tugs at his lips, and he blinks with his ocean-blue eyes like a child trying to signal that he wants a double scoop of ice cream.
"From what I hear, you have quite the expertise in this. Are you an April or March Aries?"
"Obviously April," says Martin as he gazes at the mahogany coffee table bathed in the stretching sunlight, casting the shadow of the walnut tree outside onto the edge of the table. "Today should theoretically be the toughest day for me, so watch your back sometimes."
He expects the man sitting in front of him to crack a smile, but he doesn't see a hint of amusement. Too bad, Martin thought his horoscope joke was pretty good, but he doesn't seem to appreciate it. Marvin has a stern look. He's almost certain that the man is a Taurus, May-born. His left ankle rests on his right knee, comfortably seated in the armchair, and the light allows him to distinguish his chocolate-brown features easily. Martin has never had a black therapist before. He'd really like to ask how many sarcastic remarks he gets from his colleagues or patients. It's likely that Marvin acquired his medical degree before the laws were in place. He's among those fortunate ones who still had a chance.
"Are you into astrology?"
"Of course. My mom wanted to be a fortune teller, but she turned into a bitch instead... Anyway," he waves his hand, "the point is, she taught me a thing or two."
"Did you enjoy learning from your mother?"
"Um-hum." He starts spinning the ring on his finger. "I liked it when we went somewhere and stared at people. We used to guess everyone's zodiac sign. Most of the time, I think I won."
"What do you think my zodiac sign is?"
"Taurus," he says, looking straight into the man's eyes.
"Why?"
"He seems careful, logical, and extremely knowledgeable about people." He shrugs. "Am I wrong?"
"Where are you getting all this if this is our first session?" he asks, running his hand along the armrest.
"You know what? Let's call it a positive bias."
Now Marvin smiles faintly.
Two weeks ago, Kornél almost overdosed. He doesn't remember who found him, but they got him to the hospital in time, where familiar doctors surrounded him and referred him here. If he's counting right, Dr. Smith is the seventh therapist he's seen... He's been here for six years. And he keeps relapsing. He probably won't last long here either.
But he's here now.
And he's breathing.
Just barely. But he's breathing.
Confined to a fifteen-square-meter box, he feels small and vulnerable, even though it's only early morning, he's already had enough of the game called life. He wants to check out, wants to wave the white flag.
Tired.
Yesterday he dreamt his father drowned him. It felt so real... Like he had been through it before... His chest hurt when he woke up. Mercilessly. He's afraid to shower, scared his dream might come true.
"Marvin, can I ask you something?"
Six therapists and countless sessions led to this point, he finally asked a question on his own.
"Go ahead," Marvin answers as he flips through his notebook.
"Do you have any successfully treated patients?" Martin whispers quietly.
He posed a personal, invasive question. He's almost certain that Martin will respond with something about how the patient's question disrupts therapy, to which the therapist has no intention of responding. However, he hears a quiet sigh and the sound of a pen scribbling, which merges with the ticking of the clock.
Tick-tock. Snap.
"I do. Or at least, I believe he found the right path and didn't choose the daily dose as his life goal," he says, glancing through his notebook, the pages of which have yellowed over the years, and then he looks back at the boy. "Do you want to be like that, Martin?"
"I don't know," he replies as quickly as he can.
"What? What don't you know?"
Martin shrugs as if to say, 'Does it even matter, damn it?'
He's playing with the sleeve of his red, faded shirt. His brain has gotten used to being constantly surrounded by questions, and he waits for the next question with a sense of anticipation, yet Marvin is waiting. He doesn't say anything. He's not like the others who didn't give him a moment's break.
He went crazy with the helplessness he experienced during therapy.
He was afraid that if he didn't answer immediately, they'd transfer him to another psychologist.
Just like in his childhood.
Back and forth. There and back.
He's scared of psychologists, scared of honesty, scared that he'll never get rid of the demons that haunt his ribs.
Despite that, he starts talking.
"The question is what I know. I want to stay alive, but it's so hard when I don't eat, and I just crave heroin, and I know, we all know, Death will serve you dessert under the dish before long," he says. He bites his lower lip. His voice becomes increasingly tense, but he holds back because he doesn't want to scream. But there's no other way to release the growing anger within him. His pullover is already stretched far enough. "I don't even know why I come here when the result is just going to be that you send me to bed... Believe me, I've been to a few places, none lasted more than three days."
"Did you run away?"
"I did."
"Where did you go?"
"Why where? To Beetle. You can get stuff from him cheap... And even get a discount if you blow him," he scratches his nape. He bites his tongue. Damn his bluntness! "Sorry."
"Why are you apologizing?"
"I swore," he places his hand on his forehead, interlocking his fingers. "Or is it even allowed here?"
"It doesn't matter how much you swear if it makes you feel better."
"It's not so bad here; elsewhere, they always scolded me for swearing a few times."
He smiles.
He rarely does this, but today Marvin managed to elicit a genuine smile from him.
It's strange to smile like this... There's no drug in his veins...
Since he started using drugs and missing days, he can't really smile or laugh. Because then he finds himself in reality, where he hears his mother's stifled moans and the snap of his father's belt. Nothing else. Not the noise of the train, or the chirping of the birds, or the cute neighbor's baby's laughter... He forgets how to live. The drug helps with that. It reminds him of life.
"Martin, would you tell me about the state after the drug-induced euphoria?" Martin is puzzled, staring at Marvin instead of the ceiling. Once his brain processes the question, he hums.
"I thought you'd be interested in what it's like when I inject myself."
"Did you expect that?"
Silence. Then he shrugs and looks at the ficus by the door. What a peaceful little life it has... Just stands there, and people admire it. True, it will die sooner than he will because it's poor, but this ficus is still intact. Still young.
Why does a crippled plant remind him so much of himself?
"To be honest, no. Only until the moment when a person can't tell if they see God when the drug enters their system, from that point on, no one cares about a thing."
Martin takes a deep breath. His last injection was two days ago. He can still tolerate it, no visible signs yet, but he feels he won't last long when he thinks about how much that tiny bit of substance gives. Maybe that's why Marvin skipped this question, so he wouldn't have to remember.
Smart.
"Do you know that after the stuff wears off, the following hours are brutal... I feel like an insect. I have this feeling that I'm just a tiny fly being chased by a damn huge flyswatter or newspaper... Depending on which..."
"Which one do you feel most often?" Marvin twirls the pen between his fingers.
"Depending on which I deserve that day... If I've been good –" he tilts his head – "meaning I didn't cause trouble or bother anyone, and I went to my father's grave, then I'm a good kid. But if I forget to visit the grave, or I get beaten up by the guys in the alley, then I'm a wimp."
He almost laughs.
Damn, he's jealous.
Here's a black psychologist in front of him with a degree, and he talks about why he imagines himself as an insect instead of solving his problem. You should avoid those damn hands trying to attack you.
"What's on your mind now?"
"When did you graduate?" The question slips out of him unintentionally.
"In 2000."
"Alright."
A year later, black students were expelled from the university, from their jobs, and those who resisted were killed.
Why is Marvin here? How did he escape the police's hands?
He's good at handling this fly-flyswatter game.
And he's doing it really well.
He clears his throat as he senses his heart racing. He was doing so damn well; he can't lose his strength now...
"Tell me about...," Marvin starts his statement, but the words merge into tiny flying larvae before Martin's eyes. "What it was like...," the man's mouth turns into a leaf with larvae and worms on it.
The caramel-colored walls collapse, completely engulfing him. It's hard to breathe. He feels something crawling up by his leg, which makes him shudder, but he can't move. A snake winds its way up his leg. He looks down. The snake's eyes glow red; its slimy yellow skin almost glows in the dark. It sticks out its thin tongue, then pulls it back. Out, and back. As if it's measuring its prey. Then it rises. It thrusts itself into Kornél's mouth. The boy starts to retch. The snake wriggles through his insides, tearing his flesh to shreds.
Martin... Are you coming?
It's His voice.
Come, believe me, everything will be alright...
He sees a snow-white hand in front of him. The hand is well-kept, the nails are regular, and the skin looks so soft. Soft. Soft.
Blood flows onto the hand.
Drip.
Drip.
The vital fluid drips onto the snow-white palm.
Martin looks up.
His eyes widen.
He sees Him dead.
His lips are apart, his eyes lack irises, and his black hair is sticky.
He closes his eyes.
No, no, he doesn't want to see it!
Martin... How could you do this?
He puts his hand over his ear. But the shouting gets louder. He hears only his own name endlessly.
"Martin!"
He opens his eyes. He's sitting in the bathroom. There's clear water on his face.
"Is everything okay now?" Marvin's words finally reach his brain clearly. His head clears, and the trembling gradually subsides as he distinguishes between reality and hallucination.
"I... What..."
"Breathe steadily. How are you feeling?"
He swallows.
It's quiet in the bathroom. The street noise from the office doesn't reach here, and, most importantly, it's dark. The dark blue tiles soothe his nervous system. He takes a few breaths, nods, and wants to convey that he's okay. It's a pity it's not visible.
Not even a bit.
Perhaps, if all this had happened on the street, could he have stopped the snake?
Or Him?
That crippled snake...
"Would you tell me what was in your vision?"
"Where do you get that it was a vision?"
"Look," his voice deepens as Marvin stands up from squatting. "Many addicts come to me, and everyone has visions that make them faint, trigger a defense mechanism, or make them simply get lost in their thoughts and unable to focus on what's happening around them. I see the signs in you too. You tremble, you sweat, you crumple your shirt, and you often remain silent, lose yourself in your thoughts, just like you did now, and this is the result, you completely disappeared from reality."
Martin doesn't say anything.
Silence is consent, they say.
And he knows Marvin is right.
"If you want, you can lie down and..."
"No," he answers involuntarily. "I want to go home."
He sees Marvin's hesitation. With his brown, gentle, calming eyes, he looks down at him as if he were a child to whom he has to convey that mommy won't be coming home anymore. He doesn't want to look helpless... Nevertheless, he gradually makes people believe he's not well and longs for help.
Sick. Sicker. Sickest. Sicker than sickest.
"Alright. You can go."
"Thank you." He gets up from the cold tiles, and after managing to maintain his balance, he heads out. However, Marvin's voice stops him.
"Don't do anything crazy, Martin."
He doesn't reply.
There's no need to reply.
A promise is a nice word, they keep it well.
Well, then, today will be bad again; they'll beat him to death with the flyswatter. Screw it...