Two years, two months, and twenty-one days had already passed since Bruno Cadwick lost his only son.
Two years, twenty-one days, three hours, and fifty-five minutes had already passed since Bruno Cadwick's wife passed away from incurable heartbreak.
Two years, thirteen days, two hours, and ten minutes had already passed since Bruno Cadwick started his treatment at the Shadowcreek Asylum.
"When is it going to stop?" He asked, infuriated at the very little progress he made over time.
His psychiatrist pressed his lips together sympathetically.
"There is no expiry date for trauma, Mr. Cadwick," he said. "You have gone through a horrific experience. Give yourself ample time to heal, and..."
"I don't want to hear any more of your bullshit!"
In a sudden outburst, Bruno's hand lashed out, slamming the table to the ground. The glass plate shattered with a deafening crack, jolting him back to reality. Shamefaced, he mumbled, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean it. It just... hurts too much. I can't take it anymore."
"Please calm down, Mr. Cadwick."
The psychiatrist pressed a button on his phone, connecting him to his nurse.
"The table at my chamber broke. Please clean the glass shards, thank you."
"Yes, Doctor," came the prompt reply.
The psychiatrist smoothly redirected his attention back to Bruno. "So, Mr. Cadwick, anything noteworthy happen this week?"
Bruno sighed into his palms, the remnants of his outburst clinging to him like a shroud. "Nothing special," he mumbled in a subdued tone.
"Well," the psychiatrist pressed gently, "would you like to talk about your week regardless?"
"..."
After breaking the table, Bruno felt a noose of compliance tightening around his neck like a noose.
There really was nothing special.
Two years had passed since the construction company laid him off. Since then, he had relied on unemployment benefits to stay afloat.
His routine was a carefully constructed lifeline. Once a week, he'd head to Shadowcreek Asylum for a consultation session. The rest of the time was dedicated to a quiet fight for sanity and survival. This meant venturing out twice daily, hitting the gym twice a week to stay in shape, and prioritizing home-cooked meals to maintain his health.
Yet, the meticulously crafted routine couldn't exorcise the malevolent specter that stalked him. It lurked in the shadows, ever-present, waiting for a chink in his armor.
Even worse, the weekly consultation session did not help at all.
If anything, it was a constant reminder that this carefully constructed existence was a hollow imitation of a life he should be living.
The two people he loved the most in this entire world were gone.
So what was the use of pretending that he was fine?
"Fake it until you make it," the psychiatrist kept saying.
"Every little step marks progress," the leader of his trauma support group kept saying.
But it had been over two years!
He did not see any progress. If anything, his mental state became more and more unstable!
At times, he was tempted to burn the city down, just to unleash the fury he suppressed in his heart.
"Same medication, Mr. Cadwick?"
Bruno glared at the innocent pharmacy technician at the counter.
What a stupid question.
What a stupid mental hospital. They wouldn't even give him enough pills to last for a month, fearing that he might take them all at once to commit suicide.
"No," he snapped. "I want something more effective. I hate these useless shitty pills."
The technician sneaked several furtive glances in his direction as she read through Bruno's patient information.
"Actually, I do have something good," she said in a low voice. "It is available in very limited amount, but it can make you feel much better, Mr. Cadwick."
Bruno narrowed his eyes at the nurse.
"What is that? Some recreational drugs?"
Hell, yeah. It had been ages since he snorted some meth powder.
"No, it is a new, promising medication that treats trauma by affecting brain chemistry. Are you interested in giving it a try?"
Bruno Cadwick ground his teeth together.
"Well, why not? Anything but the shitty pills."
The technician's face lit up in response.
This medication is administered intravenously," she explained, ushering Bruno towards a brightly lit chamber behind the pharmacy. Inside, she retrieved a vial from the medicine refrigerator, holding it up for a brief inspection. "Sealed, full dose," she confirmed before expertly emptying it into a waiting intravenous injection bag.
As she inserted the needle into his vein, Bruno flinched and let out a low grunt. "Easy there," he muttered.
"My apologies, Mr. Cadwick," the technician said without skipping a beat.
The thirty minutes ticked by as the medication dripped into Bruno's vein. Once the bag emptied, the technician hesitantly approached him. "How are you feeling, Mr. Cadwick?" she inquired nervously.
Bruno furrowed his brow and rubbed the injection site on his arm. "Honestly? It's just a small vial of medication. Am I supposed to feel any different right away?"
"Of course not," the technician soothed, her gaze flitting across Bruno's face. "But have you noticed any changes, even subtle ones?"
"None," Bruno snapped. He started to get annoyed by the questions. "Is that it? Am I getting more shitty pills for the rest of the week?"
"Oh, no, no need," the technician answered. "That's it for this week. Please come back next week with another prescription from the asylum."
"Right," Bruno grunted. Maybe he should ask to be treated in another psychiatric hospital. Clearly, Shadowcreek Asylum was unable to provide him with the help he needed.
As soon as Bruno left the room, the technician hastily typed a string of text messages on her phone.
"Good morning, Doctor. I have just administered the first dose of TEC-001 to a male alpha, 35 years old.
He has been diagnosed with severe PTSD for the past two years and has been receiving treatment at Shadowcreek Asylum for that duration.
I will be sending you his complete medical history shortly, including all physical and mental examinations conducted during his time here.
It will hopefully provide a comprehensive overview for your reference."