The patient peered into my steady gaze searching. His whispered words, wrapped in rotten breath, carried the message, “The voices want me to kill you.” A split glass smile waited for me to respond. “You don’t want to hurt me,” I said. He tilted his head back like a Pez dispenser and laughed, then snapped his face back down hard and stared beyond my open palms at the closed door behind me. I shook my head watching as he tightened his right fist and drew his arm back. Turns out he was the kind of guy who listened to the voices.
— David Rawding