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.
By David Rawding