Mr. Halloway's Pet

Chapter Thirty Three

I sip my iced coffee, one sweaty palm on the wheel to navigate myself toward the one place I was determined not to visit.

I feel I should put my mind at peace by setting things straight. I can't just have mom stewing in her own delusions. It's better to inform her now than deal with her later.

My desire to get everything off my plate will be fulfilled today wether I feel up to it or not. It's been overdue for far too long.

The gps signals me to pull into a building I've yet to see in my hometown. Tucked behind the primary hospital, here sits a smaller, outdated psychiatric hospital.

They sure care about those with mental illness to put them in possibly the most hauntingly depressing building they could find. I take the last few drinks of my coffee and exhale deeply in preparation.

The door is heavy and I only struggle a little with getting it open. Once I do, I'm greeted by an older lady behind a counter. I don't know what I expected it to be, but I didn't imagine it'd be such a chill atmosphere. I pictured it to look sterile and white like the hospital.

Tasteful lamps stand on either side of the counter, illuminating the papers that are being worked on hastily by the attendant.

"Hello, I was wondering if I could see an impatient?" I ask, more timidly than ideal.

The woman looks up, appearing more unhappy than anything, "Name?"

I clear my throat uncomfortably, telling her the desired name before standing in unresponsive silence. She clicks on her laptop for a solid two minutes before giving me any sort of reaction.

"They'll be down in five." Is all that's said before I'm dismissed to the empty row of chairs to the right.

The tiled floor has streaks of brown and red, adding to the rustic feel of the atmosphere.

I sit patiently in the chair, bobbing my knee up and down in hopes to calm myself.

I vow to not out myself in tense and uncomfortable situations for a while after today. I've reached my limit for a good couple months.

Sure enough, almost exactly five minutes of waiting, the sound of the door opening is loud enough to annoyingly grate my ears.

Mom is escorted by two nurses, these ones looking far more friendly than Ms. Roz over at front counter.

My eyes only briefly scan the nurses, refocusing back on a woman far skinnier and ghastly than who I called mom barely a month ago.

She looks a bit embarrassed under my scrutinizing gaze, approaching me slowly.

I stand with crossed arms, not moving for any physical contact, not making the start of conversation. I just stand silently.

"It's the meds they have me on." She explains, shrugging her shoulders.

"Excuse me?" I ask, confused as to what she's referring to.

"The medicine I've been taking. It's made me look like a crack addict." She says, sounding a bit amused with herself.

"Well...how are you feeling? Hopefully not like a crack addict." I say, squeezing in as much lightheartedness for her sake.

The sight of her makes my stomach churn painfully. My sympathy is much greater than any grudge I'm holding for her.

After all, she's a victim of her mental illness. Just as dad had explained to me, she's sick and can't function the same way she would if her brain was healthy.

"No, I feel more like a freight train just slammed into me." She says honestly, "But never mind that, how have you been?"

She moves closer toward me, reaching an arm out to touch my cheek.