“I can’t help you if you won’t tell me what’s wrong.” It was perhaps the only major downfall of psychiatry -- she could provide as much advice as possible, but if the person wasn’t open to the idea of improving, of getting better? Her words would fall on deaf ears. “I realize you were sent her, maybe against your will, but I do want to help you, Mr. Kray.” The aroma of annoyance, bitter in nature, was almost palpable in the room -- she didn’t need Hannibal Lecter’s nose for that one, and it was beginning to make her skin crawl. There was something about the man pacing the floor in front of her that screamed dangerous, and the foul mood etched onto his features made the worry no less.
“Let’s start with something simple, then. Tell me about your day, from the time you woke up until the moment you walked into this office. Not just the bad, but the good, too, and maybe we can start to figure out why you’re upset.”
If it was possible for a human being’s hackles to visibly rise, Ron’s did at the cultured woman’s proposition. He turned an acidic scowl on her, not pausing his march back and forth, back and forth as he volleyed back- ‘Figure aht?’ She didn’t deserve the bite in his words, but deserving and earned meant shit all as concepts to Ron just this moment. ‘I know wha’s fucked us off. I’s th’intrusion’a th’fuckin’ pigs in a man’s business; th’suggestion ov a brief tha’ I might be fuckin’ SECTIONED f’cloutin’ some cunt feef ‘oo f’ort ‘ee could make off wiv th’till aht me pub! SECTIONED! Compulsorily detained f’protectin’ me proper’y ‘n me patrons from some bollockless cunt ‘oo f’ort ‘ee was clevah goin’ t’th p’lice!’
Seething as a concept didn’t touch Ron in that moment.
He paced still, all snarling and gestures and tension that radiated off him.
‘--Danger t’meself or ovvahs’ he went on, skipping tracks in his mind; speaking what came. ‘Tha’s wha’ sectionin’s for. T’put us away if m’a danger t’meself or ovvahs on account’a me skizafrenia- I’ll tell y’what Miss-’ He’d burned so hot coming in the door that he’d not caught the lady-doctor’s name on it. Miss would do for now. ‘I know fifty men jus’ like me, men ‘oo ain’t skizafrenik ‘n ‘oo’d ‘av done five times th’damage I did t’tha fuckin’ slag cunt feef. FIVE TIMES ‘n they’d not be in ‘ere.’
There was a note of conspiratorial disdain in his voice; a knowing almost; a thought to being discriminated against because of this condition he’d lived with for over a decade now. His brother ate thieves just like Ron did. So did their bodyguard Pat and all of their other associates. They’d never ended up on the duff end of the Mental Health Act. And they never would either. Because they weren’t like him.
‘Me day then-’ Ron clipped, a sneer in his voice as much as it was on his face. ‘Woke up in a cell in th’local nick. Got bailed inta me bruvvah’s custody pendin’ psychological assessment-’ A point towards her. She was to be his assessor; the key, in a way, with her influence and expert knowledge, to whether he’d end up spending time in a secure hospital, a regular nick or, potentially, end up with one of those community order whatsits that got handed out like skittles to folks who weren’t like him. And- And he was really starting to feel the end of the med cycle he was on taking hold; making him ratty and wanting of solitude and dogs.
Forcing himself to relax his expression - for he could tell he’d give or take bared his teeth at this poor woman; give or take scowled a hole into her brow for nothing at all - Ron puffed out a slow breath and looked away from her. There was a bookcase in his field of vision now, and he fixed on it; distracted himself from the boiling, disjointed rage that was bubbling below the surface.
‘--So’ he mustered, his voice flat but tight at once;
belying massive stress. ‘Yer gonna wanna get on
wiv tha’.’
