Dreams of a Rarebit Fiend
Rivera makes me take Zyprexa, Seroquel, Risperdal. And a mood stabilizer and some appetite stimulant antidepressant combination.
Treatment team said schizophrenia, paranoid type, that’s what a nurse told me. Except I don’t fit the criteria–does this sound like disorganized speech to you? And look at me–is this a flat affect?
You think it’s what? Residual type? Go get my chart, that’s not what it says.
I know what I saw, I know the truth, and you–no one believes me.
Depends on the interpretation, doesn’t it. Like Alice in Wonderland. You drink a little of this, you become an elephant and your friends are ants. You sip from another bottle and you shrink, and everyone around you is a giant.
I don’t want to sit down. Who are you anyway? Another psychiatrist? Are you recording this? It sure as hell matters. Are you recording me right now?
Listen to me, when we found Putz, he, it was a little thing. Abandoned in an alley. Cute, adorable–like a puppy. The name? Google it. Lisa and I, we thought he was adorable, this tiny baby–some kind of ugly, mutant mutt.
Just what I said. The closest way I can describe it. Some kind of almost-dog, only six inches long. Mink brown, soft fur. Four paws, floppy ears. He looked like part wolf cub, part bunny rabbit. We found him on a Monday last September. Lisa tried feeding him puppy food, but he wouldn’t eat. He whined and made an RRRRRR sound deep in his throat. We tried a lot of things before we found something Putzy liked.
I don’t want to answer your idiotic questions. I want you to listen to me. So, on Tuesday, Lisa tried milk. I made fun of her, because milk is for cats. But the critter lapped it up, sometimes even sucking it into his mouth. This was in our kitchen, in our townhouse apartment on Ellison Street.
I’m trying to tell you what hurt her.
I don’t know. I don’t give a fuck. I don’t care what Rivera thinks. Screw the hospital staff. I want to tell you what happened–I’ve been trying to tell you. Tuesday night, we were playing with Putz and right away I noticed he was bigger. I told Lisa to get the measuring tape and I couldn’t believe it, Putzy was nearly a foot long. We were both a little disturbed, but then, we didn’t know that much about dog anatomy . We put him in the second bedroom and closed the door at around 11 p.m. All night he made this sound–like a cross between coyote howls and goats bleating. We heard things banging around. Wednesday morning–we each had a job to go to–we opened the spare room door, and this mink-brown setter-sized hound came bounding over and nearly knocked Lisa down. In twenty-four hours, man. Twenty-four hours. I tried to put him on a leash, but I couldn’t get a collar on him. We got the bright idea to give him regular milk, then let him out to do his business in the front yard of the apartment complex, but Lisa would hold a bowl of milk inside the front door so he’d want to come back.
No, they don’t allow dogs. But we thought he’d stay tiny for a while. So we let him out and … and I saw it with my own eyes. He was prancing around, bleating and barking, and he just … expanded. He grew. Right in front of me. His bleating became this godawful roar, the eyes were dark wells drilled into his skull, the ears seemed to prick and stand up.
I didn’t see anyone else. Maybe they were peeking through the blinds. Lisa screamed at me–she wanted to get back inside and shut the door, you know, and leave it out there. I was kind of in shock; I think it must have grown fifteen feet. And the paws grew claws. And the mouth had loads of sharp teeth….
… Yeah. And then the thing, the thing saw Lisa close the door and he started to charge towards her and I was in the way so I started to sprint towards the street and it followed me.
I don’t remember. I think he caught me. But then I heard Lisa shrieking, “Denny, Denny,” right beside me.
Rivera told me. The police found me wandering naked down 16th Street, four blocks from my apartment. I don’t remember any of that. Did the cops even look? Did they look for paw-prints or tufts of fur, any evidence? I do recall being handcuffed and slapped around and some big dude yelling at me, “What did you do to her? Where is the rest of her.” He called me “fucking scum.” And you, you sit there and ask me stupid questions.