Heller's Punishment by J.D. Nixon Page B

attack me,” I informed them.
    “Felicia!” he
yelled at her. “What have you taken and where did you get it
from?”
    “Fuck you!” she
spat at him, then struggled futilely against me until she exhausted
herself, and slumped loosely, sliding down in my arms.
    “I’m losing
her,” I said and they ran forward to grab her off me, forcing her
backwards onto her bed.
    “What have you
taken, Felicia,” asked the male medic, shining a light into her
eyes.
    “Nothing!” she
replied in frustration. “I haven’t fucking taken anything!”
    “What’s the
matter with you then?”
    “I’m just
upset, that’s all,” she said, making a huge effort to be calm. “I
had personal counselling this afternoon and it’s made me a little
crazy. I haven’t taken anything . Where the fuck would I get
it? This dipshit,” and she nodded in my direction, “is just
paranoid.”
    The medics gave
her the once-over and looked down at her suspiciously.
    “I don’t know,”
the female medic said. “She could have used or she could just be
over-wrought. Has she ever been hysterical before?”
    “Yeah,” Dave
admitted. “She’s cracked up a few times, usually after the
one-on-one sessions.”
    The woman
shrugged and packed up her equipment. “Nothing here for us to do
here. If she took a dose it was relatively small, not like last
time.” Then she turned to Felicia. “Take it easy until dinner,
okay? Dave will give you your sleeping medication now, if you need
it to calm down.”
    She shook her
head sullenly and the medics departed. Dave walked to the bed and
looked down at her, shaking his head before heading towards the
door as well, promising to pick us up for dinner. When he left,
Felicia fell asleep and snoozed until he returned.
    We trooped off
to dinner in the communal hall again and went to sleep early that
evening. We didn’t utter another word to each other, neither of us
now trusting the other in the slightest.
    The next few
days passed similarly, with the morning group session followed by
some kind of physical activity in the afternoon and a one-on-one
session for Felicia. She was always agitated and angry after those
sessions, but I didn’t make the mistake of calling the office
again, even though I was convinced that she was up to something.
She seemed to spend a lot of time in the bathroom, but maybe that
was just because she really couldn’t stand to spend a second in the
same room with me. The feeling was mutual, I realised, as she
refused to take a phone call from her mother, throwing the receiver
petulantly onto the bedside table and stalking to the bathroom yet
again.
    I picked up the
receiver and gave an audibly upset Mrs Heyne a rundown on the week
so far, not leaving out any of the sordid details about Felicia’s
overdose. She didn’t say anything, but sighed with great heaviness.
She and her husband were desperately hoping that their daughter
would return to their home after the week was over, but I wasn’t
sensing any kind of desire for a rapprochement on Felicia’s side.
In fact, I think the one-on-one sessions were only stoking her
anger towards her parents and increasing her blame of them for her
current problems.
    The week passed
slowly for both of us. I’m no professional in the field, but I
struggled to see any evidence that Felicia was benefitting from the
rehabilitation. Every morning we’d troop down to group counselling
where she sat, sullen and bored, not joining in with the other
clients. At breakfast and lunch she would eat barely anything,
instead scoffing cup after cup of coffee. During the regular
afternoon exercise sessions, she trailed behind everyone with a
disinterested lethargy that was impossible to shake except when she
needed to pee, which was every time. I grew bored waiting with my
back turned for her to finish day after day. She always chose the
same spot, behind the same tree. I guess she figured that it
afforded her the greatest privacy from the others. Maybe