Making a Living
Short Story. "The task was simple enough. I tossed the piece of poisoned meat..."
I went to Alfonso’s house. The task was simple enough. I tossed the piece of poisoned meat onto the lawn and Matilde, the German Shepherd who served as his guide dog —Alfonso is blind— devoured it. I stayed and watched as the dog convulsed, twisting on the dew-covered grass before finally lying still, rigid.
I had to wait a whole week for his message. He was devastated by the loss of his dog and desperate to see me as soon as possible. But a few days later his girlfriend found him another trained service dog, and just like that Alfonso’s grief evaporated. He decided to cancel his appointment.
So I had to come up with a new plan. I couldn’t go back to the hospital. The pay was miserable, the patients too aggressive, and the rest of the staff unbearable. I went through my old notebooks, pages filled more with doodles and prescription notes than actual patient profiles. Luckily, my memory has always been sharp. I swallowed a couple of anxiolytics left behind by a pharmaceutical rep during his last visit. Those, along with the vodka, keep me in shape.
Marina’s case was trickier than Alfonso’s. To bring her back I had to strike her Achilles’ heel: her ex-boyfriend. I tracked the guy down on social media, found his profile on a work network, copied his information, and paid a graphic designer to create an image of Diego —that’s his name— on a beach with a stunning blonde. I added Marina to the fake profile and sent her a message pretending to be him, making it crystal clear that leaving her had been the best decision of his life.
This time luck was on my side. A few hours later Marina called me, frantic. She had already been suspecting her current partner of cheating, and now her ex had reappeared to remind her exactly how terrible she was. I gave her an appointment right away and warned her that I had adjusted my fees for inflation. I lowered the dose of her medication so she’d need to come back to me sooner. Still, one patient wasn’t enough to cover the treatments for my wife’s progressive illness. Pills. Vodka.
Tomás is a young man with bipolar disorder. My treatment had stabilized him; he had managed to move out of his family home and, from what I knew, was living a happy, full life. He had stopped seeing me. In his case, all it took was a letter to his current employer. I stated that Tomás posed a danger to the institution, that he had refused proper treatment for his condition, and that if they didn’t take urgent measures, the unpredictable Tomás could become a serious threat.
They called his mother. She called me. And just like that, Tomás was back in my office.
Little by little, I’m recovering my patients.
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Written by Adrian Fares
Well, THAT'S a horror story!
If only this is just fiction.