Cerita ini Dibuat Oleh Daffelitisaul
PSYCHOTRIST
Chapter 2: Crazy Baby
Author: daffelitisaul
The penthouse smelled of expensive leather and that specific, sterile scent of air that has been filtered too many times. It was the kind of cleanliness that money bought, the kind that made you afraid to touch anything for fear of leaving a smudge of your own imperfection on the glass surfaces.
Matthew Loriz stood in the middle of the living room. Well, stood was a generous word. He was leaning heavily on his right side, his left leg dragging slightly, a constant, throbbing reminder of the night before. The fabric of his trousers was fresh, but the bruise underneath was turning a shade of purple that looked like a storm cloud. He had just finished explaining the crash. He had poured out the humiliating encounter with Dorl Greece. He had laid his shame out on the Persian rug like a sacrificial offering, hoping for a brother, a mentor, or maybe just a human being to say something comforting.
Jonathan Loriz sat on his Italian sofa, a tumbler of amber liquid resting on his knee. He was thirty-two, but he looked ageless in that way rich people do—skin exfoliated to perfection, hair cut by someone who charged three figures for a trim. He took a slow sip. He swirled the ice. The clinking sound was the only noise in the massive room.
Then, Jonathan laughed.
It wasn't a warm laugh. It wasn't a sympathetic chuckle. It was a bark. A sharp, jagged sound that bounced off the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Boston skyline.
"You have got to be kidding me," Jonathan said, shaking his head. He set the glass down on the coaster with a deliberate clack. "You crashed your car because a girl was mean to you?"
Matthew gripped the back of a velvet armchair to steady himself. "It wasn't just that she was mean, Jonathan. She humiliated me. She threw money in my face. She called me a fraud."
"And so you decided to prove her right by acting like a toddler?" Jonathan stood up, walking over to the window. He looked out at the city, his back to Matthew. "I mean, look at you, Matty. You are twenty-nine years old. You are a doctor. A psychiatrist. You are supposed to be the one fixing people's heads, and here you are, falling apart because someone bruised your ego."
"I almost died," Matthew said, his voice quiet, trembling with a mixture of pain and rising anger.
Jonathan turned around. His face was twisted in a grin that didn't reach his eyes. "But you didn't. You just wrecked a car I helped you lease. You know, in all my years, even when I was grinding through med school, even now at thirty-two... I have never seen a psychiatrist with the mental fortitude of a newborn baby. It is embarrassing, bro. It really is."
Matthew felt the heat rise up his neck. "I came here because I thought you would understand. I thought you would get the pressure."
"Pressure?" Jonathan scoffed. He walked closer, invading Matthew's personal space. He smelled of cologne and arrogance. "You do not know pressure. You sit in a chair and listen to people whine. I cut open brains. I hold lives in my hands. That is pressure. You are just playing pretend because I paved the road for you. You are lucky, Matthew. You are so incredibly lucky that I made the Loriz name mean something in this city. Without me, you are just a guy with a degree and a fragile ego."
The air in the room grew heavy. It felt suffocating. Matthew looked at his brother, really looked at him. He saw the designer suit. He saw the Rolex that cost more than Matthew's tuition. And he saw the hollowness behind it all.
"Lucky?" Matthew spat the word out. "You think this is about luck? You think I don't know how you got this penthouse? You think Mom and Dad don't know?"
Jonathan's smile faltered for a fraction of a second. "What are you talking about?"
"I am talking about the loans, Jonathan," Matthew said, his voice gaining strength. "I know about the shady investors. I know about the online loans you took out to leverage your 'image' before the hospital money started rolling in. You built this life on debt. You bought your reputation with money you didn't have."
The silence that followed was dangerous. Jonathan's eyes narrowed into slits.
"At least I am not a fake," Matthew continued, his hands shaking, not from fear, but from the adrenaline of finally saying it. "I might be a mess right now. I might have crashed my car. But at least I didn't sell my soul to loan sharks just to look rich. I don't use Loan Online tactics to fake a lifestyle, Jonathan."
Jonathan stared at him. For a moment, Matthew thought he might get hit. But then, Jonathan threw his head back and laughed again. This time, it was louder, darker.
"Oh, you sweet, innocent idiot," Jonathan wiped a tear from his eye. "You think you are moral? You think you are better than me? You are going to be exactly like me, Matthew. The second you feel the pinch of poverty, the second that clinic of yours goes under because you are too weak to handle the business... you will do whatever it takes. You will beg, borrow, and steal. You are just one bad month away from being me, but without the talent."
Jonathan looked down at Matthew's injured leg. He pointed at it with his glass.
"Look at you," Jonathan sneered. "Hobbling around like a wounded dog. Nice limp, by the way. It really adds to the whole 'pathetic loser' aesthetic you have going on. Does it hurt? Good. Maybe it will remind you to grow a spine next time a client hurts your feelings."
Matthew felt something snap inside his chest. It wasn't a bone. It was the tether that held him to his brother.
"You are a neurosurgeon," Matthew whispered, stepping back, dragging his bad leg. "You fix brains. But you don't have a heart, Jonathan. You are empty. You are just a butcher in a suit."
"Get out of my house," Jonathan said, turning back to his drink. "Before you stain my carpet."
Matthew turned. He didn't look back. He walked to the massive oak door. He grabbed the handle. He didn't just close it. He put every ounce of his frustration, every ounce of his pain into it.
BAM.
The sound was like a gunshot. It echoed through the hallway, leaving a ringing silence in its wake. Matthew stood in the corridor, alone, breathing hard, his leg screaming in agony, but his mind strangely clear. He was done looking for validation in that penthouse.
Author: daffelitisaul
Across town, the vibe was different. It was sterile, but in a way that tried too hard to be welcoming.
Dorl Greece sat in her office. It was her sanctuary. The walls were painted a calming beige, the chairs were plush, and the lighting was soft. But underneath the softness, there was a rigid order. Everything was perfectly placed.
The door opened. Her receptionist, a young girl who looked terrified of Dorl, peeked in.
"Ms. Greece? Your two o'clock is here. Arsie."
"Send her in," Dorl said. She adjusted her blazer. She put on her face. Not makeup, but the mask. The mask of the compassionate listener.
Arsie walked in. She was a small woman, looking like she had been shrinking in the wash for years. Her eyes were red-rimmed. Her hands were twisting a tissue into a tight rope. She sat down on the edge of the couch as if she expected it to bite her.
"Hello, Arsie," Dorl said, her voice smooth like velvet. "I am Dr. Greece. Please, make yourself comfortable. This is a safe space."
Arsie looked up. Her lip trembled. "I... I don't know where to start. My husband... we..."
"Take your time," Dorl said, leaning forward slightly, interlacing her fingers. "Breathe."
"It's just the fighting," Arsie whispered. "We fight all the time. About everything. Money. Dinner. The way I breathe. And it's loud. It's so loud. My son... little Toby... he just sits in the corner and cries. He covers his ears and screams for us to stop, but we can't. We just can't stop."
Arsie began to sob. It was a raw, ugly sound. "I feel like I'm destroying him. I feel like a monster."
Dorl watched her. She didn't feel the sadness. She analyzed it. She saw the guilt. She saw the vulnerability. She saw a customer.
"Arsie, look at me," Dorl said, her tone shifting. It became firmer, more authoritative. "You are not a monster. You are a human being in a difficult situation. But we need to be practical. Crying here is good for the release, but it does not solve the problem at home. Your son is absorbing that trauma. Every scream is a brick in a wall he is building around himself."
Arsie stopped crying, looking at Dorl with wide, desperate eyes. "What do I do?"
"You bring him here," Dorl said. "To me. My clinic specializes in pediatric trauma. We have the best facilities. We have the best methods. Don't worry about the cost right now, worry about Toby. I can help him. I can fix what the fighting has broken."
"You... you can?"
"I can," Dorl nodded. "But Arsie, you have work to do too."
"I know, I know, I need to fix my marriage—"
"No," Dorl cut her off. "You need to stop focusing on the marriage. You are spending so much energy hating your husband, resenting him, reacting to him. Stop it. Stop thinking about him. Stop letting him live rent-free in your head. That hate? It is poison. And you are drinking it and expecting him to die."
"But how can I not hate him when he—"
"You detach," Dorl said coldly. "You become ice. You focus on yourself. You focus on Toby. And you bring Toby to me. Do you understand? The more you engage with the hate, the more you lose. Let the hate go. Not for him. For you."
Arsie nodded slowly, as if she was being hypnotized. "Detach. Bring Toby to you."
"Exactly," Dorl smiled. It was a perfect, practiced smile. "We offer the best service here, Arsie. You are in good hands. Just trust the process."
The session ended ten minutes later. Arsie left looking hopeful, clutching Dorl's business card like a lifeline. Dorl watched the door close. Her smile vanished instantly. She checked her watch. She had somewhere to be.
The barbershop was alive. It was a stark contrast to the quiet manipulation of the clinic. Hip-hop bass thumped from the speakers, vibrating the floorboards. The air was thick with the smell of bay rum, talcum powder, and testosterone. Clippers buzzed like angry hornets. Men laughed, shouted, and argued about sports.
Dorl stood near the entrance, looking out of place in her tailored suit. She scanned the room.
And then she saw him.
Sitting in one of the leather chairs, getting a fade, was a young man with a face that looked like a younger, happier version of her own. His skin was tanned from the Mexican sun. His smile was so wide it looked like it hurt.
"Jose!" Dorl called out, her voice struggling to be heard over the bass.
The young man turned. His eyes lit up. He jumped out of the chair, ignoring the barber who was mid-trim.
"Dorl!"
He ran to her. He hugged her. He smelled of sweat and travel and excitement.
"Hey, hey, sit down, let him finish!" Dorl laughed, pushing him back gently. But the laugh felt mechanical in her throat.
Jose sat back down, grinning at her in the mirror. "Man, Dorl! Look at you! You look like a movie star! America treats you good, huh?"
"It has been... busy," Dorl said, leaning against the counter. "When did you land?"
"Just two hours ago! I came straight here. I wanted to look fresh for my big sister," Jose beamed. "God, I can't believe I am here. The USA. The land of dreams, right? Everything looks so big. The cars, the buildings. Even the burgers!"
He laughed again. It was a pure sound. Untainted.
"Welcome to America, Jose," Dorl said softly.
"I am so happy, Dorl," Jose said, his eyes closing as the barber brushed his neck. "I mean, I know it is not perfect. I know things are crazy. But I feel it. The vibe. I haven't seen anything bad yet. It is just... potential. You know? I feel like I can breathe here."
He opened his eyes and looked at her in the reflection. "I am just so happy to be near you again."
Dorl looked at him. She looked at that unblemished optimism. She looked at the way he saw the world—shiny, new, full of hope. He didn't see the grime yet. He didn't see the cracks in the pavement or the desperation in people's eyes. He didn't see the loneliness that ate people alive in this city.
He laughed again at a joke the barber made.
Dorl's smile remained fixed on her face, but her eyes went dead. It was like a lightbulb blowing out in an empty room. She felt a vast, echoing emptiness in her chest. She watched her brother laugh, and she felt absolutely nothing. No joy. No nostalgia. Just a cold, clinical observation of a boy who hadn't been broken yet.
"Yeah," Dorl whispered, her voice lost under the music. "It is a dream."
She stood there, a statue in the chaos, watching the happiness radiating off him, wondering when she had forgotten how to feel it herself.
Author: daffelitisaul