Chapter Text
©Mad Books Publishing House, Ltd., 2019
DAY ONE
9:15 AM
Okay, this whole thing is definitely beneath me. If anyone asks, I’ll spend my probation period in my room, wishing I never existed. That’s it. Take that, doctor Gold. You fucking nutjob. I’m not writing in any fucking diary for you to read to bed! FUck!
10:12 AM
Oh, and one more thing – this isn’t a diary. This is a journal because SOMEONE (Ada, if you’re reading this, stop immediately ) apparently cannot help themselves around stationary sales.
10:15 AM
Although I do have to say, this is a very nice notebook and I do appreciate her remembering I like red. Not that it’s my favourite colour but it might be. So. You’re nice, Ada. Thanks.
11:03 AM
Fuck you, though, Ada. You know what? No! I really WOULD have preferred the bloody prison instead of these POINTLESS, ANNOYING THERAPY SESSIONS WITH A FUCKING CLOWN OF A PSYCHIATRIST!
11:10 AM
Note to self: must figure out how to write in this thing more quietly since Polly has just thrown her newspaper at me.
11:11 AM
Not that I am necessarily GOING TO write anything here. Because fuck this diary!
11:12 AM
Not a diary. It’s a journal. It said so on the label.
11:14 AM
On the other hand, I got back at her by spilling my tea on her fucking cat. Pretty sure all of Polly’s cats hate me for no apparent reason anyway so now at least this one has a valid one. You’re welcome, Pol.
11:15 AM
Coincidentally, I’ve always considered myself a cat person rather than a dog person but apparently, all cats on this bloody planet hate my fucking guts.
11:16 AM
Oh, and one more thing. To prove I’m not clinically insane, and I most certainly DO NOT have anger management problems, let me transcribe that last fucking session with doctor Gold. Let’s begin with the fact that he was fucking LATE and after taking off his coat, immediately begun blabbering about his fucking SON:
“Next month he’s going up against this giant of a boy, let me show you a picture, Tommy…” Before we even sat down, he nearly threw his cellphone at me to show me some half-naked pictures of sweaty muscular guys. Nice strategy, doctor. “This one is my Bonnie.” He pointed towards the shortest and sweatiest.
“How nice,” I said, in a dignified fashion, in hopes we might finally begin and get it over with.
I don’t know who would’ve been mad enough to grant that man a diploma of any kind but it seems like Cambridge had so here we fucking are.
“So tell me, Tommy,” he began again, this time focusing on me at last. “How are we today?”
“We?” I asked, ready to give the bastard a run for his money. The most expensive crook my bloody family could’ve found, I tell you. And one with the breathiest, weirdest fucking voice. Ughhh! This voice gives me the creeps. It’s as if he’s speaking to you but also to all the ghosts that we might also share the room with. That’s exactly how it feels and I hate it.
“How’s the family?” He tried again, giving me that sneaky smile of his. It never reaches his eyes. Or maybe it’s just that they’re so small and… bird-like. He reminds me of these birds of prey that me and Arthur used to watch at the zoo when we were kids.
“Good,” I said and nodded for emphasis. The thing is, I figured the less I say to him, the better. He can’t prove me insane if I don’t give him any material.
Not that I am insane.
Scratch that.
Jesus Christ, the more I say it, the worse it all sounds. The last session he told me I seem “jumpy”. Not my fucking fault, doctor Gold. You would’ve been too if the court made you move back with your bloody maternal aunt who moonlights as an occultist.
Oh, that’s right! Yes. She’s the centre of the whole problem, I tell you. Not only do I have to listen to people coming and going, asking for tarot reading and aura cleansing all day, no. POLLY is the one who owns the café where it all happened. And with the clients she attracts… honestly, she has to be at least partially responsible for what I did. Not only was I doing her a favour that day, but I also agreed to fucking WAIT ON TABLES because Lizzie never showed up for work. Fucking Lizzie. She’s a culprit, too, as far as I’m concerned.
Right.
So where was I?
“Jesus Christ, Tommy, slow down with the idle chatter, will ya?” Doctor Gold chuckled and took off his glasses to clean them. Aside from this man’s complete bloody weirdness, I liked the way he dressed. And I liked those glasses. They’re vintage Prada, impossible to find anywhere else but through private collectors. I can appreciate that about a person.
“So… What is it you want me to say?” At this point, I was growing impatient but deep down inside I knew this was exactly what he was going for. So I took a deep breath and did my best to stay calm.
“Let’s try to go back to the night of the incident, shall we?” He asked slyly.
“No.”
Honestly, I don’t see the point of talking about that. Why bother? That night is the only reason I’m even in this whole bloody mess. Everybody knows what happened, why bother going through that over and over again? I would just like to clarify, in case this journal might actually be used as evidence against me: it’s not the waiting tables that bothers me, all right? Because it’s not. That café was mum’s first; the only thing in her life besides us that father hadn’t managed to ruin with his utter fuckwittage. I’ve spent most of my life waiting on tables and I’ve no problem with that, none whatsoever. Everything I own now I’ve earned through sweat, tears and hard work. That’s not the point. The point is… fucking people. Especially the people that the café and Polly attract lately. Fucking hipster weirdoes that think they own me if I wear an apron. This is what I hate. The sheer audacity. The sneers. The looks. Don’t they realize who I am?! At this point, I could bloody buy their skins and the shirts they walked in!
So anyway.
“So tell me about your daily grind,” doctor Gold asked with that fake “I get you” smirk.
“You… know I’m on sick leave from work, right? One which you prescribed?” At this point, I was getting pretty annoyed. It’s one thing to ban me from working, but must he also take a piss about it?
“I meant your days, Tommy. It’s been four weeks, I’m sure there are some events you’d like to share with me?”
Ah.
Well, who was I to know what he meant? The guy is clearly bloody mad. And truth be told… All right, there were events. Thanks to my bloody sister (again!) there was this unfortunate Tinder incident that, frankly, I don’t care to mention but will anyway, for my own protection: my sister decided to set up a Tinder account and matched with men pretending to be me. Apparently for “your own bloody good, Tommy, you depraved hermit.”
And so she set me up on a date with this… Tinder bloke.