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Two Worlds - Season 1 - Episode 19
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Source: olaxali
Ivie did not rise from the bed to go open the door for the person knocking. The last thing she wanted was pep talks from the nurses. The door opened. It was not a nurse. It was Richard in a tailored, auburn suit that outlined his square shoulders. He headed for the chair by the door, same chair he sat on every visit. Never had he sat on the bed.
He sat on the chair and placed his briefcase on his laps, talked about the positive remarks of the doctor like how he said she was recovering. She wondered what could be the doctor’s definition of recovery. Her mum was told the same thing.
“You will soon be discharged,” he said.
The hospital was safe. The nurses ensured she remained in her room, and that was the only good they did. It kept her from falling prey to the devil. And in the hospital, there were no numerous stares from people. Now, she was about going back to those, about going back to the outside world of fear, guilt, and the stares…That was the doctor’s definition of recovering.


“The therapist said you paint in here.”
Does the doctor have to tell him all she did? That was not part of her treatment. “I paint sometimes.”
“Does it kill your urge?”
She surveyed his face for the answer he yearned. “Yes, it did.”
“Can I see some of them?”

She opened a drawer and brought out her sketchpad. He rose from the wooden chair and dallied to the bed. Seated beside her, he began opening the pad, browsing through the first pages with swift eyes, not spending a minute on a page. “They’re good.”
He ran fingers over the edges of a painting of flying eagles. “Natural. It’s beautiful.” He continued viewing the drawings and began spending time on each page. She watched him, enjoying the silence, but not his scent that raided the room, same scent she allowed crawl into her nostrils.



When finished with the last page, he closed the pad and la!d it on the bed. “They’re beautiful. It’s good you’ve found what kills your urge. Now you’ll agree with me the hospital is a good place.”

She wished she could agree. She wished the hospital could be a good place so that he would be right. “I have another book. You want to see it?”

“I’d want to.”
Why did she offer? It was her book of sketches, filled with rough drawings and paintings, not the type to show others. She opened a drawer and brought out the book.
“These are sketches.” He flipped through the book.

“I thought you wanted to see all of the works.”


He continued flipping through the pages, feigning a zealous face that he was bad at. “They’re okay.”

He looked through the window and glanced at his wristwatch, same thing he did on every visit. A selfish wristwatch and its selfish time.
“When will you come again?” she asked, before her mouth would stiffen itself.
“Before you get discharged.”
A definite answer would have helped.

A thud came from her door, and without it opening, a female voice said Ivie was needed in the doctor’s office.

“Do you see the therapist every day?” Richard asked.

“No. But regularly.”
“I should be leaving. Go see him.” He carried his briefcase and aimed for the door. His footsteps disappeared immediately he closed the door. She prepared to go meet the doctor and answer those questions without answers.

The doctor’s eyes left his demitasse and trailed her from the door to the seat. “Have you been taking your medications?” He gave her piercing eyes that might as well force her to say yes. Those few times she had missed were not enough to say no. Yes, she had been taking her medications.

“Last time you were taken to the store, are you aware of how many items you picked?”

“No.”
“Nine.” The doctor sounded it so loud it echoed and rebounded in her ears. “It’s an improvement, though.”

That did not sound like an improvement. The doctor had the most twisted face when voicing out the Nine. “Were you a bit conscious of them?” he asked.

“No.”
He stuck his glasses firmer to his eyes and changed topic to her nights. Was she having restless nights? Is she able to sleep all through the nights? Does she wake up in the middle of the nights and sleepwalk? Most persons didn’t know if they sleepwalk, so if that happened or not, she wouldn’t know.
“How do you still feel after a steal?”
The answer would not change. No matter the number of times he asked, the answer remained same. Fear. Guilt. And it pained to say, sometimes relief came in. Sometimes the three decided to show their heads.

“You still feel relief?” the doctor asked with a deepened voice, making it very clear there had been no improvement. “Does your painting help relieve you of the urge?”
“It does,” she said, glad at the slight change of subject, even though it would last for only a while.

“Do they distract you from the urge?”
The doctor’s face craved for a yes. It would be cruel to disappoint him. Yes, they did, if that would erase the folds forming on his forehead.

“When do you paint?”
“When I feel like doing so.”
“Is that every day?”
“Not every day. I sketch when doing nothing.”

“Does that also suppress the urge?”
“It does.”

The remaining folds on his face disappeared. Her reply was not wasted.
“You can go to your room,” he said.
“Any hope of a discharge soon?” She did not know if that would be good news, but it was right to ask.
“I’m on that.”

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