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Two Worlds - Season 1 - Episode 7
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Source: olaxali
The girl did okay except dancing with Jide didn’t fit her. A school boy less tall would have fitted. Her head settled below Jide’s chest, her multi-coloured necklace shimmering under the chandelier light.
Soon they began talking. The music changed and laughs joined their talks.

“Ezinne, which tie fits?” Richard asked, holding two ties. A ruby and a green.
“The green,” Ezinne said from her corner of the bed, where she was seated, pressing the toothpaste’s tube against her toothbrush so that the paste slid out onto the bristles.
He hung the ruby in his wardrobe, took the green over his neck and began knotting.
“Why the hurry? It’s six,” Ezinne said and looked up to the wall clock which read some minutes after six.

“I have three tasks. I’ll start by going to the filling station to refill, a hospital, and then the office. Thirty minutes back would have been the right time to leave.”
“That girl hasn’t been discharged?” Ezinne asked, her tone rising. She dropped her toothbrush on the bedstead.

“She’s recovered from the accident. It happened that she is suffering from kleptomania. I admitted her into a psychiatric hospital for psychotherapy.” He knotted his tie to a near perfect V and pushed the knot higher to achieve a perfect V.
Her cheeks slackened and she stayed quiet for a moment.

“Surprised she is a kleptomaniac? I was, too. I thought Nigerians were immune to those kinds of illnesses. I felt for her and figured sending her to a psychiatric hospital wouldn’t be too bad. I should finish what I’ve started. It won’t be good if she goes stealing from others the way she did me. No one would want another accident.”
“Doesn’t she have a family?” She budged from the bed’s edge, causing the steel cup on the bedstead to fall to the floor and its water spilled on the lower of her nightgown. The fabric glued to her legs. She ignored.

“If she does, it is evident they don’t care.”
“When did you do this?”

He sprayed perfume on his suit’s shoulders and huffed out the little that went into his nose. “The week’s beginning.”
“And you’re just saying it.”
“You’ve never really paid attention to her. What’s the need bothering you?”
“We still should have discussed it before you had her transferred. Don’t you think catering for someone’s medications is something you should not keep from me?”
“There was no time for a discussion. It wasn’t premeditated.”

“Why didn’t you tell me after?”
“You didn’t place any interest in her. I didn’t see it as a priority.”

She set gaze at the hem of her nightgown which was now wet with water.

“Okay, I might have come home tired and probably forgot,” he tried a reduced voice and prayed it removed her ashen face.
“We talk about everything, Rick, to the slightest of things.”

He ambled to her, looped an arm round her waist and drew her closer. “I’m sorry. We should have talked about it.” Her toothbrush on the bedstead had fallen to its side, its colourful paste glued to the wooden frame.
“Next time anything like this happens, please we sit and talk.” She wrung the lower of her nightgown, expelling water to the floor. Before picking his car key, he made sure her dropped cheeks were livened. He picked her toothbrush and pressed the toothpaste against it, aligning the paste in the straight form she always did.

He arrived at the hospital and marched to room forty-four. On the bed, a lady sat by Ivie and the two women muttered to themselves. He settled on the chair by the door, far from the window which did little to better the poor work of the ceiling fan. Soon, he began rocking. His wristwatch said he was thirty minutes late, and a drive back to Erneto Aives might take another twenty if he’s lucky to escape traffic jam. The lady with Ivie finished and waved to him. She opened the door and stepped out, her shoes leaving brown spots on the rug.

“Sorry for the wait,” Ivie said, almost a mutter. “She’s my counsellor.”
A sachet of medicines lay on the desk. They were antidepressants. It was boldly written on the sachet. He reached for it and read the written words. “Does this kill the urge?”
She didn’t reply, and that gave him his answer. She walked to the window and slid it open. The early ginger rays brightened the room.

“Have the urges reduced so far?”
“It comes and goes.”

The best he could do was to believe that was an improvement. He brought out a book from his briefcase and tossed it to the bed. “I stopped by the therapist office. He told me to give you this. It’s a book on your issue. It will help.”

She thanked him without looking at the book, without a glance. “But—” Her cheeks flattened as she held the book and sat on the mattress. “I don’t think it’s necessary.”
“You have a problem with reading books?”
“Books on therapy.”

Instead of leafing through with shifting eyes, eager to read every page, every line, she did nothing but held the book and stared at its front cover. Trained psychotherapists recommended it, as her therapist had said. It contained others’ experiences that might help fight her urges.

“Everyone has a distinct way of handling disorders. I have to find mine. Following others may worsen my case.”
The best her pessimism would do was to worsen her case. The doctor had to drive out that spirit from her. “Where did you get that notion from?”

“I’m twenty-six. I’ve lived with this illness for as I can remember. Do you think I haven’t tried all odds?”

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