01/06/2025
Chapter One: The Cough Syrup Prophet.
Charlie was the kind of psychologist who forgot appointments, remembered childhood traumas that weren’t his, and slept with the window open even in winter. His bookshelves were lined with Freud, Jung, and Bukowski — all equally dog-eared, all equally judgmental.
He never wore a tie. Said it felt like a noose with better PR.
He was the guy clients came to when the polished ones didn’t work. The emergency room of the mind. He didn’t give homework. He didn’t say things like “inner child” unless he was already halfway through a hangover. His couch had a coffee stain shaped suspiciously like Texas, and his chair creaked like it was in pain every time he sat in it — which he appreciated. At least something was honest in the room.
But on this particular Thursday, Charlie stood under the flickering light of an all-night pharmacy, arguing with a vending machine that dispensed cold meds like it was performing a mercy.
“I want the cherry cough syrup, dammit. Not the grape. Grape is for sociopaths and liars.”
The machine beeped. Dispensed two grape bottles just to spite him.
“Sir,” the clerk behind the counter said, not looking up from his Sudoku, “maybe you should take a walk.”
“I am taking a walk. Through a capitalist hellscape where even robots gaslight me.”
The clerk blinked slowly, unbothered. “You’re lucky I don’t have a degree in your field, man.”
Charlie grabbed the syrup and exited like a man leaving a failed marriage.
The city was half-asleep, half-bleeding. The streets glistened like they'd been licked clean by rain and still weren’t satisfied. He lit a cigarette and leaned against a lamp post that buzzed like a tired therapist trying to stay awake during a client’s dream monologue.
He hadn’t slept in two nights. His last session had ended with a woman sobbing into her hands and asking if it was okay to hate her kids just a little. Charlie had told her yes, because truth is better than denial — and love isn’t ruined by a little shadow. He hadn’t told her he once hated himself so much he renamed it “insight” just to keep functioning.
That’s when she pulled up.
Red Toyota Corolla. Cracked windshield. Dreamcatcher swinging like it had seen things and didn’t approve. She parked like parallel lines offended her personally.
She stepped out in scrubs and a hoodie with a bleach stain shaped like heartbreak. Hair in a bun. Converse high-tops that had definitely seen someone die.
“You got a light?” she asked.
Charlie handed her the whole pack.
“You smoke?” she asked.
“Nope. Just like handing out small forms of destruction.”
She smirked, cigarette dangling from her lips like sin with lipstick.
“You always this dramatic, or is it a full moon thing?”
“I’m a psychologist.”
“Oh. So it’s terminal.”
They ended up at The Slow Bleed, a bar with a neon sign that sputtered like it was trying not to cry. Tom Waits growled from the speakers, and the bartender looked like he’d once given advice to Satan and never recovered.
She ordered whiskey. Neat. No hesitation. Charlie nodded.
“Name’s Charlie,” he said, sipping something brown and reckless.
“I’m Eva,” she said, licking her lip after the first sip. “I deal with dying people all day.”
“I deal with people who wish they were.”
“Well, this is shaping up to be the sexiest pity party ever.”
“I brought the guilt.”
“I brought the trauma.”
They clinked glasses like a pact.
Later, back in Charlie’s apartment — walls lined with framed degrees and unwashed coffee cups — he burned toast while she dug through his vinyl collection and laughed at his obsession with sad jazz and angry women.
“Wait,” she said, pulling out Fiona Apple. “You own this but pretend you’re emotionally distant?”
“I’m complicated.”
“You’re full of sh*t.”
“Same thing.”
They ate burnt toast with too much butter and sat on the floor because the couch had a spring that stabbed. She talked about the silence of hospice rooms, and he listened like it was scripture.
“You know,” she said, looking at him over the rim of her mug, “you seem like the kind of man who’s good at helping everyone but himself.”
“I charge myself double,” he muttered.
“That’s still not therapy.”
“No,” he said. “But it’s honest.”
In bed, there were no fireworks. Just skin and breath and the comfort of someone who knew where the ghosts hid. She kissed the scar on his shoulder and didn’t ask where it came from. He kissed her collarbone like it was sacred text.
“You’re not as broken as you pretend to be,” she whispered.
“I am. I’m just better at accessorizing.”
She laughed, pressed her forehead to his, and whispered, “Then let’s be broken together. At least until morning.”
And for once, Charlie didn’t overthink it.
He just held her — like she was the first silence that didn’t need filling — and let the world disappear.
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