Free What Hides Within by Jason Parent Page B

value of that she-demon pop singer and no-talent actress was better than dealing with his own demons. Clive welcomed the fluff. Regardless of how hard he tried, he couldn't rid himself of the thought that sanity was deserting him.
    ***
    The drive over to Dr. Allen's office was uneventful. The voice didn't return, and Clive wondered if he'd daydreamed the whole unnerving ordeal. He hadn't been sleeping much lately. Combined with his drinking, perhaps his tired psyche had decided to spark things up a bit. He hoped so, comfortably assuming the delusion for the moment.
    Ironically, even his right ear worked better. He thought maybe his problems were drawing to their conclusion. The morning's events may simply have been their climax, the peak before the fall.
    Clive sat alone in the office's lounge, quietly filling out answers to an array of invading and often irrelevant questions. What does my affinity for yellow Post-it notes have to do with anything? Who cares whether I wear ankle or knee-high socks? And my sexual preference? I'm not gay, and that question still offends me. What bearing does my constipation twenty-five years ago have upon the issue of whether or not something is living in my head today? Did something crawl into my balloon knot when I was a teeny-tot, temporarily clog my anus, then slowly work its way up through my body to my brain over the course of two decades? I'd understand the sexual preference question if this questionnaire pertained to my constipation.
    Fuck it . Clive grumbled to himself. Heresisted the temptation to answer randomly and breezed through the questions as quickly as he could.
    When he finished, he glanced around the waiting room. He was still alone, even after the forty-two minutes it took to complete the paperwork. And even though he was alone, it took another forty-nine minutes for his name to be called.
    "Mr. Menard?" a comely nurse asked. Or was she an administrative assistant? Clive couldn't tell, but he was convinced of one thing about her: she was an idiot.
    Do you see anyone else out here, sunshine? Clive faked a smile. "Yep, that's me. Clive Menard."
    "Dr. Allen will see you now."
    That's nice of him. I was rather enjoying watching the wall. Captivating stuff. Clive put down a four-month-old copy of Entertainment Weekly , which he hadn't bothered to open. On the cover, Miley Cyrus was prominently featured, and Clive briefly wondered why he hated her so much. Ah yes, a lot younger than me and a whole lot richer. That'll do it. Fuck the Olsen twins, too.
    He followed the nurse-secretary into the office's inner sanctum, a place where only staff and the sick ventured. Pastels turned to whites as he ambled into a room the size of a walk-in closet, minus the shoe racks.
    "Have a seat," the woman said. "The doctor will be in to see you shortly." She exited the room, closing the door behind her.
    "Have a seat where, exactly?" Clive studied the room. His sole option was that dubious, paper-covered exam table that could be scaled with ease only by an Olympic high jumper. Combining its lack of back support and all-around discomfort, the chair-bed-table thing lacked any redeeming qualities. He wondered if they changed the paper on it after each person visited. He imagined he could detect the scent of the sick, bare, diarrhea-spraying ass that had sat on it before his unlucky arrival, permeating off the paper like an ungodly potpourri. Clive decided to stand.
    "At least I don't have to wear one of those awful gowns," Clive thought aloud. Walking around with his cartooned boxers sticking out for public scrutiny had no appeal. He already regretted losing his fifteen dollar co-pay to this miserable experience, considering it an unfortunate but necessary evil.
    A knock came at the door, and Clive was pleased to think that his wait was over. His hopes were quickly crushed. It was the nurse-secretary returning, not the doctor, opening the door without waiting for a response.
    "I almost forgot," she