Page 71 of Toxic Kiss

“No,” I say. “And yes, I’m sure.”

“Did you take anything with your medication that wasn’t prescribed?”

“Like what,” I ask, pinching the bridge of my nose.

“Over-the-counter meds, alcohol, or recreational drugs?”

I smile and push myself up to pace the small room. I just want out.

“Cyrus? You have a history. This is not an unreasonable question.”

My jaw ticks.

“History is the keyword in that sentence. I haven’t touched any hardcore party drug since I was released. I occasionally smoke, have a beer, and yes, I’ve smoked a joint from time to time. But I don’t make it a habit to do any of that with my meds.”

He makes another note. The sound of the pen scribbling across the paper is annoying me. I want to know what he’s writing down.

“Did you take your medication as directed?”

“Yes. I had a small meal and took my meds with the food an hour before I went on stage.”

“Any alcohol?”

“Half a beer with my meal.”

“You’re not supposed to have any.”

“What part of being a rockstar don’t you understand?” He glares at me. “Fine, I won’t do it again. But you wanted the truth, and I’m giving it to you. I had half a beer with dinner.”

“Please sit.”

I’m about to argue, but instead I walk over and drop down onto the hard chair.

“Thank you. Are you getting eight hours of sleep a night?”

I burst out laughing, but his expression doesn’t change.

“Oh, you’re serious? I haven’t slept through the night or had more than four hours at a time since I was ten.”

He scribbles again.

“You seem to have been through multiple diagnoses since you left rehab. Can you tell me about your recent diagnosis?”

The walls feel like they are closing in, and I stand up to pace again.

“You have my file, read it for yourself,” I growl.

“You defer a lot, Cyrus. I’ll ask you again, is there a reason for all the hostility? The only reason you are here is because of yourself. So why do you want to take your anger out on me?”

“I’m not angry at you. I’m angry at this entire situation. And because forcing me to say it out loud doesn’t make a difference. Are you trying to get me to say it just to rub it in my face? Upset me? I don’t get it.”

“Please, Cyrus, humor me,” Stevens says.

“Oh…my…god, fine. Schizophrenia. Happy now? You got me to say it, gold star for you.”

“You don’t believe it’s accurate?”

“No, I think it’s bullshit. I said it at the time, and I will continue to say it.”