Page 73 of Toxic Kiss

He sits back in his chair, and I can feel his eyes analyzing me.

“Only if you promise to consider that the diagnosis could be correct and we need to not only find the right combination of medication, but you might want to talk to someone about accepting that you have⁠—”

I hold up my hand.

“Don’t say it again.”

“Cyrus, it’s not a dirty word. Hundreds of thousands of people have schizophrenia and live normal, happy lives. Medication, acceptance, and understanding for mental illness have come a very long way.”

“That may be true, but….” I lean forward, putting my arms on his desk. “I feel like I’m at war with my body, not my mind. My mind…it’s collateral damage in the battle. Do you understand? This has been going on for years. There’s no way I’m suddenly schizophrenic. And I feel like if everyone starts saying it then it will become like my addiction…that’s all anyone sees and stops looking for the truth.”

He licks his lips, and I can see the wheels turning in his head. It is way too terrifying after three long years of doctors staring at me with a blank look and a fake smile, to believe that someone may actually give a shit.

“Lets’ take this one step at a time.”

And just like that, he pops the tiny bubble of hope. I slump back in my chair, and the possibility of someone understanding dwindles as quickly as it came.

“Whatever you say, doc. Whatever you say.”

chapter

twenty-one

“You don’t have to be okay to be worth loving.” – Cyrus

CYRUS

Just like all the other hospitals and doctors’ offices, this place is bright and welcoming and tastes like lies.

They wheel me out with too much fanfare and not enough dignity. The band trails behind me, silent. My mother leads the way like a vulture, scooping up every scrap of attention she can. And Haven…well, she isn’t here. I look for her, hoping that she will walk in before we make our escape, but no. She left before my evaluation, and a dark heaviness has settled over me that I can’t seem to shake.

Even though there are no flashing bulbs, I can still feel the shutter clicks like sniper fire the second the front doors open. Reporters surge against the barricades, shouting over one another so only the loudest can be heard amid the chaos.

“Cyrus, were you high on stage?”

“Is the band canceling the tour?”

“What medications are you on, Cyrus?”

“Is it true your collapse was a suicide attempt, or just a cry for help?”

“Is Haven Gaillard your girlfriend or your handler, and isn’t she your stepsister?”

“Isn’t it a conflict to be sleeping with the boss’s daughter?”

“Is it true that she slept her way to the top?”

The questions about Haven smack me in the face. I wasn’t expecting them, and they make me want to march across the pavement and pummel anyone who has the nerve to talk shit about her.

“What the hell is all this bullshit about Haven?” I growl as we near the stretch SUV.

It is flanked by four police cruisers while more officers keep the horde of fans at bay.

My mother squeezes my shoulder, a silent warning telling me to shut up. As if she deserves to touch me or tell me what to do. Every question feels like a shard of glass plunged into my chest, and every camera filming is another gun pointing at me.

The driver opens the door for us, and I slide inside. Mr. Gaillard sits there like the reaper of death. He stares at me with a small smile on his face. He’s never been cruel to me, but we’ve never really gotten along.

When I look at Auguste, I don’t see the man that Haven sees. My view is different. Under the warm smiles he shares with Haven lies a cold and calculating businessman. He doesn’t ask questions or throw around accusations. His solemn stare creates pressure in my skull and adds fury to my veins.