The boss comes in. He walks slowly. He bends his head to fit through the door frame and places a briefcase on the table.
”Doctor.” His eyes pierce me as he looks down. There’s a scar by his left one: thin yet deep. Lacerations on the side, show it wasn’t a knife. I didn’t realize until now but he must have been grazed by a bullet: 9mm if I had to guess.
He must have been shot a while ago, though. The boss hasn’t been on a mission in years — now he commands them.
”Romano,” I stand up, and bow my head.
Clicking open the case, I sort through the green papers. “$200.” I always take my payment in cash, always in advance. “I take it this is psychological?”
”Indeed, I hope you read the mission report. Sent four men on that raid, expecting minimal resistance. We were mistaken.”
”Yes. I’m sorry for the—”
”The last one is twitchy. Seems shell-shocked. I’ll send him in.”
Before I can spit out the obligatory “Yes sir! Thank you sir!”, he leaves. The door slams shut, only to open a minute later.
The patient, Jonas, walks in. His shoulders, which should be standing tall, now droop. It’s like he’s still carrying his comrades’ bodies out of that building.
”Doc, I…”
”Close the door. Sit down. Then, tell me what happened.”
”I…” His words dart around like his eyes. It’s clear that one bullet had taken two men’s souls at once “He’s dead. He’s — they’re both dead!”
”Take a deep breath, Jonas” I look at him gently, establishing eye contact. Through intact windows, I glimpse a shattered soul. “Your two allies were killed; it’s not your fault.” He quivers so I stare deeper — make him hold my gaze. “You eliminated the remaining hostiles afterward?”
”His head — Jimmy was standing right next to me, Frank too. His head — I’ve never seen that much blood. They were civilians, doc!” My patient’s knuckles whiten as they grip his seat. “Civilians shouldn’t have those guns!”
”Calm down, Jonas,” I pour a glass of water for him; I must keep him steady.
”You’re safe here. You will heal.”
”I can’t get better, man.” His whole body is shaking now. He’s about to break. “That could have been me, should have been me!”
”Breathe…” I hand him his water. He doesn’t drink it. “Just remember what you’re fighting for.”
”But we’re—”
”—You’re shell-shocked, Jonas,” I cut him off. He’s said enough already, and I shouldn’t let the trauma talk. The last thing I need is patients turning on the boss. “That’s the colloquial term for PTSD: Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.” I continue “Obviously, this isn’t an official diagnosis but we can treat you. EMDR therapy will start tomorrow, now go get some rest.”
He opens his mouth to speak but I’m already standing up.
Jonas stops talking and falls into my arms. He’s gone from shaking to limb. I carry him down the hall to his bed — it’s clear his legs can’t.
”Is — is the boss mad, Doc?” He’s scared — a hardened professional. softened down to a child again. That’s what shell shock does. I can’t help but grow tense as my pulse quickens.
”No. Not at you.” Lay him down as gently as I can. “You’re a good man, Jonas. The boss is lucky to have you at his side.”
Returning to my desk I reopen Jonas’ file. On the top is a snippet from the New York Times: “Manhattan bank robbery kills five civilians and two robbers. NYPD suspects Romano gang.”
I cram it into the folder and tuck it away.
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