Apartment 21, part 3

By josie marks

I f**** hate Sasha and I hate the fact that I was weak enough to fall in love with her. 

She was supposed to be one of many, the girl that I shagged and then moved on, but that didn’t happen. 

She made me want her, and she awakened the craving for something else, something more than just sex. 

If I want her to see me for who I am, the real Dexter, then I have to bury the obnoxious part away and show her. 

The problem is that my soul has been harvested by demons that hunt me in the night, waiting, expecting for me to give up and be a part of that dark world, a world off nightmares a haunting presence surrounding my every core….

• Language: English
• Publisher: josie marks
• Release date: Apr 2, 2016
• ISBN: 9781524265779

Book preview

One

Dexter

As soon those bastards placed me in that small hospital room I was on my feet, banging at the door. Panic overtook my running thoughts and I wasn’t sure if anyone could hear my screams. It took me ten minutes to realise that I was alone in this locked room and no one gave a fuck. I was petrified; my thoughts were racing like hell, speeding faster than ever before. Sasha had left me; she walked away when my mother showed up. I knew that it was all my fucking fault. I insulted her, pushed her away and told her to get lost, but couldn't she have stayed?

Suddenly the door swung open revealing a doctor and a nurse standing in the doorway with small smiles on their faces. It was difficult to read what they were thinking. I didn't think I could cope with a million questions being thrown at me by Smug One and Smug Two. My eyes roamed the room and focused on Lady Death, who stood in the back of the room staring at me. She was the only one that understood what I was going through. I saw her passing me a rope to end this all, like she did with my father. 

The guy in front of me took a seat and opened a file with my name on it. Why did he have a file with my name on it? He looked young, barely in his twenties, and I kept thinking that he was an actor, not a real doctor. Someone from the government had found out that I discovered the bugs. Now they were after me.  

Dexter, my name is Dr. Cole. Why don't you tell me what has been happening to you? He looked at me with an easy smile. I didn't trust the fucker. Despite that, I talked, going over and over what happened in the office, about my phones being bugged, about cockroaches in the bathroom. I talked until I was exhausted, noting that Cole wrote a few notes now and then. I asked about my family and was told my mother was outside in the corridor with my brother Connor. I could do this on my own. I didn’t need them. 

Okay, let's talk about what I think is happening to you, Dexter.

No! I shouted, jumping out of the hospital chair. I haven’t fucking finished yet! None of these fuckers knew what was going on. 

Dex, I need you to focus on me. I can help you feel better, but you must try to hear what I am telling you. From your symptoms and your family history, I think you are in need of some support and we can provide that. His voice was assertive, but it smoothed my rage ever so slightly. I believe you have a mental condition known as bipolar disorder. Do you know what that is? he asked, looking at me with dark penetrating eyes. What the fuck was he talking about? I didn’t get why he thought that I was mentally ill. I was seeing this shit for real. 

I’m not fucking bipolar! I shouted. 

I understand that this is strange for you, but we need to help balance your medication so you will feel better and you can go about your normal life without the current levels of stress that your mind is creating. Your headaches, your lack of a normal sleeping pattern, your anger issues—all of these symptoms are caused by a chemical imbalance that creates this chaos in your life. Wouldn't you like to sleep properly without a headache just once?

I said nothing, only stared at him. How the fuck did he know this about me?

He stood up and nodded to the nurse with him and said, We'll be right back.

He was gone for about ten minutes, and then my mother came crying and saying that I had to stay in the hospital for a bit. Soon everything turned into a nightmare. No way was I going to be committed to some loony bin. I started to get really angry, and more nurses began showing up the louder I became. The young doctor that interviewed me told me that I needed to be hospitalised to get the methadone out of my system because it could dangerously destabilise me further, but I knew it was a load of bullshit. Apparently, someone prescribed me the wrong meds, which caused hallucinations. This wasn’t fucking possible. Sasha had made contact with that noted neurologist. He couldn’t have prescribed me some shitty pills that didn’t work. 

Dex, stop fighting them. You need to do this, bro, Connor shouted after I tried to push away one of the nurses. The woman wanted to stick a needle into my arm. I tangled my fingers into my hair, pulling it taut with frustration. I shouted that they were all wrong, that they didn’t know what they were talking about. My brain felt like it was slowly melting and it was going to blow up within a moment. Sasha had betrayed me, left me alone, and my mother was sobbing, looking at me like she didn’t know me. 

It’s bullshit. I’m not fucking sick. My phones were bugged. Fuck! 

Son, please let them help you. Don’t fight. It’s for your own good, she said. 

Mum, listen to me: talk to Sasha and ask her about the bugs in the bathroom. She will tell you that I’m not crazy. 

I fought when they tried to escort me to the psychiatric ward. I wasn't going anywhere without a fight. Everything was moving so fast—my thoughts roiled, shooting through my brain like bullets from a gun.  

They put me into a small room with two windows reinforced with wire mesh. It had a bed, a small table, and a small loo. The doctor wanted to put me to sleep for a few hours to help with the detox and to relax me, but I refused to take anything. I was furious with myself, with my mother, and fucking Sasha. My head was banging and anger was seeping out of me, smashing through my body like a tsunami ready to destroy everything in its path. Everyone had turned against me.  

It seemed like hours had passed before anyone turned up. Half an hour later, some guy unlocked the door to my room and walked in like he owned the fucking place. A large, bulky nurse was standing next to him. 

Good afternoon, Dexter. My name is John Bishop and I’m going to be your doctor whilst you are in this ward. Dr. Cole from ER told me that you had several episodes recently that have caused you distress, he explained. 

I need to get out of here. There has been some sort of error. Check my files. I’m not crazy, I insisted. 

I’m not saying that you’re crazy, Dexter. You need help from healthcare professionals who understand how to treat someone with bipolar disorder; it's a common illness and nothing to be ashamed of. If you break your leg, a doctor operates to pin it, and a few months later you are healed. The brain isn't like that. It's a very precise balance of chemicals and hormones that need to be delicately looked after. Almost like if you forget eggs in a cake recipe. If you leave them out, the cake just isn't right. You could still eat it and it would taste okay, but it just isn't quite right. People with bipolar disorder are the cake without eggs. The problem we have is that someone with bipolar isn't supposed to take methadone. This medication caused your psychosis and hallucinations. Your mother said that this has been going on for a while.

My mother doesn’t know anything about my life, Doc. I’m always in control. 

Your mother seemed to be convinced that you hadn’t been sleeping much at all. There can be many symptoms of bipolar disorder. Some of them include psychosis, slurring speech, anger, euphoria and sometimes even memory loss. I can go on and on, Dexter. I have looked into your medical history records. No one has ever given you a proper diagnosis, and from what I can understand, during your teenage years you were treated for various ailments, but that hadn’t improved your well-being. We aren’t against you, Dex. I am not the enemy. Depression might have been one of the reasons that your father killed himself, as it can be genetic. He had similar symptoms throughout his life, and he was never diagnosed either. 

I was looking at this smart-ass doctor, hiding my head between my legs, trying to breathe. I wanted him to stop talking. Fuck, depression. Was I that sad that I developed a mental illness? I needed to speak to Sasha, find out if this shit was real, but she hated me. 

Then Bishop began telling me that I was going to stay in the ward for a couple of weeks. I was under observation to help me detox and stabilise. What pissed me off the most was the fact that he kept saying that he wanted to help me, that things were going to get better. I told them straight that I wasn’t going to take any meds. I was done with this shit. For years weed and my own pills worked, and now all of a sudden the doctors finally figured out what was wrong with me? 

Whatever. 

The nurse that was with Bishop tried to convince me that the pills would calm me down, but I told her to go to hell. She was English, with a double chin and fat chunky fingers. After ten minutes she finally left me alone. The buzzing sound in my ears eventually went away, but I felt trapped, betrayed. No one was going to help me. My mother and brother, they fucking locked me in here, and Sasha, she didn’t mean shit. I had fallen in love with her, but I couldn’t be chained up by some crawling emotion, so I decided to erase her out of my head forever.

Sasha

I was in the solicitor’s office, finalising what seemed to be more unnecessary paperwork, but I simply couldn’t focus on the text that was in front of me. It had been a hell of a week. Dexter hadn’t come home since the day I left him in the hospital with his mother. For days I’d been thinking about what he said to me. I hadn’t shed any tears for him and I wasn’t planning to, but I felt guilty because I left him there and walked away.

I bumped into Harry by the concierge downstairs and we had a little