Dylan Waters

I’m waiting outside when she approaches me. “Luckies huh?” she asks, pointing to the half-smoked cigarette between my lips. She looks tired, an older woman with a bohemian style, greying hair tied up in a loose bun. I silently offer her one, and she smiles politely shaking her head. “I quit years ago,” she chuckles, “don’t tempt me.” She carries a shoulder bag that seems to tip her to one side, with papers peeking out under the flap. “Dean Sullivan is it?” She extends a hand out to shake. “Dr. Halloran, it’s a pleasure to meet you.” I feel the cool metal of her many rings as I grab her hand, and try to hide my shivering. “Take your time,” she assures me, “I’ll be inside when you’re ready.” I take two big drags, savoring the final bit before the filter, then stomp it out.

Her office is just as I expected, with tapestries and pillows on the floor, and a long cushioned couch to lay on. Though styled to her liking, it’s a shrink’s office, with all the staples. I head straight for the couch and sit, taking in the decor while she sets up. She’s got several candles, all half-burned, amateurish paintings on the walls. I can’t tell if they’re her handiwork or something the last kook she worked on made as a parting gift. Her desk is piled with papers and eraser ends, stacked precariously high. She places a white noise machine outside of the door, and I can hear the drone as she shuts it. She sits across from me in a stiff-backed office chair. My nose begins to run. “Alright Dean, let’s begin.”

I give her the same spiel I give every shrink, I broke my arm in a workplace accident (I didn’t), was prescribed oxycontin for the pain (I wasn’t), and eventually moved to heroin when I couldn’t afford the pills (I did). It’s easier, makes them ask fewer questions. She gives me the same sad smile I’ve endured a million times, and I try to force tears to really sell it, but my acting skills aren’t what they used to be.

“And you’re how many days clean?”

“Thirty-seven.” I lie. She nods. She is writing something down on her desk pad. The girl shrinks eat this sappy shit up, and I almost feel bad, but push the feeling down. Suddenly she places the pad to the side and folds her hands in her lap.

“Now what can you tell me about yourself that I can’t read in a file Dean?”

“What do you mean?”

“Tell me about yourself, what was your childhood like?” My nose begins to drip again. “Thirty-seven days huh?” She smiles, handing me a tissue box.

“That’s what I said isn’t it?” choosing my sleeve instead. She leaves the box next to me anyway and leans back.

“You know this works a whole lot better if you’re honest Dean.” She gives me a knowing stare. She reminds me of my mother. I bite my tongue.

She sighs, pulling herself up from her seat using both armrests for support, and meaders over to her desk. She immediately finds what she was looking for, surprising given the mess. “I know this isn’t your first rodeo Dean.” She hands me a manilla folder. I open it and am greeted with the mugshot of 19-year-old me, along with my rap sheet. I’ve got that stupid haircut I thought made me look older, but it really just made me look like a tool. “Your parole officer gave me that,” she admits, collapsing into her seat. Fucking Janice, of course she did. I place the folder to my side.

“Listen, ma’am –”

“Dr. Halloran.”

“Right, Dr. Halloran, listen I’m sure you’re just swell at this whole thing, but I’m not a loon ok? I don’t need you to tell me that I’m the way I am because Daddy left for cigarettes one day and never came back.”  She leans in.

“How is your relationship with your parents?” She reunites with her desk pad.

Shit, I’ve said too much.

“Fine.” I should have just bit my tongue.

“How about your mother, how is she?”

A pain in my ass.

“Why is that Dean?” Shit, I said that out loud. Why did I say that out loud?

“She’s kinda like every therapist, constantly asking questions, constantly in my business. Trying to figure out how I got so fucked.” She begins writing quickly. I really gotta shut up now. “She thinks it’s her fault I got this way so she spends every day trying to make up for it, which just keeps reminding me how jacked up I am.” Dean, you really gotta shut up now. “She treats me like I’m a child, she comes into my room while I’m trying to relax, Narcan’s me, and crawls into bed with me and won’t leave me alone.” Dean, it would be in your best interest to stop talking right fucking now. “And the worst part of it is she ruins a perfectly good high and pulls me right back to the shitty world I’m in. It’s exhausting.” Dean, don’t say it. Do not fucking say it. “I obviously don’t wanna be here, so just let me go.”

She pauses, stops her writing, and looks straight at me. A flash of deep worry hits her face before she collects herself and returns to a focused stare. Dean, you’re a fucking idiot. There’s gotta be truth serum in these goddamn candles.

“What do you mean by that Dean?” She looks like she’s one wrong answer away from getting me a pair of grippy socks and a vacation at the finest psych ward in the greater Boston area.

“Nothing,” I whisper, trying to stop myself from imagining what life with no shoelaces will be like.

We sit in silence for what feels like an eternity. I feel my body sink into the leather and my heart rises to my throat. I’m sweating. Jesus these withdrawals are killing me. I gotta call Johnny to take this edge off. I look up and see her face. Tears well in her eyes. No that can’t be right, must be the lighting. Maybe the candle smoke got to her. There are two perfect beads of saline falling down her cheeks. I hand her the tissue box. She laughs like it hurts, taking the box from me and wiping her cheeks.

“Thank you” she croaks, dabbing her eyes to avoid smudging any makeup.

“Are you alright Dr. Halloran?”

“Yes Dean I’m alright, thank you.” She smiles sheepishly, soaking up the last few tears. “You just remind me of my son is all.” I tense up, and sensing my incoming apology she puts her hand up. “I needed to hear that, thank you.” She looks at her watch. “Time’s up I’m afraid.” I shoot up from my seat and she slowly rises from hers. I watch as she heads to the door, grabbing the white noise machine and placing it back inside. I watch as she heads over to her candles, blowing each one out individually with care. I look at the paintings and see a signature in the corner of each one. “Samual Halloran” they read, in a messy boyish script. “I hope to see you next week Dean.” She grabs the manila folder from the couch and places it back on her desk. I swallow hard.

“Yeah, I hope to see you too.”

I pull out another cigarette as I leave the office. It’s getting late and the weather is turning colder. I can’t tell if the chill is getting to me or the withdrawals, but I’m shaking like a leaf. It’s hard to keep my hands steady enough to light the damn thing, but eventually, I get it burning. I breathe deep, letting the smoke fill my lungs. I need to call Janice. I finish the butt, stomping it out on the concrete next to the one from earlier. I get into my car, turn the heat all the way up, and then Johnny calls.

“Dopesick” Reflection

I wanted to write a story about drug addiction from the perspective of an addict. I called on the stories and experiences I had while working at a rehab during the Covid-19 pandemic. This story is based not only on patients I had worked with but also on my coworkers. I took major inspiration for the styling of my story and the narrative voice from Maaza Mengiste’s “Dust, Ash, Flight”. This is most apparent in the very specific detailing that Mengiste uses, as I wanted to utilize that style to help flesh out my characters without giving too much away. In Mengiste’s story, he describes Alfonso very specifically from Gideon’s point of view, saying “The man had dark circles under his eyes. There was a fine sheen of dust covering him, and the weight of the camera slung over his shoulder seemed to tip him to one side.” (Mengiste 27) I decided to emulate that style with my description of Dr. Halloran, where I wrote “ She looks tired, an older woman with a bohemian style, greying hair tied up in a loose bun… She carries a shoulder bag that seems to tip her to one side, with papers peeking out under the flap.” Additionally, I wanted to flesh out my locations like Mengiste does, like when he describes the bar Alfonso and Lara go to as a “tiny, dim building made of what looked like adobe. It was painted blue with a pale-green door that swung limply on rusted hinges. A scratched-up slab of wood made up the counter and, behind it, a strikingly pretty waitress with clothes that clung to her soft body smiled and pushed two beers toward them as they sat down.” (Mengiste 23) I decided to do this with Halloran’s office, saying “Her office is just as I expected, with tapestries and pillows on the floor, and a long cushioned couch to lay on. Though styled to her liking, it’s a shrink’s office, with all the staples… She’s got several candles, all half-burned, amateurish paintings on the walls.” I wanted to utilize epistemophilia to spur the reader to continue reading the story, and to drive them to want to see what happens to Dean in the therapy session. I wanted to leave the ending purposefully open-ended, as I felt that making the ending of this story happy felt dishonest to the nature of addiction. I also wanted to make a critique and comment on toxic masculinity, with Dean actively repressing and covering his emotions, to his own detriment. This can be seen when Dean says “The girl shrinks eat this sappy shit up, and I almost feel bad, but push the feeling down.” Not only does he repress his emotions here, but he also expresses gender stereotyping by accusing Dr. Halloran of being overly emotional.

Works Cited

Mengiste, Maaza. “Dust, Ash, Flight.” Addis Ababa Noir, Akashic Books, Brooklyn, NY, 2020, pp. 23–28.

About the Author

Dylan Waters is a Psychology & BDIC Double Major in his Sophomore year from Haverhill, MA. ”Dopesick” was inspired by the stories of the patients and staff he had met while working at a drug rehab during 2020. He gives thanks to Gennifer Dorgan for the nomination, as well as his family and friends for their endless support.

IG: @dwaters296

Dylan was a student in Comp Lit 121: International Short Story, taught by Gennifer Dorgan in Fall 2021.