Doctor Faustus

An appointment with Doctor Faustus.
Clinical Psychologist.

I’m sunk deep in this old armchair, the one with the springs poking through like bad memories, and the room’s half-lit, half-dead, snow still spitting against the window. The clock’s oak pendulum swings back and forth, steady as a hangover heartbeat, counting me out. I’m just letting go, sliding down easy into the booze and the years.

“Think of your soul like an onion,” he says, peeling another layer with every tick, every goddamn tock, another skin of me curling off and hitting the floor.

And there she is again, my gran, a distant memory, elbows deep in flour and cinnamon, sliding that apple pie into the oven like it could save somebody. While it browned, she’d be at the table with a funnel, pouring the Mainstay into old Mainstay bottles, cutting it with water so my uncle wouldn’t drown so fast. His liver already yellow as old newspaper, floating in and out of some charity ward while machines beeped like this same fucking clock. She never said much, just worked quiet, hands steady, pretending a little dilution might keep death from knocking too loud.

Tick. Tock.

Another breath in, another breath out.

And here I am, years later, still peeling, still crying, still listening to that bastard pendulum telling the whole tired story one slow beat at a time.