Orange

The rain outside sounds like tiny people creeping through the garden. He avoids eye contact, instead focusing on the painting on the South Wall. It’s painted in warm sunset colors. The grey sky from the window opposite melts the colors to shades of muddy brown which leak down the wall onto the blue airport-lobby carpet…
“Doc,” he says, his voice breaking. He clears his throat. “Doc, I think he’s back.”

Her brow creases and she shifts slightly on the chaise-lounge.

“Have you been taking your medication?” The man glances quickly up then looks back down at his shaking fingers.
“I think I might need a higher dose.”

“I can up your dosage to 750 mg, but after that I’m going to have to refer you to the pharmacologist.” She reviews the notes on her clipboard.

“John,” she says, frowning. “Is he…hurting you?”

“No,” he says, with a desperate laugh. “No, he’s not hurting me.” She waits for him to say more, but he remains silent.
“Do you need to talk to me, to discuss anything else?”

“No. I just—I just need to up the dosage. That’s all. That’s all I came in for—“ He pauses for a moment, then becomes silent again. She leans forward and raises her eyebrows, waiting. He says nothing.

“Alright. John, I’m going to give you two numbers. The first is my cell phone number, and you can call me at any time. The second is the number of Doctor Mulder, the pharmacologist. If you have any problems with the medication, you need to call her right away.” The man nods quickly into his hands and stands up. He thanks the woman and walks out of the room without looking up.

The keys fall from his hands and onto the front porch when he takes them from his pocket. He leans over to pick them up. The back of his jacket lifts up and the rain falls out of the hood of his raincoat onto the back of his head. He lets out a muffled shriek and the woman next door looks up from her seat on the couch, outside. Her cigarette smoulders in the damp air. He raises his left hand as he rights himself and smiles nervously. She continues to stare as he shuffles inside the dark house.

The pills taste bitter and stick to the back of his tongue, but he is used to it. Fond of it, even. It tastes like hope and comfort, like normality. He hasn’t had a relapse like this in years, not since Shirley left him. He told himself that he would never let it get that bad again. He likes the taste of the medicine, the bitterness; nevertheless, he is always nauseous in the morning when he dry-swallows, so he moves into the kitchen and opens the fridge to get a drink. He freezes, his hand still glued to the door of the refrigerator.  The shaking starts in his hand, then overtakes the rest of his body until he is on the floor, quivering violently. On the top shelf is a bottle of low-pulp orange juice.

He only drinks pulp-free.